I have just met David Shribman. As executive editor of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, he has been called "the most important newsman in Pittsburgh." I would add that he is also the most intimidating, and he bought me lunch.
More than an hour has passed since we parted ways, and I am only now starting to digest parts of our 30-minute or so talk. I walked away completely dazed and having no idea what just happened. I have never felt so baffled, so completely disoriented in all my life. I think I ate a salad because he said I used the least amount of dressing he's ever seen. I ordered water. He ordered half orange juice and half cranberry juice with a slice of lime. And we ordered all at once. He didn't want to order a drink and then his meal, he wanted it all at once.
He is quite possibly the smartest person I've ever met. He knows something about everything, he sporadically quotes literature and he eats faster than he walks and talks. And he drilled me, thoroughly and completely. He wanted to see what I knew and what I was about. I know what you're thinking. What's so bad about that? It's easy to talk about yourself. But you, my friend, were not talking to David Shribman.
I would barely finish taking in his question and barely begin to answer it before he would ask me another. He asked me what I liked to do when I wasn't working, who and what did I read, (was it old or contemporary? What authors? - he gave me time to think, and yet, I could only think of three, and one of them was J.K. Rowling), and he put me on the spot when he asked me to make fun of Pittsburgh. He asked what I was working on now, what I would do if I didn't get the job, he asked if I liked sports, he asked about my family, what my parents did, what sort of things I liked to write about. He asked me what made me tick, he asked what country Prague was in (which I couldn't answer—I was too flustered. When he said it was the Czech Republic, I knew he'd never believe me if I told him I actually knew that already). He asked if I knew the nine Supreme Court Justices; I didn't. (The two I once knew either retired or died.) When he found out I'd been to Taiwan, he said, "Then you know what country Taiwan is part of, right?" I said, "Well, it...it's complicated." Then he moved on to something else before I could explain. All I could do was hope he knew I meant that China considers Taiwan part of their country, but Taiwan doesn't really consider itself part of China. At one point, he raised his palm and said, "You can relax." It was a command, and it didn't help me relax. I only got more nervous, knowing he could see how uneasy I was.
He told me what he was looking for in order to be worthy of the Post-Gazette and rattled off a litany of supremely high standards and, at times, seemingly oxymoronic qualities ("witty, but not too witty," "savvy, wise, knowing, but approachable" "like the New Yorker, but not as..."). Then he said, "Do you think you can handle that?" I just looked at him. I had been wondering the same thing myself. I didn't know, still don't know, but I was willing to give it a shot. I had nothing to lose, except my pride, and that was gone the minute he opened his mouth. So I grinned. And then I nodded, albeit feebly.
There's more, but I think I blocked it. I'm sure it will all come back to me in nightmares.
Eventually, the waitress came by with the check, and he was studying it before I knew it was even there. She said, "Have a nice day," and I looked up at her. She was looking directly at me, waiting. I said, "Thank you, you too" and she walked away. It was invisible to Mr. Shribman, I'm sure, but we had a moment, that waitress and I. We understood each other. She was sympathizing, wishing me luck with this polite, but commanding and fast-talking important man. I was grateful that I was not the only one intimidated by him.
And so, as quickly as it started, it was over. He said he enjoyed it, but I honestly don't see how. I didn't exactly provide stimulating conversation. CNN was on one of the TVs in the restaurant, and after glancing at it, he said, "Oh, Clinton is in North Korea." I looked at the TV, not having a clue why Clinton would be there. I felt like he was prompting me to make a comment, but I knew nothing about it. So I said nothing, which of course, says everything.
We walked outside, he shook my hand. I think he might have smiled; I don't recall if I smiled back. I said thank you again and walked away in the opposite direction, not seeing where I was going. I took a corner and stopped. I stood in the shadow of some large building and just stared, letting the busy street swallow me whole. (It couldn't have been hard, considering Mr. Shribman had just chewed me up.) I tried to decide whether I wanted to laugh or cry.
Then I walked a few blocks to Macy's, where I bought two more pairs of black pantyhose for my Holiday Inn uniform. I don't imagine I will be leaving there anytime soon.
