Dr. Adler on my right, the health czar of the archdiocese,
walked quickly to the other end of the dais to tend to Sen. John
Marchi, the perennial New York legislator who was undoubtedly a
guest the night Winston Churchill spoke, and who succeeded me as
Conservative Party candidate for mayor of New York. His trouble
was fleeting, but the rhythm of the evening was broken, and Brian
Williams never did come out with his platform for the
presidency.
Many guests were there with lesser concerns. My own centered
on my recalcitrant trousers. The chief steward of the hotel had
asked a tall bishop at the other end of the room if by chance he
had come with an extra belt in hand. The answer of Bishop Gerald
Walsh was that yes, indeed he had: His own belt was no longer
critical to maintaining his pants at the requisite altitude.
So, across the room the episcopal belt made its way to me. It
wouldn't tighten far enough, and I asked someone I thought a
hotel steward if he could contrive to puncture a hole an inch
farther up. He came back in a few minutes with the fresh hole,
and identified himself as the eye surgeon of the cardinal.
I donned the belt to shore up my situation, and got a lecture
from a guest who tore himself away from Henry Kissinger to say to
me, "Try suspenders" -- which I have promised to do before I am
dispatched to one of the nursing homes so caringly looked after
on behalf of people who, earlier in life, have celebrated Al
Smith's birthday by buying a ticket to the annual affair at the
Waldorf.