The writing of essays requires an infusion of ideas. A good many of my ideas occur to me while I am attending to my duties in the bathroom. For example, you may recall that there were a series of essays which were entitled, “Thoughts While Shaving.” As time has gone on, I still receive thoughts in the bathroom which become essays sooner or later. Here is a polyglot essay that ranges from lobbying for AT&T to a concert, to a wheelbarrow full of frogs, and even my argument with the Jockey underwear company. So hang on as we try to take a look at all of these inspirations from the W.C.
In 1962, there came an offer for me to become the Director of Industrial Relations for the New York Telephone Company. This was a familiar field for me in that I had been associated with labor management relations for about 14 or 15 years at that time. Moving to the New York Telephone Company was a good opportunity in that it gave me experience with what the AT&T and Bell System companies called the “Associated Companies.” Beyond that, my offices would be in New York so there was no need to move my family. Actually my office was located directly opposite the Lackawanna ferry slip on West Street in lower New York City. When a Bell System man got an offer that was a promotion and it did not require that he move his family, it was a big, big plus.
The New York Telephone Company had at that time about 100,000 employees and its assets were in the billions of dollars. I worked for the New York company for two years and basically enjoyed every minute of that time. Even today, some 40 years later, I still correspond and speak to Lorraine Grant Murray, who was my workmate at the New York company. My association with the people of that company was pleasant, which seemed to reflect the leadership at the top level.
Beyond all that, my office was located on the west side of the building facing the Hudson River. From my office I could see the ferries approaching the slip on West Street. I usually had time to put on my coat, catch the elevator, and cross West Street in time to catch the ferry, which connected to the Lackawanna Railroad, which served New Providence, New Jersey, the town in which I lived.
From my standpoint, the New York Telephone Company treated me well in every respect. But in the spring of 1966, it was decided that I could serve the company best by moving to Washington to become a lobbyist in the so-called AT&T Washington office. And so it was that the house in New Providence was sold and my family was moved to Bethesda, Maryland.
The lobbying effort by AT&T was significantly different from the lobbying that now takes place in the nation’s capital. In those days, it was the intent of AT&T to be helpful to the servants of the federal government and to provide support, such as speech writing, whenever it was needed. There were lunches to buy, of course, but my total allowance for lobbying purposes was about $250 per month. It goes without saying that $250 per month could be blown away by two people having lunch at an expensive restaurant in Washington today. But in 1966 through 1969, the allowance was reasonably adequate.
The Washington AT&T office was located first on K Street, known today as “the street of lobbyists.” Soon however, the Washington office was moved to L Street, just west of 19th Street. In the new building, a large part of the first floor was occupied by the Touchdown Club, which was a private club that offered food and drink. I joined the Touchdown Club because it offered a place to have lunch without going out into the elements on rainy or snowy days and because my government contacts liked to go there on the chance that they would meet football or baseball players. At the time, you may recall, Washington was represented in the American Baseball League by an expansion team. Its star was a first baseman named Mike Epstein. Epstein billed himself as “the Super Jew.” Epstein was a likeable fellow and young people thought of him as their hero. Because the Senators, as the expansion team was called, were not drawing well, on Saturday afternoons they would permit youngsters to enter the ball park upon payment of a fee of about one dollar.
Living across the street from us in Bethesda was a widow with five children. Her husband had been murdered in Venezuela, his home country. In Venezuela, politics is a deadly game. From time to time, I would gather up four or five of those children together with my two children and take them to the ball park. I believe that we all had a rollicking good time.
While the baseball Senators struggled, the professional football team in Washington, called the Redskins, thrived. It would not be an exaggeration to say that Redskin fever is a religion among many people in our nation’s capital. As you can imagine based on the name of the club that I joined, a good many of the Redskins would come to the Touchdown Club, as well as dozens of football player wannabes and hangers-on. A good many of the patrons at the Touchdown Club had bulky bodies which may have led impartial observers to believe that they were former football players. All things considered, the members of the Touchdown Club seemed to be decent people who enjoyed having a drink, an enormous roast beef sandwich, and discussing football year round. I am not that much of a football fan but the Touchdown Club gave me the amenities that I needed to do my job.
Once each year, on a Saturday afternoon, the members of the Touchdown Club would hold a Saturday session where members’ daughters could attend and, if they wished to, perform on musical instruments. On this occasion, the Saturday afternoon for the children occurred when my daughter was about 11 years old. At that time, Suzanne (the daughter) was studying the playing of the piano. When I told Suzanne about the Saturday afternoon session, she appeared to be interested and perhaps even excited. Her piano teacher gave her a new song to learn, which was just appearing on popularity charts. The song was called “Love is Blue.”
So on this Saturday afternoon, which probably occurred in February or March, Suzanne, her elder sister Maureen, and I set aside time to hear the daughters of the members perform. Mothers and wives were not invited. After a hearty lunch, as I recall it, the entertainment began. My recollection is that Suzanne had memorized the music from the song “Love is Blue” and did not need to have the music set before her. My recollection is also that about the third performer that afternoon was a youngster who played “Love is Blue.” As the afternoon proceeded, about two or three others approached the piano and also played “Love is Blue.” Finally it was Suzanne’s turn to play and she played – you will probably be surprised by this – “Love is Blue.” I believe that song was played once more before the proceedings ended that day.
But what needs to be said was that this collection of old gimpy football players, lobbyists, and hangers-on gave each performer rousing applause. It made no difference how many times “Love is Blue” was played, or how many mistakes were made, it evoked a robust response from the male audience. Because my daughter was treated to this applause the same as every other member’s daughter was, I began to have warm feelings toward the members of the Touchdown Club. They were the guys with the big bellies and others who limped from football injuries, but no matter how you cut it, they welcomed the performances of the children with rousing applause. That happened more than 40 years ago and it still leaves me with moist eyes when I think of it.
I am dictating this essay on a Monday afternoon. In this house, Monday is one of the four days that we exercise in the morning. And so it was that I took a shower around 12:30 this afternoon. With sightless eyes, it is important that I concentrate on nearly every move. That is particularly true in what I have called in this essay the W.C. As I was rubbing and scrubbing in the shower, my mind should have been on where I put the washcloth and the soap. But as you can see, my mind fluttered away into thoughts about the Touchdown Club.
Before I was finished with my work in the shower, I began to think about Chris Dodd, the Senator from Connecticut. Chris Dodd is one of the brightest people in this country. But more than anything else, and even more than his brightness, Chris Dodd has a sense of humor. In politicians such as those at the senatorial level, we seldom find people with wit and humor. Chris Dodd has both. For example, he is in his fifties and he has two very young children. He says that he is the only person who is being courted by the AARP and by diaper services at the same time.
After the defeat that he suffered in the Iowa caucus, Judy and I sent him an email congratulating him on his performance and suggested that he should run for the Majority Leader of the Democratic Party in the U.S. Senate. Apparently, Dodd received the identical idea from others. Dodd responded by saying that managing the Senate majority job is like managing a wheelbarrow full of frogs. That remark could have been made by my friend Jake Birdsall, the gravedigger/philosopher who lectures in the Peculiar, Missouri public school system.
That thought also occurred to me as I was showering in my W.C. and if I don’t keep my mind on my business, some day there will be horrendous consequences from a fall. I concentrate as hard as I can, but my mind has sieves that permit things like the incident at the Touchdown Club and Dodd’s remarks to float through.
As I was exiting the shower, a maneuver that requires great concentration to keep from slipping on the tiles, my mind floated to thoughts about polygamy, where the husband has to put up with the continual sniping among his wives. I was thinking that Bountiful (that’s this woman’s name) would say to Plenitude, another wife, “Did you see what Felicity (another wife) was wearing yesterday? It was a blue blouse with a purple skirt. How horrid!” Plentitude would reply, “That’s not the end of it. Did you see that she kept the blouse unbuttoned down to her navel? She thinks she is Marilyn Monroe but actually she is a lot more like Twiggy.”
Then another wife, Prudence, replies, “She ought to put the hip wiggling and the low-cut blouse away and wait her turn to enjoy Brigham, our wonderful husband.”
There is no way to stop sniping such as this. But every man in a singular marriage ought to be thankful. For myself, if it were not for Mitt Romney in the presidential sweepstakes, my innocent mind would never have thought about polygamy.
For those of you who have spent your lives in seminaries, the term “W.C.” stands for water closet. Those are ancient terms and today the water closet would be identified as the bathroom, the john, the can, or les latrines. “Latrines” is of course a French term and I include it here only to show off my extensive knowledge of the French language.
One final thought about the work that goes on in the W.C. People in my situation literally have to concentrate on every move lest they make a fatal step which might result in an accident of major proportions. People who are so afflicted, learn to put on their undershirts after a shower in the W.C., by feeling around the edges of the top until they come to the label sewn in the back. They then know which way the shirt is to be donned. But recently the Jockey Corporation decided that it would save a few tenths of a cent by having its slave laborers in China or Thailand or wherever, simply print the size of the tee shirt and its manufacturer on the back. Those of us who have to concentrate on each move now have no more labels to locate the rear of the shirt. There is no man alive who can feel an imprinted message on the back of a tee shirt. Any of you who are interested may join me in writing the Jockey Corporation to tell them that they are bastards for removing the traditional tags that used to reside there.
In any case, I hope that you have enjoyed reading about the Touchdown Club and Chris Dodd even though I wrote it while I was showering and exposed my life to great danger. Perhaps on my next trip to the W.C., I will remember to concentrate, concentrate, and concentrate.
E. E. CARR
January 7, 2008
Essay 283
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Kevin’s commentary: I wish lobbyists still were limited to $250 a month in spending! The political landscape would probably look a lot different if that were the case. Or, come to think of it, it would probably look exactly the same and such dealings would just become increasingly shady.
There are essays to be found about both the tag-on-shirt situation and about the name-of-the-toilet situation and you should use google to look for them. I’d link them for you but I can’t at the moment! They’re rather good though, you have my word on that.