My News Days #1

     You don't go through seven years of college for nothing. You don't leave a career and never think of it again.
     I was a television news guy for 16 years. It was a blessing and a curse. I've thought about it many times. So many times that I've decided to write down my memories in chronological order as I'm definitely a linear thinker.... and in this case a linear writer.

Why Did You Decide on a Career in Television News?

    I was at my second college. I'd already had four majors in three years at Stephen F. Austin State University (SFA) in Nacogdoches, Texas. I failed or practically failed in all those (Forestry, Accounting, Finance & Psychology.) So, I dropped out for a girl and moved back to Baton Rouge with the intention of going to LSU in Baton Rouge.
     Well, the girl dumped me and LSU said my grades weren't good enough. So, I became a waiter. First, I bar-backed at a disco called Rascals in Baton Rouge. I knew I was in trouble when Sonny, the manager who looked a lot like Joe Pesci, insisted everyone wear designer jeans. I was a Levi 501 guy. But, I got some Calvins and went to work.
     My gig at Rascals was short lived. Soon, my best friend from high school who also went to SFA, Richard Olivier, gave me a call.
     "Hey, what are you doin?"
     "Oh, I'm bar-backing at a disco here in Baton Rouge," I said.
     "C'mon, really?"
     "Yeah."
     "Get down here to New Orleans and look at Loyola. They'll take anyone as long as you can pay the bill and read and write."
   
      So, I went. I didn't immediately enroll in Loyola. Instead, I worked on renovating an old, run-down two story house my mother had bought. The big, abandoned house was a disaster at the corner of  Second and Baronne in what's called the New Orleans "Uptown Area." Richard helped me work on it.
     I don't know if we started upstairs and worked our way down or visa versa. We went through about ten of those big dumpsters you see at construction sites. Homeless had apparently been living upstairs. We found and removed just about every disgusting thing you can imagine. We found burn holes in the floors, guessing that's where small fires were set for warmth or cooking. We removed dresser drawers apparently used as commodes. We pulled off all the sheet rock to the lathe work. Downstairs was an abandoned laundromat. I don't know how many old washers and dryers we tossed into the big dumpster but it was a lot. Whatever was inside the building was gone by the time a contractor agreed to take on the project.

       I'd met with maybe a half dozen or more contractors hoping one of them would take on the big house.
      "What do you think," I asked one while we stood on the corner.
      I remember, he looked up and down to the left and to the right and stuffed his hands into  his pockets.
     "How do you feel about dynamite," he said matter of factly.

     The only contractor who didn't balk was an Englishman named Malcolm Sargent. I don't know how or why he was in New Orleans, but the prospect of taking on the old building became his challenge and his summer passion.
      The end product was better than I could have ever imagined and the stories and events leading to that end were just as surprising.

     Like I said, Malcolm was English. I'll never forget him telling me about his close encounter with Omar Sharif over dinner in London.
     He said he was on a dinner date. The actor was in the restaurant, "in fact only a few tables away," he told me.
      "He was a real jerk with a filthy mouth." I think he was telling me this story while we were driving somewhere in New Orleans or somewhere without the clanging of hammers or buzzing of saws because I remember we weren't interrupted.
     "What happened?"
     "I was on a date with my wife at the time. Omar Sharif was sitting behind her, but I could hear everything he was saying."
     "What was he saying?"
     "His mouth was just filthy. Curse word after curse word."
     "What happened?"
     "I guess you'd consider this my close call with a star. I got up, walked over to him, bent down and I said, 'Sir, you're language is very offensive. I'd appreciate it if you'd tone it down as to not offend my wife further.'"
     "What happened," that seems like all I could ask.
     "He actually apologized and we all went on with our evening."

     Then, there was the blind date I had with one of Malcolm's foremans. It wasn't a blind date with the foreman. It was a blind date with one of the foreman's cousins.
      The foreman was a big guy named Mike. I can see the contemporary actor who he looks like, I just can't think of that actor's name. Anyway, Mike had a cousin getting married. He had another cousin who didn't have a date to the wedding. So, he asked me. "Sure, why not," I said.
     Here's the scene, it's a Catholic-Italian wedding in Kenner, Louisiana. The Catholic-Italian part pretty much ramps up the symbolic, cultural and fun level but when you add Kenner, La to anything what you get is whatever you had on steroids. It's hard to explain. But if it's Italian in Kenner it;s really Italian. If it's Irish, it's really Irish. Get the picture?
     I wish I could remember my blind date's name, but I just can't. I do remember she was quiet and kind, but she was definitely part of the family and this wedding event was all about the family and the family's culture. What a night.
     The wedding was held at a church exactly across the street from the New Orleans International Airport around 5:00pm. I promise when it came to the 'I-Dos,' all anybody in attendance heard was the roar of jet engines from Pan-Am Flight 3369 to New York La Guardia. The great news is, nobody seemed to notice or care.
     From the wedding, the reception was held above a famous restaurant/bar in Kenner. The name of the place 33-years later is a blur. But imagine, white tile floors, low-white acoustic tile ceilings, tables loaded with homemade food, a well stocked bar and lots and lots of dancing! I think every aunt, cousin and mother made her specialty for this event and this is when and where my quiet, kind blind date, thanks to her family connections, got me to the front of every food line.
     But the fun didn't end at the reception, at least for my group that now included my blind date, Mike the foreman, and his wife and probably a half dozen more cousins. The night was young. Time to go out!
     What I didn't mention at the top of this tale is that for some reason I was in my older sister, Laura's, Chevrolet Cavalier hatchback. I think I drove it because at the time I remember driving a Volkswagon pickup with an air conditioning issue. The system leaked inside the cab. If I took a turn to the right, water dumped out on my feet. If I took a turn to the left, water dumped out on my passenger's feet. So, Laura loaned me her car.
     Sounds simple enough, yes? The rub is, the rear window of Laura's car was practically plastered in bumper stickers. In this case, the bumper stickers proclaimed her love and commitment to GOD. So here I am with my blind date essentially bar hopping around Kenner, LA in a car proudly proclaiming JESUS LOVES YOU and HONK IF YOU LOVE JESUS and more like it. Now that I think about it, I bet that armor got me safely home that night. I've never told her this story. So, if you read this Laura... I'm sorry.

     Enough of the tangents, here are the seven words that got me interested in trying a career in television news. They are, "You ought to be on the radio."
    While living in that big, newly renovated house and before enrolling at Loyola, I started waiting tables at a new restaurant in New Orleans called Tavern on the Park. This was a Del Frisco project but with very kind local owners Jack and Martha Sands.
     They'd taken an old favorite local watering hole, closed it down and completely revamped it's look and menu. The floors were black and white marble tile. Each table was draped in pressed white linens. The front of the building included giant windows with lace drapes covering the lower quarter.
      We waiters wore starched white serving coats, white shirt and tie with black pants and black shoes. Our most useful tool was our table crumb-scrapper. It's a concave device about six inches long and fits into the coat's breast pocket. It's for scrapping the crumbs off the table after bread, appetizers, the meal or anything else.
        The bus-boys, one for each waiter, wore pressed white shirts, black bow-ties and black pants. The bar was  big  with many chairs and an ornate mirrored back panel. But, Mr. Jack refused to let walk-in customers just drink.  They had to be waiting on a dinner table. "We're not a bar. We're a restaurant," he'd say.
     The tables were numbered so each waiter got a window table. Tables 10, 20, 30 & 40 were a pretty good section but table 10 was by the kitchen door, which no one really wanted.
      The bus-boy, a man considering he was much older than myself, who helped me the most, was Clarence. He was indeed a professional. I remember, he was black as coal. I'd pick him up and take him home from work, but otherwise we didn't talk as much as we used eye contact and numbers to serve our guests.
      I'd say "33," and in a flash Clarence was clearing, setting-up or changing an ashtray on table 33. He might walk by me or catch my eye across the dining room and say "43." That was my cue that table "43" needed attention. We were a good team and he was a great co-worker.

     It's table "43" that said those seven words "You ought to be on the radio." We were blessed to have many regulars. And like so many waiters, I was blessed to have regulars who asked for me to serve them.
     On this evening, I was working the section that included table "43." The husband and wife came in early like they always did. Clarence and I knew their routine. They'd sit at table "43," each would order an Old Fashioned and they'd each order our Steak Salad that included a bed of lettuce, a sliced rib-eye with seriously chunky bleu cheese dressing.
     The beauty about waiting on regulars is, you get to know them as much as they'll let you and they get to know you, probably more than they need to. It was during a casual conversation while they sipped their Old Fashioned and waited on their dinner that evening when the husband said, "You ought to be on the radio."
   
     At this point in my life, I had no idea what I was going to do or where I was going to go. I think the only thing I can say that's completely true is: I was 10-feet tall, bullet-proof and absolutely full of myself.
     I remember going home after "You ought to be on the radio" and thinking to myself and I remember it quite clearly.... "Radio, hell! I want to be on TV!"
     Finally, the end to this story is: I enrolled in Loyola's broadcast journalism program with every intention of becoming the next Peter Jennings, all thanks to table "43."

Bill Robertson, Next: Loyola & fetching lunch at WDSU-TV in the French Quarter.