A Holiday Card Story
It’s a rainy morning in Manhattan, and in just a few hours yours truly here is going to interview Charlie Rose. That’s right, the Charlie Rose, the man who talks to America’s best writers, politicians, and entertainers. The consummate conversationalist. The inquisitory interviewer. And, I have nothing to wear.
You see, I’ve been racing around the city with a camera crew in the rain for two days interviewing all sorts of people for a tribute video my organization is producing for our big fundraising dinner a mere ten days away. I’m living on soy lattes and anti-anxiety pills. My entire wardrobe is wet and wrinkled. My shoes are soggy.
The interview with Charlie Rose had been a long shot, a crazy idea I’d proposed to his people, who said yes just last night. Now, instead of heading back to Washington, I’m heading to his studio.
I steam a navy blazer while I shower and then iron up a white button down shirt. Dirty or not, you can’t go wrong with the classics. I put on a pair of damp jeans, slip into a pair of wet loafers—sans socks—and race out to hail a taxi. “Take me to Bergdorf’s,” I direct the cabbie.
I know what you’re thinking, but I cannot, will not, interview Charlie Rose without a really nice tie.
The cross-town traffic is horrendous on account of the rain, so I jump out and run the remaining four blocks to Bergdorf Goodman, that venerable 5th Avenue establishment of style and fashion. Once inside, I beeline to an over-moisturized, dandy of a salesman, drop my bags, hold up my hands, and announce that I am interviewing Charlie Rose in half an hour and I need a damn good tie.
Puddles form while I wait. I swear I’m the only wet person in the entire store. People are staring. Wealthy New Yorkers don’t get wet. They have drivers who pull up in front of chic places and escort them in under large black umbrellas. Wealthy New Yorkers don’t wear raincoats.
The dandy recommends a steel blue knit with horizontal navy stripes—very preppy, goes great with a blazer and jeans, won’t show a stain if it gets wet. “Most importantly,” he tells me, “the color looks spectacular with your eyes.”
Sold, at a hundred and seventy five dollars, to the crazed man in the wet raincoat! He even slips the new purchase around my neck and ties a perfect four-in-hand knot. That’s Bergdorf’s….
Off I scamper.
When I finally arrive at Bloomberg headquarters where Charlie Rose films his show, they photograph and tag me with an ID badge and escort me to the sixth floor lounge. There I join a couple dozen visitors lounging around on red, lip-like sofas and begin to prepare for the impending interview.
The sofas are most uncomfortable, but that’s the least of my worries. Somehow the six insightful questions I’d labored over the night before are gone. Vanished into thin air. This can’t be happening. Not now. The sound of sloppy kisses echoes through my head as I root through my portfolio for the damn questions. Just when I locate a scribbled draft, a handsome, well-built young man arrives to escort me to the interview.
Ready or not, I was following him in.
Charlie Rose’s studio is as black and stark as it appears on television. There’s nothing in there, except “the table,” which I am admiring when in walks the man himself. In a suit and tie, I might add.
He asks me to help him drag “the table” into position in the middle of the studio. We pull up two chairs, sit down, and I explain what we’re doing and some key messages I’m hoping he will deliver. Thankfully, he doesn’t ask to see the questions.
The interview lasts seven—maybe eight—minutes. Afterwards, he asks if I got what I needed. I had. He asks if the setting works for the video. It’s perfect.
“The table,” I continue, “is an iconic New York image.” Charlie gives it a gentle caress and tells me he’d personally purchased it many years ago. I babble something about the irony of the unpolished table and the high quality of his guests and he asks if I want my picture taken with “the table.”
Of course I do. I start to tell him how much it resembles an oak table I’d purchased from a neighbor’s garage and then found riddled with ticks. Instead, I just whip out my iPhone and the handsome, well-built young man snaps a photo of Charlie and me. I hadn’t expected Charlie to join the photo. I really thought it was going to be just “the table” and me.
Charlie says in a joking manner that he tries not to pose with men taller than him. “No problem,” I reply, and bend at the knees for the second photo, a maneuver that makes him laugh—and appear taller. “Use that one,” he says.
Upon closer examination of the photo, I notice the Bloomberg security badge makes my natty new tie appear short and rather clownish. Charlie’s eyes are closed. But, hey, I got a good story out of it. And, I finally understand how all those bad holiday card ideas come about. I’m thinking I might title mine: “Wishing You a Real Rosey Christmas.”
You can see more of Rich's photos and stories at www. rehobothwithrich.blogspot.com.