Around fifteen years ago, I arrived in New York City from the pseudo-midwest.
I knew nothing; I carried around George Eliot's "Silas Marner," hoping I could will myself to be interested. I ate fifteen-dollar pancakes at the Applejack Diner, in midtown. I had only a vague understanding that Manhattan extended--a bit--below Union Square.
I wore pleated pants.
My first boss--Russell Perreault--was an imperious gay man; I think he had willed himself out of some small town and invented his own life. He had a domestic partner and a house in Connecticut; he ran the publicity wing of Vintage Books. He was small and fast-talking, and he seemed to be a legend.
I don't think Mr. Perreault took much of an interest in me or in my internship--the main duty I recall was sticking "Nominated for a National Book Award" badges on semi-obscure books, after nominations were announced--but I did learn a few things from Mr. Perreault:
*If you yourself want to wear a bowtie to work everyday, were a bowtie to your job interview. A company that won't hire a man in a bowtie? That's not a company you want to be working for.
*At a restaurant, quantity isn't everything. Some restaurants are actually better than others. The Caliente Cab Co. is not an eatery that really deserves your money.
*If you're appearing on Good Morning America to promote your book, just think of five things you want to say. Then ignore the questions thrown at you. Just spin your faux-response so that it becomes an encapsulation of the thing you already knew you wanted to say. Taylor Swift, on GMA this morning: "Can I quote my own lyrics? No, I won't do that. But let me tell you, it feels good to own my own songs....and soon I'm going after Scooter Braun...."
Perreault seemed to love his job and his literary world--he spoke passionately about "Revolutionary Road," long before that novel's renaissance, and he could talk your ear off about an ancient Gothic novel, "The Monk"--and Perreault knew a fake when he met one. A year after my internship, I applied to work full-time for this man, and he politely said, "I'd like someone who wants to devote his life to publicity." (Perreault was correct to realize I wasn't *that* person.)
I wish I had paid closer attention to this guy--this is one of many golden opportunities I cheerfully squandered, in my twenties--and I'm sad to say he is now dead. Mysteriously. In his early fifties. I'm not sure why.
I'd also like to think that the person I've become--someone who ran his own tutoring business, and learned to show up on time and to respond promptly and courteously to requests--is someone Mr. Perreault would approve of. Heaven knows.
RIP, Russell, and thank you for introducing me to adulthood, and to New York.
I knew nothing; I carried around George Eliot's "Silas Marner," hoping I could will myself to be interested. I ate fifteen-dollar pancakes at the Applejack Diner, in midtown. I had only a vague understanding that Manhattan extended--a bit--below Union Square.
I wore pleated pants.
My first boss--Russell Perreault--was an imperious gay man; I think he had willed himself out of some small town and invented his own life. He had a domestic partner and a house in Connecticut; he ran the publicity wing of Vintage Books. He was small and fast-talking, and he seemed to be a legend.
I don't think Mr. Perreault took much of an interest in me or in my internship--the main duty I recall was sticking "Nominated for a National Book Award" badges on semi-obscure books, after nominations were announced--but I did learn a few things from Mr. Perreault:
*If you yourself want to wear a bowtie to work everyday, were a bowtie to your job interview. A company that won't hire a man in a bowtie? That's not a company you want to be working for.
*At a restaurant, quantity isn't everything. Some restaurants are actually better than others. The Caliente Cab Co. is not an eatery that really deserves your money.
*If you're appearing on Good Morning America to promote your book, just think of five things you want to say. Then ignore the questions thrown at you. Just spin your faux-response so that it becomes an encapsulation of the thing you already knew you wanted to say. Taylor Swift, on GMA this morning: "Can I quote my own lyrics? No, I won't do that. But let me tell you, it feels good to own my own songs....and soon I'm going after Scooter Braun...."
Perreault seemed to love his job and his literary world--he spoke passionately about "Revolutionary Road," long before that novel's renaissance, and he could talk your ear off about an ancient Gothic novel, "The Monk"--and Perreault knew a fake when he met one. A year after my internship, I applied to work full-time for this man, and he politely said, "I'd like someone who wants to devote his life to publicity." (Perreault was correct to realize I wasn't *that* person.)
I wish I had paid closer attention to this guy--this is one of many golden opportunities I cheerfully squandered, in my twenties--and I'm sad to say he is now dead. Mysteriously. In his early fifties. I'm not sure why.
I'd also like to think that the person I've become--someone who ran his own tutoring business, and learned to show up on time and to respond promptly and courteously to requests--is someone Mr. Perreault would approve of. Heaven knows.
RIP, Russell, and thank you for introducing me to adulthood, and to New York.
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