My Korean Deli_ Risking It All for a Convenience Store - Ben Ryder Howe [99]
George himself had long resisted thinking about the future, despite his exhortations to us, the staff, and his own occasional morbid tendencies. He didn’t groom a successor, and every now and then he hinted that should he pass suddenly, he would like the Review to shut down. No one believed him, though, one reason being that he had recently assented, at the urging of his lawyer, to the creation of a board of trustees that would do exactly the opposite—namely, ensure that the Review survived in his absence. The board consists entirely of George’s friends in the publishing industry, writers, editors and arts patrons who could be counted on to open doors and sign checks if needed, but who would otherwise stay out of George’s way. They were not supposed to be involved this soon, but now with George gone they must decide how to move forward. And for those of us on the staff who’ve long been frustrated by George’s quirks as a boss (which is to say, nearly everyone) their presence is a huge relief, because they of all people—outsiders from the real world—should grasp the need for professionalization. In fact, one board member tells us right away that the Review needs to “grow up.”
The irony, of course, is that because of the deli, my appreciation for whatever you want to call George’s approach—amateurism, dilettantism, Walter Mittyism—is much keener than it was a year ago. Now when I think of book fairs, the slush and having all these twenty-five-year-olds do jobs they’re patently unqualified for, I see something positive and altogether rare: the ability to remain small, open and full of passion. But it’s not an easy philosophy to articulate. You end up sounding like you’re arguing against progress or success. And after years of wishing that George would let the magazine “grow up,” I’m not about to hinder that process anyway. Not without solid, well-defined reasons and a coherent strategy.
In any case, there isn’t time. As soon as George dies and the decision is reached to go on without him, there’s a feeling that a statement must be made quickly. Literary magazines are so ephemeral that missing even one issue would, in the board’s eyes, jeopardize its existence. Unfortunately, this rush forward distracts us from the personal struggle to come to terms with George’s death. We spend so much time thinking about what he meant as a mentor and a boss that we don’t really think about him as a friend and a human being.
But of course when someone is gone, you continually find yourself bombarded by little reminders of his or her presence. George had presence to burn—the shock of white hair, the old Boston face, the extra few inches in height. He had everything needed to draw attention. What I realize now that he is gone, however, is that George, like my father-in-law, was one of those people who entered a room so quietly you didn’t even notice. All you’d hear was the soft groan of a door hinge and the padding of socked feet. Then the rustle of paper, a vigorous scratch of the belly. Are you busy? Don’t mind me. I would hate to … You are? Well, then, come upstairs and let’s shoot a game of pool. Come on, put that book down.
More than once in the weeks after his death I sit in the office and listen to his desk chair creaking over my head, the way it did when he was really struggling. And once I hear his voice coming from the next room, with that inimitable accent and all its trademark locutions. (“Phooey!” “Drat!” “I should say!” “What a rare cat!” “You’ve made me cross again.”) It turns out to be his son, Taylor, paying a visit.
I’d noticed during the last year that George didn’t just make work look easy, which of course many successful people do. Easy wouldn’t have been enough. George had to make it look like he was having fun, which of course he often was—great, guilt-free fun that was possibly unearned. But now I know that George’s fun-loving persona was part of his job, and that he really