When the boss is also a great teacher

So far, I have had two bosses in my worklife who have taught me to be better at my profession as an editor, and an adult with good manners.

And it does not surprise me that more than 20 years later, both remain powerful, influential figures in the publishing world.

The reason I continue to think about them and miss them is that I find it increasingly difficult to accept the idea that my day-to-day happiness at the office is dependent upon and determined by someone else's happiness - a boss's.

All day long from my cubicle, I see my co-workers lining up to get into the office of our editor. I watch as they knock lightly on the glass wall of her office to get her attention, hoping that their arrival won't annoy her. Some put one foot through the threshold of the door hoping for a smile or other sign of enthusiasm as she looks up from her desk.

I, too, know that giddy feeling of delight upon pleasing a boss, no matter how mundane the reason for doing so.

But, increasingly, I feel shame and resentment for coveting that happiness. This desire to please another adult with power over us is no way to live an adult life.

Eugene Brissie was the first real boss I had in my professional worklife. At the time, the early 1980s, he was editor in chief of a paperback division at Simon & Schuster and I was his assistant.

The books Gene published were hardly literary - titles of which included, "The I Hate Preppies Handbook" (for which I modeled as the nerd on the cover), "The Brooke Shields Scrapbook" (assembled by the model's mother), and "Buns" (yes, a photographic, yet ultimately tasteful, celebration of such anatomy).

Gene, who was 10 years older than me, taught me how to dress for the office (he wore a jacket and tie every day), how to negotiate with agents and authors, how to prepare for meetings with the publisher to whom he would pitch the books he wanted to buy (meetings to which he always brought me and where he encouraged me to pitch books, too).

I rewarded Gene by being a diligent worker because I respected him and he was unfailingly polite to me.

Although he does not know this, I was even instrumental in finding him his wife. She worked in the publicity department at Simon, two floors up, and Gene often commented to me on how pretty she was. I told her this and lied that Gene was hoping to play a game of tennis with her. She reserved a court one evening, invited him to play, and, eventually, they were engaged.

I have long felt guilty for "leaving" Gene the way I did.

I worked for him for exactly one year, but I had a desire to be a hardcover book editor.

I wrote a letter to Michael Korda, the then-editor in chief of Simon, and a famous author himself and New York personality, and sent it by interoffice mail. Later that same day, Korda called me on his speakerphone and told me to come upstairs. There was a job open as an assistant editor under the aegis of Alice Mayhew, then-executive editor at Simon. Within days, I was offered that job and I accepted it.

Gene had no idea I had been looking for another job and I know that he considered me a true apprentice - devoted, adoring, and eager to learn. Gene never showed his disappointment or hurt that I had decided to leave him.

As a parting gift he gave me a highly valuable copy of a first edition of Hart Crane's poetry.

Although Gene may have published the books he did, he was a literary man himself and he knew my love for Crane's poetry and my attempts to memorize some of the poems and recite them while walking over the Brooklyn Bridge.

And it was that next boss, Alice Mayhew, who was equally important to me in my learning how to be an editor, and writer, and an adult.

Alice, now the editorial director at Simon, was already a prominent editor, having published Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein's, "All The President's Men," and other titles by the likes of Fidel Castro, Ben Bradlee, and former US Secretary of State Cyrus Vance (with whom she had me meet weekly, characterizing the pair of expensive pants I regularly wore on those designated days as my "Vance pants").

Alice was a decidedly gruff, even intimidating, person, but she was without any pretense. And it is that lack of pretense that is the most admirable quality in a boss.

Never did I detect a moment's insecurity in either Alice or Gene. They both knew they were good at their jobs, smart, and professional, and respected, and so neither needed to adopt a professional pose or attitude.

Alice would invite me to join her for lunches with name-brand authors at the Four Seasons restaurant.

She gave me the key to her country house where I stayed for a week to help the late author Jane Howard finish her biography of Margaret Mead.

When novelist Brett Easton Ellis was publishing his first novel, "Less Than Zero," with Simon, Alice told me to take him to lunch since I was the only one on staff closest to his age (he was 20 and I was 24). Brett managed to drink six beers at lunch and even though I never drank at lunch, I thought protocol dictated that I keep up with him.

I had four beers, stumbled back to work, whereupon my office began to whirl at increasing speed. I spent the afternoon sick to my stomach in the restroom.

And to this day, I read the newspaper every day because Alice told me that was an important thing to do, and I send postcards regularly to friends and acquaintances because that is what she did.

The bottom drawer of her desk was filled with blank postcards she would buy at museum shops or souvenir stands.

Throughout the work day, I would see her open the drawer, reach in without looking at the chosen image, and scrawl a note to an author - perhaps complimenting material she had just read, offering encouraging words, or just sending a greeting.

Gene and Alice included me - and everyone on their staffs - in their work. They were teachers, and bosses. And you never forget great teachers. They are people you want to please.

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