Photojournalist - Dick Kraus - Behind the Viewfinder

September 7, 1998

OH, MY ACHIN’ HEAD

By Dick Kraus, Staff Photographer

Newsday

It was 1976. The Democrats were holding their National Convention in Madison Square Garden in New York City. I was one of three staff photographers assigned to cover the convention from the inside. Our Chief Photo Editor was on hand to direct the operation. In order to facilitate our coverage, the paper put us up at the old Americana Hotel in Manhattan so that we didn’t have to make the long trek out to Long Island every night, after the session ended. The four of us were assigned a connecting suite so that we would be easy to find if need be. And since the suite contained a central sitting room, we were told to order a stocked bar because the Editor of the paper wanted to hold a staff meeting with the photographers and the writers and columnists who were working the convention.

Photo By Dick Kraus

This came in very handy as the week progressed because word got out that we had a bar with booze and not only were we visited by Newsday writers, but out of town photographers and tv people soon learned that we were hospitable folk and we would share our largesse with anyone who entered our rooms after the session was done.

So, every night, after our film was processed, selected and captioned and sent off to the paper on Long Island, it was party time. It was a wonderful way to relax and enjoy the camaraderie that only working news people can appreciate. We also got some out of town delegates dropping in but the mix was loose and friendly.

The night that Jimmy Carter was nominated as his party's choice, we all worked long and hard. It would all end the next night with Carter's acceptance speech, but this night was a late one. The social activities in our suite began in the wee hours of the morning as we all felt the need to unwind. I probably drank more than I needed to, and I am not a heavy drinker. But, I didn’t have far to go to fall into my bed, so I caroused with the best of them, and there were some pretty good carousers in the room.

At one point the phone rang. It was our Managing Editor who wanted to speak to our Chief Photo Editor. He advised him that Carter would be naming a Vice Presidential choice sometime early the next day, and he wanted a photographer and a writer to be at the hotels where the prime candidates were staying.

Later in the early morning hours, Bob Keeler, one of our stalwart writers, called to say that he was assigned to cover Maine Senator Ed Muskie, who was considered a front runner for Carter's Veep. My boss handed me the phone and told me to arrange to meet Keeler early that morning at Muskie’s hotel. I asked Keeler to come on over to join our soiree, but he begged off. He suggested that we meet at Muskie’s hotel at 6 AM.

6 AM! Hell, it was after 3 AM already. But, I said ok and went back to enjoying myself. Sometime around 4 AM, I fell into bed and between fatigue and the booze, I was asleep in no time. I had set the alarm for 5:30 AM, figuring that I would be in no mood for breakfast and Muskie’s hotel was just 5 blocks away.

When the alarm went off it was like the hounds of Hell yelping in my ear. I staggered to the bathroom that I shared with the Chief Photo Editor and managed to shave without cutting my throat. I left a poignant message of utter hate for my boss, spelled out in shaving cream on the mirror and I staggered to the elevator. The morning sun drilled through my aching skull when I made it to the street as I debated whether to walk or take a cab. I figured that burdened as I was with camera equipment, I would probably heave my guts into the cab if I had to bend over to get through the cab door, so I hoofed the 5 blocks.

There was a large media presence already waiting when I arrived and we were told to wait in the lobby until we would be escorted up to Muskie’s suite. I sat and waited and contemplated my nausea and stewed over the fact that the reporter, Bob Keeler, who had disdained coming to our party because he wanted to be well rested, was nowhere in sight. I was fuming. As drunk and hung over as I was, I managed to get my butt here on time.

The minutes became hours and finally we were told to take the elevators up to Muskie’s floor. I scanned the crowd but still no reporter. I made my way to the packed elevator and just as the door were about to close, I heard Keeler’s voice shout, “Hold the elevator.” He squeezed in and gave me a sheepish smile.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I overslept.”

“You BASTARD!” I screamed. You wouldn’t party with us so you would be rested for this. I partied and still managed to get here on time. My head is splitting and I am ready to puke on your shoes and I can barely keep my eyes open and you....you #@%**!, as well rested as you should be....you get here hours late and still manage to be on time.”

I cursed him at the top of my lungs for 15 floors and continued to curse him as we made our way down the hall to Muskie’s rooms.

It’s been 22 years since that happened. Keeler and I still work for Newsday and I love the man. But, every time he sees me coming down the hall, he turns the other way and runs, because I still curse him as readily as I did on that hung over day.

By the way. Muskie was not chosen to run with Carter. Oh, well.

Dick Kraus