May/June 1996
By Si Wakesberg
Si Wakesberg is New York bureau chief for Scrap.
“Go to Philadelphia and interview Mr. White!”
I was a cub reporter, and those words, uttered by the newspaper’s editor-in-chief, were like a jab in the solar plexus, at once giving me both a thrill of pleasure and a severe case of the jitters. I was being sent to Philadelphia to write a story about one of the then-leading lead smelters in that city—in those day a magnet for the country’s metals industry.
One must appreciate how a young writer feels on being given an out-of-town assignment. There is an aura of romance tinged with unexpected drama and hoped-for glory in his imagining. The story he will write, he modestly assumes, will be a minor classic, read by a large audience and not only read but smiled at, nodded to, agreed with, and, finally, discussed. It is, of course, a chance of a lifetime.
While this was not Paris (it rarely is), it was out of town and that meant big time. So I went on this assignment prepared with several pens (in case one failed), sufficient paper (an entire notebook), and significant background detail (all I could dig up on the company and its president). With this in hand, I took an early morning train at Penn Station and set off for my destination.
Traveling through New Jersey to Philadelphia, I passed numerous important consumers of nonferrous scrap metals, one after another—American Metal Climax, whose Carteret plant was a vast receiving area for copper scrap; Federated Metals, a division of Asarco, a company reputed to have more experienced scrap alumni than any other in the United States; the old Phelps Dodge plant, a vast repository of the area’s copper scrap before that company went Southwest; and Barth Smelting, a leading brass ingot maker. These and many others that have disappeared from the map dotted the landscape along the way.
And then we reached Philadelphia. Situated conveniently past New York’s powerful Wall Street financial circles and the important array of industrial plants stretching across the wide perimeter of New Jersey, Philadelphia had become a terminus and gathering place for both primary and scrap metal companies. Among them were several large lead smelters, including the original Girard Smelting & Refining Co. (a historical establishment that gave rise to several second-generation companies).
But the company I was sent to see was, as I recall, a medium-sized one, which, for the purposes of anonymity I’ll call White Metal Co.
Located in an industrial section of North Philadelphia—where the landscape was filled with scrap plants, salvage yards, machine shops, and the like—White Metal Co. was set in a low-slung building that seemed to stretch over a vastly extended area. I made my way to offices and, on entering, was greeted by a pleasant, mature woman who turned out to be Mr. White’s secretary.
“Oh yes,” she said after I had introduced myself. “Mr. White is running a bit late this morning and asked you to wait.” I did just that for a good hour and a half, biting my nails and wondering whether I would ever see him.
But a little after 10, in came Mr. White. He gave me a wan smile, shook my hand, and asked me to step into his office. Once inside, he seated himself behind an imposing desk. Eager to begin my interview, I did not notice that Mr. White had stopped smiling and was actually frowning.
Somewhat hesitantly, but still in a firm voice, he said: “Young man, I am indeed sorry but I cannot give you an interview.”
So unexpected were his words that they made no contact with my ears. It took a few extra seconds for the sound of what he said to translate itself into audible comprehension.
Staring at this executive across the desk, I could only mutter, “What?”
“It is impossible for me to give you an interview,” he repeated.
“But—but—it was all arranged. ... You agreed—” I finally managed to say.
“Yes, that’s true. But things have changed,” he went on. Then, after a slight pause, he said, “I must tell you that my wife forbids me to go ahead with this interview.”
Stunned is a mild word for my immediate reaction. I had never even heard of Mrs. White, and here she was “forbidding” this silver-haired, 6-foot tall, imposing executive who stood high in the Philadelphia social hierarchy from granting me an interview.
Mr. White leaned forward. “You see, my wife is an extremely superstitious woman. She lays great store in dreams and it seems that last night she had a rather frightening dream in which my giving an interview led—” he paused ominously, “to my death.”
He went on: “This morning she was in a panic and made me promise not to give any interviews. Not to you, not to anyone. I’m sorry, but I had to promise.”
I looked blankly at Mr. White. “But, sir, I came all the way from New York ...”
He shrugged. “I feel badly about it, but I cannot go back on a promise I made to my wife.”
I knew it was a final word—that nothing I could say would change his mind. Frustrated, exhausted, disappointed, I took my leave.
So, my lead story would never become a minor classic, never even become a story.
On the way home, studying the receding landscape as the train puffed its way through the New Jersey countryside, I thought of what I would say to my editor and how he would blink and look queerly at me when I told him my Philadelphia story. •
“Go to Philadelphia and interview Mr. White!”