Hanging with Stalkers

Tony Bennett died a few weeks ago. I had never seen him perform. The only encounter we ever had was in the basement of 30 Rock. I noticed him but didn’t pay too much attention because I had just discovered that I was sitting at a table with two lovely and intelligent women who had, on that day and that day only, elected to become stalkers. 

Who were they stalking? Arthur Kent, NBC international correspondent and over night sensation dubbed the Scud Stud. At least the two made a good choice when deciding whom to stalk. Did I mention he was very handsome and exceedingly sexy in his brown leather bomber jacket? He also had great hair. I was happy to watch him give me the news from the Middle East during the Gulf War.  That was enough for me.

Apparently not enough for my two co-workers. A friend and I had run into our colleagues, aka the potential stalkers, when headed for an after-work drink. They were on their way to the same bar because, as I would soon discover, Arthur Kent had just gone in there. 

We joined them and noticed they had picked a table with a good view of - you guessed it - Arthur Kent. Okay. Not a problem. I assumed they simply wanted a look at him. I assumed wrong. I discovered that when they brought out pictures showing pretty much everything Arthur had done that day. (How I now wonder since this was before we had cameras on our phones? But they had photos. One hour film developing? Must have been.)

Anyway, they had shots of Arthur Kent walking up and down the street (Madison Avenue as I recall) and going in and out of his hotel (completely forget which one). All the photos were taken as they shadowed him from across the street. I assured myself that they were being discreet. 

Or so I thought. While we were looking at the photos, we failed to notice that Stalker 1 (no names) had sent a drink to Arthur Kent. This was a bridge too far for me. Somehow, I came up with an excuse to get my friend alone outside the bar. “They’re stalking him! What do we do?” What could we do? We returned to the table and finished our drinks. I tried not to notice that Arthur Kent was ten feet away. 

But it was kind of hard to ignore him. That guy was really hot.  I’m not a stalker and don’t anticipate becoming one. However, I had to admit that by choosing Arthur Kent as the object of their affection, my stalker/colleagues did show good taste.

Arthur threw a smile our way as he passed our table on his way out. The stalkers did not follow. Maybe they were done for the day. Then again, maybe not. They knew where to find him. 

NOTE: Kent often reported standing beside Mile Boettcher a competent reporter who did not have stud qualities. Years later, I got on a flight from New York to London with him. He looked neat and well-groomed. He wore a great looking camel hair coat, Oddly enough, he was also on my return flight a week or so later. He looked beat. Whatever he’d been doing, grooming wasn’t a high priority. His beautiful coat appeared to have been through a lot. He might not have been glamorous - at least compared to Arthur Kent - but, if one can judge by experiences, he certainly worked hard. 

© 2024 Jane Kelly

My father’s $200K Weekend (Adjusted for inflation)

My brother did not want an obituary but that doesn’t mean I can’t tell a few stories about him. This is more of a family story but it explains how he ended up in the hotel business.

My mother loved hotels. So when the family spent the weekend in New York (something else she loved), she preferred to stay at the Waldorf-Astoria. In the Towers. If a place was good enough for the Duke and Duchess of Windsor who lived there for the New York Social Season, it was good enough for us. (It was not yet known just how much of a Nazi the Duke was.) 

It was on our first stay there, as I recall, that Rick became interested in how hotels were run. He was a freshman or sophomore in college without much direction but suddenly he had an interest and the next thing I knew he was off to Cornell, to the School of Hotel Management.

After graduation (and a brief stop in Wilkes Barre Pennsylvania) he was next off to Bermuda, the Bahamas and Marco Island before moving north to ski resorts like Mount Snow and Mount Washington. I was generally close behind. He and his wife, Beth, graciously made room for me and my friends. We took full advantage.

My father liked to say that one weekend at the Waldorf cost him $20,000 which, even with lower tuition rates adjusted to 2023 dollars, comes out to roughly $200,000.  Shortly after doing that calculation, he convinced my mother that the Taft Hotel was more convenient. To what I am not sure.

I got some career training at the Waldorf myself. In the age of manually run elevators, the operator let me drive the car. It required skill in those days. There was a handle to be manipulated to make sure the elevator stopped even with the floor. I got pretty good at hitting the mark although looking back I might have been allowed to operate the car only when my family members were the sole passengers. None of them were maimed or injured exiting the conveyance on my watch although I do not believe I was authorized to open the door. 

Sadly while my brother found a home in the hospitality business, my career dreams were dashed by the advent of self-operated elevators. Technology, not a uniformed operator in white gloves, decided where to stop the car. My expertise was no longer valued. In the wider world, I was replaced by a button.

My father told me not to be too upset. After all being an elevator operator had its ups and downs. I thought that was hysterical. I was nine.

© 2023 Jane Kelly

A Baseball Memory

Baseball posts tonight reminded me of what I was doing during the 10th inning of Game 6 in the 1986 World Series: flying into LaGuardia (neighbor to Shea Stadium) where the Mets were hosting Game 6. 

New Yorkers watching on the plane were feeling sad when the pilot turned off the screens for landing. The end of the game was a forgone conclusion. Boston would win. Not just the game, the Series. So, I was surprised to deplane into a concourse filled with jubilant New Yorkers. 

Why? Two words: Bill Buckner. He didn’t make the play Boston needed to clinch the series. There would be a Game 7 which New York would win.

The other day I saw an article “celebrating” the occasion. I still feel sad that flubbing one play at first base was the defining moment of Buckner’s career. 

I could never be an athlete. I could not have shown up on the field again. I lack the mental stamina. And, I have no talent.

© 2023 Jane Kelly