Live Bait: A Lesson From the Annals of Peter Kaplan's New York Observer

Live Bait: A Lesson From the Annals of Peter Kaplan’s New York Observer

This story about Tyler Rush takes place on Aug. 5, 2003. It was originally published sometime in May 2009 as part of a special Peter Kaplan farewell edition of the New York Observer. After reading it, Tyler sent me this drawing of an eel. It’s been prominently displayed in my living room ever since.

Back when I was Jake Bloom and just an intern at an Observer still headquartered at the old townhouse on 64th Street, I was summoned into Peter Kaplan’s office and given a very important task: Buy Tyler Rush, head of the art department, a birthday present. He was turning 40 and the staff was going to celebrate after the paper’s close that night.

He likes fishing, I remember being told by Peter. Find him a nice tackle box. And be sure to get him some bait. Live bait.Tackle box. Easy. Live bait? Not so much.

Even though I was from Miami and had grown up surrounded by water (and presumably fish), I was clueless.

But so great was my desire to impress Peter, to separate myself from the other interns, to have my name remembered accurately, that I said, No problem.

I had learned from Peter the most important lesson of my brief career: A good reporter says yes to any assignment and figures out the details later, whether it’s hard news, a trend piece or … live bait.

But what was he talking about? Shrimp? Chum? Worms!?

Extensive Googling turned up only one shop in the city that sold “live bait”—vague, but promising. I called. They were closed.

Dismayed, I headed out to the fishing supplies store to buy the tackle box. It was cloudy, foreboding.

Where can I find some live bait? I asked the clerk, as I purchased the tackle box with Peter’s credit card (cha-ching!). They only sold frozen shrimp.

What are you fishing?

Er, striped bass?

Oh, they like eel.

Perfect. Where do I get one of those?

Chinatown.

Gulp!

The live eel was 3 feet long, when straightened. I picked him out from a tank in a market on a side street off Canal. Like a harmless goldfish, he was handed to me in a knotted black plastic bag filled with water.

I flagged a cab and once inside, I could immediately tell the eel was not happy.

It made a loud clicking noise, the eel equivalent of Get me the fuck out of here, you fucking piece of shit. If I could reach your eyeballs, I would eat them out of your motherfucking skull. Or so I imagined.

Luckily, the cab driver, a Sikh, was too busy asking me questions about the news of the day to hear anything.

What ees dis gay bishop? he asked me, a Jew with a live eel and a tackle box.

I didn’t know how to answer.

Back at the townhouse on 64th street, I marched directly to Peter’s office to present him with my prize.

Great! I can almost remember him saying in his inimitable way—unless, I guess, if you’re Tony the Tiger.

Somehow—and I don’t want to put the blame squarely on Peter or Elon, his assistant at the time—the decision was made to release the eel into the downstairs bathtub, so that it could swim freely until we gave it to Tyler (the close was still hours away).

Elon and I went to the basement. We plugged the bathtub with a towel, started the water and gingerly put our sinewy friend in.

It immediately became enraged, swimming away from the rushing water and clicking like mad.

I remember thinking, if the eel, seemingly on the verge of a heart attack, died, I would be haunted forever by the clicking—my tell-tale heart.

Only when the steam started to fill the bathroom, did we realize we had mistakenly turned the wrong knob and hot water was filling the tub. We were cooking the eel alive.

Defying common sense—perhaps it was dazed by the heat—the eel made a mad dash for the drain. It pushed the towel aside, stuck its head down the hole and tried to wiggle its way to freedom.

One of us shrieked. (I don’t want to point fingers, but it was Elon.)

Panicked, I lunged and twisted the cold knob, sending Elon, myself and the eel into an exhausted stupor.

There must be some wisdom gained out of all this, I thought, watching Edgar (yes, we named the eel) swim serenely around the tub. At some point, “Follow the money” had become “Follow the live bait” and I realized there was little difference between the two (ok … maybe a Pulitzer). Faced with the untenable prospect of disappointing Peter, I had learned to be more resourceful.

But what was I going to do with this eel? I was certain Tyler was going to take one look and run back upstairs (even though I doubt Tyler had run a day in his life).

Hours later, after we sang happy birthday to Tyler and gave him his tackle box, we ushered him downstairs for his one last surprise.

Tyler looked into the tub and chuckled. He sized up the eel, and feeling magnanimous, decided he would free it in the East River. (So much for bait!) Without hesitation, he stuck his arm into the luke warm water, grabbed the eel, stuck it in a garbage bag and walked out.

It was a happy ending in true Observer fashion: Peter, inspired and feeling perhaps a little mischievous, had sent a cub reporter on an impossible task and the cub reporter returned with, well, a story. And Edgar, he was free now.

Thank you for everything, Peter. The New York Observer will never be the same without you.

Sadly, I can now say the same thing about Tyler.