Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1951)

every year, almost half his life, in Miami Beach. He will not dispute that those five months are the most significant, the most worthwhile, of the twelve to him. He gets a letter, occasionally, from a frustrated fan who, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders and throwing another briquet on the grate, has taken pen in icy fingers to haggle with him about his right to bask in the Miami sun while shivering menials in New York do his work for him. Such a charge is, of course, false in essence. Winchell has written every column that ever appeared under his byline with his own hand on his own typewriter, including the columns signed "Your Girl Friday." But it's true that he basks in the sun — the late afternoon sun, that is — and why not? Once a woman, seeing him at the two-dollar window at a race track, asked, "What are you doing at a cheap window like this?" He replied, "I can afford it. Can you?" Well, after years of hard work he can now afford to move his headquarters south with the swallows when the first snows, washed into slush and made into filth by smoke and grit, turn Manhattan into one of the most disagreeable places to live in the world. But if you think he is shirking anything, his column or his radio show or his Runyon Fund activities or the monumental responsibilities resting on him because of his position as the most widely-read, the most listened-to commentator in the world — Ah, but observe him in Miami, as he "neglects" his affairs for the races, the golf -green, the beach! Catch him at the Hialeah racetrack, for instance, as this reporter did — say on the Saturday the Widener, a $50,000 handicap, is being run. In all the excitement of a record-day crowd at a great track, you see and hear a tiny stir of super excitement at the gates, like a miniature A-bomb going off in the midst of a hurricane. It's Winchell, of course, with Joe E. Lewis, the famous nightclub comedian, and one or two other people dancing attendance. They manage to clear through the mob and disappear in the reserved-box section. A few minutes later you squeeze your way into the press box. Walter is talking to three people at once, signing autographs on programs held out to him from the stands, and trying to get a line on the next race. He will bet two dollars on each race and be as dismayed when he loses, as he is delighted when he wins. But there is not much time for studying scratch sheets or listening to the tips everyone within sight has for him. Up comes a lady from the stands, with a personal axe to grind. "I'm the one who wrote you that letter yesterday," she says, with monumental selfassurance. Walter's expression, one of genial good-humor, does not for an instant flick out of character, although yesterday's mail had over a thousand letters in it and he does not know this woman from Eve. "Of course," he says. And waits for a cue. "Just as I wrote you, I think that show at the Blank Club was absolutely n shocking. I was too embarrassed! Now you will take up an immediate crusade against that horribly indecent place 78 Winchell's Winter (.Continued jrom page 22) in your column right away, won't you?" The little trigger in the fabulous Winchell mind clicks: you can almost hear the gears beginning to grind. This is old stuff, and he has an answer ready. "I've never been there myself," he explains, "but I know the kind of show you mean. I panned a place like that once and so many people went there out of curiosity afterwards that the joint made a mint. You can do more than I can to stop that sort of thing — just stay away. If enough people stay away, the job's done." The lady retires, satisfied. A tall, thin young man is waiting at Winchell's elbow. He pulls a dollar bill from his watch pocket and hands it to Walter. "One of those Short-Snorters for the Runyon Fund," he says diffidently. Winchell thanks him, glances at the bill, does a double-take and grabs the man's arm; for this dollar bill covered with signatures of men who had flown overseas during wartime with the donor is one of the rarest pieces of paper in the world. It bears the signature of Wendell Willkie . . . Walter has barely had a chance to thank the young man adequately when Tony Martin, looking tanned and fit, steps up for a word or two. As he leaves another, older man takes his place and Winchell begins to laugh ruefully. He introduces the man — one of the greatest newspaper handicappers in the country. A few days ago, Walter explains, someone offered to give the Runyon Fund a horse, to be named Runyon Fund and race only for money to fight cancer. Another, more likely deal was already under way and Winchell, who knew nothing about the horse, asked this handicapper what the nag's chances were. "I'd buy him," the man said. But Winchell figured the odds. If the unknown horse lost under the Runyon Fund colors, the Fund would have a bad name with every big potential Fund-contributor who had bet on him. He dared not take such a long chance with anything so important to the Fund, so he turned the offer down. And of course the bangtail came streaking home next day, an easy winner at incredible odds. "Okay," Winchell says to the handicapper, "you were right." Walter probably had two bucks on the horse's nose himself — but the Runyon Fund is something he will not gamble with. Walter finds it more difficult to make the same distinctions between his personal and public life. Strictly speaking, his sanctum-sanctorum suite in the Roney Plaza has little to do with how he lives in Miami, since it is only the place where he hangs his hat, undoes his tie and sits down for a long session with telephone and typewriter — and where, when he gets around to it, he sleeps. It's probably a good deal smaller, than the house you live in, but by hotel standards it's colossal, being two suites on the ocean front, thrown together to provide an enormous living room, a bedroom and an office. There are two telephones, one provided by the Roney and the other a private number for Walter's personal use. This one has a gadget on it so he can turn it off when he chooses. The very nature of Walter's occupation makes it impossible for him to have a home life even remotely similar to what the average American thinks of as normal. The nature of the man is all against it, too. A radio and newspaper commentator of Winchell's unique stature hasn't any time to be "at home," and his personality does not exactly fit into the armchair, slippersby-the-fireside category. He must be, as a reporter, where things are going on; and by choice he prefers action, excitement, lights, crowds and noise. True, he has a family estate near Scarsdale, New York, complete with swimming pool and all the fixings, where he can, if and when he likes, lead the retired life of a country gentleman. He seldom does. The family apartment in a large cosmopolitan hotel on Central Park South suits his mood far better. It is during the five months each year when he is in residence at the Roney in Miami Beach that he feels he is off the rat race, relaxing, taking it easy. Let us see, by creating a kind of composite typical day and following him through it, by what means and in what fashion this fifty-three-year-old national institution takes his ease in America's most fabulous playground . . . It is only two o'clock — in the afternoon — when he awakes. (This is in itself the most important difference between his life here and in New York, since his Manhattan morning ordinarily begins at five P. M.) There are no covers to throw back, the temperature being in the upper seventies, so he hops out of bed, goes into his office and turns on his private phone. It is ringing. Shuddering, he turns it off again and on the house phone calls the suite where his wife, his daughter Walda and his son Walter Jr. are stationed for their six-weeks visit. Junior, it turns out, left at dawn for the City Docks to go fishing, but Walda and Mrs. Winchell are at home and open to suggestions. Breakfast (lunch to them) in a nearby restaurant? Fine. It is a Monday. The radio broadcast is over for another week, Walter is two columns ahead of schedule — he can enjoy a day of uninterrupted relaxation. And so he does, like this: After breakfast, it appears Mrs. Winchell and Walda have some shopping to do over on Lincoln Road, the Fifth Avenue of Miami Beach. Back in his suite, Walter lazily copes with a few phone calls — one from Egypt, three from Hollywood, half a dozen from New York. He puts through a few calls himself, one to London and others to various places in North and South America. (His average daily phone bill runs to two hundred dollars.) Paul Scheffels, a tall, thin, efficient young man who is his radio producer and general lieutenant, has turned up carrying a depressingly large sheaf of telegrams and important-looking letters. But this is a day of rest for Walter, remember? Going to the windows of his living room, Winchell stares down at the private beach and cabana colony, singles out his own cabana, and takes stock of the little group of people clustered in front of it. There is another hour or two of sunshine left in the day and he'd like to take advantage of it. Fortunately for his radio show and column, that cabana has been the logical focal point for people who for reasons personal or otherwise would like to have a talk