The year was 1971, and I had just graduated from Tufts University with a useless degree in English. My goal was to become a magazine editor, but Nixon's recession was in full bloom and, even in the best of times, getting a publishing job was about as easy as winning a trifecta by betting on two horses. So, after a desolate year of living with my less-than-exciting parents, I moved to Nantucket and rented a shack with my college roommate, Jeff Brawer and three women, all of whom snubbed me.
Jeff was an ardent Marx Brothers fan, and could do a passable imitation of Harpo, which isn't that hard since Harpo didn't talk. Anyway, one day he brought home the latest copy of Esquire, which featured Groucho on the cover. In that particular issue, the magazine's editor, Harold Hayes, announced that the magazine was searching for a new editor. Anyone who was interested was encouraged to submit story ideas or write a convincing letter or throw themselves at his feet.
I had nothing to lose, so I wrote an idiotic letter, outlining how I was totally unfit to be a magazine editor. I added a few completely moronic story ideas, such as a profile of Alfonso Bedoya, the bandit in Treasure of the Sierra Madre, who is primarily known for uttering the now-famous line, "I ain't gotta show you no stinkin' badges." My letter must have tickled Hayes because two months later, I received a badly typed letter from him inviting me to come to New York for an interview.
It was raining when I arrived in NY and upon entering Hayes' office I tripped over my umbrella and landed on his desk, suavely knocking over a lamp, a telephone and a loaded inbox. Not a promising start, but Hayes had a sense of humor, because he proceeded to interview me in spite of my maladroit entrance. Apparently, the editor's job had been taken and he asked me if I was interested in a position in the fact-checking department. I said yes I was happy to take anything to get my scuffed Frye boot in the door -- and was lead to another set of offices for another interview.