Today, while showing baby pictures to the neighbor's wife at the rental storage unit, I came across three bound books, each of them circa 6" thick, of copies of memos I wrote when managing a privately-owned student union on the campus of the University of Nebraska in Lincoln.
The owner of the building (it was called the "Reunion") was always nervous about having things in writing, I guess for some very good reasons, but I on the other hand have always been more comfortable with things written in black ink on white paper, as compared with spoken utterances.....and so despite his unease about it, I managed by memo all the time I was there.
The owner was at the time one of the top Democrats in the state, a big wheeler-and-dealer, a big mover-and-shaker, a well-known public personality. In early 2002, he went out into the country and shoved a pistol into his mouth and pulled the trigger, the sort of fate I had privately predicted for him some ten years previously, with other employees.
He had been caught kiting $7,000,000 in bad checks, and thus his demise.
Anyway, as manager of the Reunion--three levels of a parking garage, shopping mall, food court, and warehouse space above--it was necessary for me to be present during "big events" such as Greek House doings, alumni get-togethers, state "task forces," and.....Democrat party shindigs.
I really despised the latter, because Nebraska Democrats tend to be incredibly boring, insufferable prigs, policy wonks and nerds, not a real person among them. They tended to be governmental employees; the only ones privately employed, it seems, were attorneys.
So whenever there was a Democrat party affair in the Reunion, I stayed in the background, so as to not be bored to death, and so as to watch to be sure none of the fixtures of the building were broken or stolen (the building had a bar in it) by these gawdawful boring sanctimonious geeks.
If especially bored, in the summer during such events, I turned the air-conditioner down to circa 45 degrees, and in the winter, I turned the furnace up to circa 90 degrees, just out of curiosity to see what would happen.
If I don't like someone--and usually it's for a damned good reason--whereas I don't wish any harm done that person, I don't want to deal with that person either. Clare Booth Luce refused to meet Adolph Hitler because even though she despised him, she was fearful that her sense of courtesy might override her loathing of him, and she might smile at him.
Being a nice guy myself, courteous even under the most demanding of circumstances, I have always followed the Clare Booth Luce rule; if it can be avoided, just don't deal with such people.
Three events stick out in the mind, of my speaking truth to power (at least in the sense the primitives mean it).
The first was when the Democrat candidate for governor, now U.S. Senator, E. Benjamin Nelson had some sort of fund-raiser and press-conference in the building. As per my usual policy, I stayed in the office, out of sight.
However, as the hoopla died down, the Democrat candidate came to me; he needed to make some telephone calls (in 1990, cellular telephones were not as ubiquitous as they are today), and so could he please use the telephone in my office?
I reminded him there were pay-telephones down the hall.
The second was during a big party for a prominent state senator, a wunderkind, who later became mayor of Lincoln, and since has experienced a significant decline in his fortunes. Paying child support and alimony to one former wife, and alimony to two other former wives, can really stint the life-style.
I was sequestered in the office, as usual, when the bladder signaled it needed depleted, and so got up to walk down the hallway to the men's restroom. In front of me trod the wonder kid, headed the same way.
I privately cursed, because there was only one urinal and one commode in the men's room, and he probably wanted to use that item I wished to use. But upon entering, I was pleased to notice he had sat himself down on the commode behind a closed door, leaving the other implement free for me.
I did my business, and as I was walking to the door, I suddenly thought of something.
It was a frequent complaint among the custodial help that some people never clean up when they're done.
And so I loudly commented, "Don't forget to flush when you're done," as I exited, turning out the light.
The third time was when Joseph R. ("Bob") Kerrey was running for re-election to the U.S. Senate, and there was a big party in the Reunion. Again, I sat secreted in my office, idly dealing with some damaged merchandise.
And then suddenly, without warning, the head of Bob Kerrey stuck inside the door; he wanted to thank me for the facilities.
There was I, wearing a brown pin-striped three-piece suit, my feet up on the desk. Someone had earlier in the day vandalized the condom-dispensing machine in the men's room, and I was blowing the things up as if balloons, releasing them fllllllt! and whzzzz! through the air around me.
I told him to thank the owner, not me, and went back to inflating condoms.
