IN MY SHOES: Cindy Adams Recounts Her First Scoop
Here’s Part 2 of a recap of the inimitable Cindy Adams’ 25-year career at the New York Post in her own words:
Since there's already a Stage Deli sandwich named for me (ham, cheese and tongue, don't ask) the paper announced they'll commemorate this milestone by having the aquarium christen a shark after me … [H]ere's how it all began:
In my kidhood, I was a model. Fifty-seven beauty titles. A few even won legitimately. I tried acting. Not good. Performing. Not good. I then began writing. Thought-provoking, incisive, in-depth pieces on Lawrence Welk. I graduated to the as-told-to-me autobiography of Indonesian President Sukarno, then one of the world's 12 most powerful leaders. …
Fast forward. December '79. The Shah of Iran lay dying in New York Hospital. I'd long known His Imperial Majesty and Empress Farah Dibah, having visited them in Saad Abad Palace in Tehran and the times they came here. … Mind, the block was ringed with reporters, fotogs, TV crews hoping for a word - never with him, only about him. They'd grab even an orderly exiting the building who knew nothing - just for a soundbite. Nobody had been allowed in. Me, I was invited in. Asked in. Ushered in.
That night my husband, Joey Adams, who had a jokes column in the paper, and I were to have dinner with The Post's then-editor Roger Wood. I called to cancel because "I'm off to see the Shah." There was a thud at the other end. Roger had collapsed. Gently, carefully, he asked could I maybe ring him when I returned home?
So I spend an hour with the Shah. Sitting on the edge of his bed, feet dangling in slippers, white silk pajamas rumpled, he faced a wall-size poster of a giant gorilla enraged. Its caption read: "Cheer up. Things could be worse."
When I called Roger to tell him, he asked a favor. Would I write this. He put the very same omnipresent Steve Dunleavy on the phone to talk me through my first newspaper exclusive. Next day my front-page picture carried the headline "The Post's Own Cindy Adams talks to the Shah." I wasn't The Post's Own. I didn't work for them. And they honored that noncommitment by never paying me for the story. Flowers they sent.
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