The Washington Post column linked to this blog post is a must-read. Though politically charged, it reflects the growing desperation regarding heroin, and is written by one of the finest journalists alive.
I have told the story of Ted Gup so many times, perhaps it’s legend, perhaps it’s true, but for certain it is about a fine human being.
Gup came to the Beacon Journal suburban desk by way of Washington Post editor Ben Bradlee.
Gup, a native of Canton, was washing dishes in the nation’s capital in the early 1970s, determined to work for the Post, but had no newspaper experience. Bradlee, wearied of Gup’s appeals, asked him, “Kid, where are you from?” Learning it was Canton, he called his acquaintance, my top boss, Ben Maidenburg, publisher at the Akron Beacon Journal. Maidenburg had a heart for young people — wrote the letter that got me into Northwestern University in spite of my grades.
So here came Ted, a part-timer like me, covering local government and working for legendary State Desk editor Pat Englehart, a skinny nervous man with a bow tie, bushy sideburns and wet DeNobili cigars in his mouth, all the time.
Pat looked at Ted over his glasses, in wonderment, as did we all. Ted’s previous life included teaching poetry at a college somewhere in New England, I think it was. He wrote poems to his draft board back home, on bricks, or toilet seats, something like that. He wore a short scarf, tied around his neck. And when he returned to the office from assignment, he had no tie to loosen. So, he took off his shoes and shirt — but kept the scarf.
There was something very special about him — a passion for life, but not necessarily his own. Gup saw value in everyone, and wanted to know them, intimately. It was the day he realized he had just eaten a meal at a family restaurant somewhere around Wooster — and had no money — that his gifts became clear. He returned to write a wonderful piece about the charitable owner that caused us all to see that this guy knew something about people.
He also liked living on the edge. He and I went fishing one weekend. The destination was West Virginia, but we stopped at a street fair in Cambridge. After walking miles through town, we hitched a ride with a drunk and his girlfriend, back to the van. They offered us drinks, but I was more interested in watching through the giant hole in the floor as the pavement sped by.
Back to the van, we didn’t get more than 10 miles before he told me to pull into the giant gravel lot of a pool/dance hall in a rural area outside of Cambridge. Big place, hopping on a Friday night with young people drinking beer and dancing with sweethearts. Little did I know that Ted was really good at pool, and pulling chains.
We played and lost, then he told me to stand back and watch as the bills started to stack on the side of the pool table.
He was making one guy very unhappy as the bills poured into Ted’s pocket, and the guy’s girl was sitting lonely at a table, getting disgusted. Ted, with his scarf around his neck, whispered: “pull the van to the front, have the passenger door open and when I come running through the doors, slam they foot on the accelerator and rip gravel.” Why? Ted was going to collect the cash and ask the girl the dance.
Well, the van was at the front door, and we watched the rearview mirrors for several miles. Then, we went fishing in West Virginia and bought some outdated Spam for dinner.
That’s living!
Ted has written on the CIA, worked on the investigative team with Bob Woodward at the Post, taught at Case and lived life to its fullest.
I was heart-broken to read Ted’s column.
