Read Believer: My Forty Years in Politics for Free Online Page B

scandal. And in 1973, Timothy Crouse published
The Boys on the Bus
, which depicted life on the campaign trail for some of the great national political reporters.
    I was transfixed by both the Chicago political scene and the growing Watergate saga in Washington. Journalism seemed like a great way to sate my thirst for politics. Yet while I was a voracious reader of newspapers, I had no experience writing for them, and the University of Chicago’s predilection for the intellectual meant there weren’t many campus outlets that provided a grittier experience. So when my summer break came, I returned to New York, sat down with the Yellow Pages, and visited just about any newspaper or magazine I could find, asking for a chance.
    After dozens of rejections, I walked into the nearly empty offices of a down-on-its-luck weekly called the
Villager
, in Greenwich Village. The paper had enjoyed a great run, until a snappy, irreverent rival more suited to the times, the
Village Voice
, stole many of its readers and most of its advertising base. The
Villager
’s misfortune was my opportunity. Desperate for help, they offered me a fifty-dollar-a-week internship to augment their bare-bones operation.
    “You’re going to have to do a little of everything, because we’re a bit thin on staff,” said the paper’s wiry young editor, Reed Ide, as we sat in a barren office. “You’ll have to learn as you go.”
    He was as good as his word. During six months at the
Villager
—a stint I stretched into the fall by delaying my return to school—I got great, early grounding as a newspaperman. Crime, zoning, community festivals—I covered it all. And aware of my interest in politics, they threw me plenty of that as well. I covered a walking tour of the Village by my childhood hero John Lindsay, now an embittered, outgoing incumbent whose promising career had never reached the heights he imagined. I represented the paper at a small luncheon briefing with Abe Beame, who would succeed Lindsay. I was in heaven.
    The long summer also gave me a chance to spend more time with my dad, who, for the first time, hinted that he was struggling financially. One night, when we were out to dinner, he asked if the paper needed an advice columnist. “You know, it would be really helpful if I could pick up a few extra bucks,” he explained, with a trace of embarrassment. “You think they might have any interest?”
    My dad was paying my tuition, and I knew he was helping to support my grandmother and her sister. Yet it was only then that I began to understand that he was really stretched. Later, I learned that he also had taken on a part-time job administering psychological tests at a local settlement house, though he hadn’t done such work since his early days at the Veterans Administration.
    For all our years together, my father was always the one who provided a listening ear and loving support. Even throughout the stormy relationship with my mom, he never shared with us kids his pain, disappointments, or burdens. So this conversation was striking. I didn’t ask my bosses, who could barely pay me, if there was a slot for my dad. I simply told him, a few days later, that there was nothing available. He never spoke to me about his financial difficulties again.
    When I returned to Chicago, I walked into the offices of the
Hyde Park Herald
, another weekly community newspaper. Armed with a stack of clippings from my stint at the
Villager
, I was hoping that the
Herald
would be willing to take the same leap of faith. The general manager was a big, garrulous man named Murvin Bohannan. “Everyone calls me Bo,” he said, extending a big hand across his desk when I walked into his office. With a jaunty smile and an ever-present Tiparillo clenched between his teeth, he looked like an African American version of Franklin D. Roosevelt.
    Bo listened to my pitch, skimmed my portfolio, and looked me over for a long moment. “So you say you know something about