Historically, at least in America, people who seek to thrive in the theatre, publishing, on Wall Street, in the media, or even on the gossip columns make their way to Manhattan. Once here, the climb begins, and it’s tougher than any mountain in Nepal. As E.B. White, the great Big Bagel chronicler, wrote, ‘All it takes is a willingness to be lucky.’ But first one must get through the velvet rope.
I was kept out until 1978, when Clay Felker, the man who discovered Tom Wolfe, and countless others, decided it was time for the poor little Greek boy to stand up and be counted. I flew from London to New York and went to work almost immediately. He spiked my first piece but then I struck it rich with a story about William Paley, the rich, all-powerful head of CBS, and the prominent women trying to land him after his wife, the legendary Babe Cushing Mortimer Paley, had died. I described him as a man so old he was considered middle-aged even in Palm Beach, and gave the women names of various fish — blowfish, the barracuda, shark, etc. Clay was over the moon and called me at five in the morning offering me a job.
‘I’m going to make you famous,’ was Clay’s way of luring writers he liked. Fame, however, never meant a thing to me; chasing girls and excelling on the tennis courts or on the mat counted for much more. Esquire magazine was a must-read back then, and being a regular columnist on it meant doors flew open. Americans take hacks seriously, something I’ve never understood, but I took full advantage by spending my nights at Studio 54, Elaine’s, Le Cirque and various other Manhattan hot spots.
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