History carries Weiss's byline

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History carries Weiss's byline

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Posted by sal on September 13, 2003 at 10:07:16:

History carries Weiss's byline

Saturday, September 13, 2003

When I was writing my book, "Five-Finger Discount: A Crooked Family History," there were just two people I called on a regular basis: my mother and Pete Weiss. My mother had all the family stories, Pete all the political ones. And like with my mother, I think I took Pete for granted.

When I wasn't calling Pete (or my mom), I was at the Jersey City Public Library, photocopying news stories. And more often than not, Pete's byline was on them. Whenever there was a sweeping political roundup story written following yet another indictment, it was Pete who wrote it. He was the only one with a big enough grasp of what was happening, and what had happened before.
It seemed Pete had always been there, not just as a fellow journalist. But from the time I started to learn to read, Pete had had a byline in The Jersey Journal. I grew up reading Pete.

When I met him for the first time, during a high school trip to The Jersey Journal, Pete was sort of like a celebrity to me. I thought he would be taller (like you often think with celebrities). But Pete wasn't much taller than I was, the Bilbo Baggins of the newsroom - short but wise beyond his years, brimming over with personality, a great sense of humor, a particular glint in his eye, always a smile beneath that bushy mustache.

When I went to work at the Journal in the late '80s, I learned that Pete was the subtle center of the newsroom, its quiet, boyish patriarch. Whenever one of my fellow know-it-all young reporters or I had a question, we'd end up in front of Pete's desk, humbly basking in his knowledge. But he was never arrogant. He always had that smile for you, a bit of cynicism - just a touch - beneath the warmth. Because he had seen it all. He hadn't memorized facts and dates, but lived through them, pen in hand. The politicians talked to him because of that warmth and charm. They told him things, and he told them to us.

Unlike many of his fellow political reporters, Pete never sold out to take a job as a political flack. Because to Pete, his job wasn't just a job. It wasn't about a paycheck. I remember seeing him drive his car through Lower Manhattan one day into the traffic snarl of the Holland Tunnel. He saw me in my car and waved an enthusiastic hello. He was living in Brooklyn back then, commuting from the deepest reaches of the borough, across the East River, through New York City and over the Hudson - or even worse, through Staten Island.

Every day.

It was a hell of a commute. But Hudson County was a destination for Pete. It wasn't something to pillage and plunder. It wasn't a place to run away from. It was his calling.

Pete somehow never grew jaded. He stood by the ramparts day after day, watching the flags unfurl, watching the political battles rage year after year, watching mayor after mayor testify. Whenever we left town, or in some cases, moved away, we knew Pete would be keeping an eye on things for us, keeping score, and would be able to explain it all when we got back.

Just the other day, a transplanted friend from Hudson County called from his new home in Texas. He heard about Pete, he said. He couldn't believe he had died. And it wasn't until then that it finally hit me, how large he loomed. And now there was that awful void, that hole that people sometimes leave in your life when they go away. It's a vacuum, a silent, terrible emptiness that usually follows the departure of a relative or a lover. But Pete was neither to me.

Pete was the eyes and ears of Hudson County, recording that first draft of crooked history. He listened quietly, and watched just as quietly, and echoed back the political intrigue.

Pete Weiss was Hudson County's conscience. Its Greek chorus.

And now he's gone. Just like that. The politics will continue without him, without his studied, watchful eye. And that's the tragedy.

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: History carries Weiss's byline

: Saturday, September 13, 2003

: When I was writing my book, "Five-Finger Discount: A Crooked Family History," there were just two people I called on a regular basis: my mother and Pete Weiss. My mother had all the family stories, Pete all the political ones. And like with my mother, I think I took Pete for granted.

: When I wasn't calling Pete (or my mom), I was at the Jersey City Public Library, photocopying news stories. And more often than not, Pete's byline was on them. Whenever there was a sweeping political roundup story written following yet another indictment, it was Pete who wrote it. He was the only one with a big enough grasp of what was happening, and what had happened before.
: It seemed Pete had always been there, not just as a fellow journalist. But from the time I started to learn to read, Pete had had a byline in The Jersey Journal. I grew up reading Pete.

: When I met him for the first time, during a high school trip to The Jersey Journal, Pete was sort of like a celebrity to me. I thought he would be taller (like you often think with celebrities). But Pete wasn't much taller than I was, the Bilbo Baggins of the newsroom - short but wise beyond his years, brimming over with personality, a great sense of humor, a particular glint in his eye, always a smile beneath that bushy mustache.

: When I went to work at the Journal in the late '80s, I learned that Pete was the subtle center of the newsroom, its quiet, boyish patriarch. Whenever one of my fellow know-it-all young reporters or I had a question, we'd end up in front of Pete's desk, humbly basking in his knowledge. But he was never arrogant. He always had that smile for you, a bit of cynicism - just a touch - beneath the warmth. Because he had seen it all. He hadn't memorized facts and dates, but lived through them, pen in hand. The politicians talked to him because of that warmth and charm. They told him things, and he told them to us.

: Unlike many of his fellow political reporters, Pete never sold out to take a job as a political flack. Because to Pete, his job wasn't just a job. It wasn't about a paycheck. I remember seeing him drive his car through Lower Manhattan one day into the traffic snarl of the Holland Tunnel. He saw me in my car and waved an enthusiastic hello. He was living in Brooklyn back then, commuting from the deepest reaches of the borough, across the East River, through New York City and over the Hudson - or even worse, through Staten Island.

: Every day.

: It was a hell of a commute. But Hudson County was a destination for Pete. It wasn't something to pillage and plunder. It wasn't a place to run away from. It was his calling.

: Pete somehow never grew jaded. He stood by the ramparts day after day, watching the flags unfurl, watching the political battles rage year after year, watching mayor after mayor testify. Whenever we left town, or in some cases, moved away, we knew Pete would be keeping an eye on things for us, keeping score, and would be able to explain it all when we got back.

: Just the other day, a transplanted friend from Hudson County called from his new home in Texas. He heard about Pete, he said. He couldn't believe he had died. And it wasn't until then that it finally hit me, how large he loomed. And now there was that awful void, that hole that people sometimes leave in your life when they go away. It's a vacuum, a silent, terrible emptiness that usually follows the departure of a relative or a lover. But Pete was neither to me.

: Pete was the eyes and ears of Hudson County, recording that first draft of crooked history. He listened quietly, and watched just as quietly, and echoed back the political intrigue.

: Pete Weiss was Hudson County's conscience. Its Greek chorus.

: And now he's gone. Just like that. The politics will continue without him, without his studied, watchful eye. And that's the tragedy.

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