Chapter 5 - Career

As a teenager, I spent most of my leisure time at the Jewish Community Center of Wilmington, Delaware. I worked there as well, taking care of the office at night, and during a few summers, I worked as a camp counselor and lifeguard, activities that turned out to be significant in later occupational choices.

During one summer while I was in college, I worked as a swimming instructor at a residential camp for children in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania. I will never forget the looks on my young swimming students' faces as their fear evaporated and cool water enveloped their bodies. The camp season for each child lasted 7 weeks, and almost all of them mastered the skills needed to move out of my beginners’ class and into more advanced instruction. The gratification for me was watching the campers master each task, shifting from confusion, doubt, and disappointment to surprise and delight. Particularly pleasurable was the look of triumph when each of the former non-swimmers jumped into the water and swam to the other side. Why did they swim to the other side? Because they could. Their triumph felt personal.

The Anxiety Attack

In Chapter 4, I described my difficulty in breathing when student teaching. Consequently, I did not become a teacher, fearful of speaking in enclosed classrooms. Instead, I pursued a career in social work. However, that didn’t mean I had no problems with public speaking. While working as a social worker at a Jewish Community Center in Louisville, Kentucky, I wrote a paper about one of the programs I created. I was asked to read it at a meeting of the local chapter of the National Association of Social Workers (NASW).

The day before the presentation, I asked my supervisor if he would listen to the paper and provide feedback. He agreed. I began to read and immediately found it difficult to catch my breath, just as I had experienced when student teaching. He tried but was unable to help me relax. I stopped reading, fearing that continued failure in front of just this one person would poison the real event. I left work early, went home, and hardly slept that night, knowing that some important people were expected to attend the meeting, including, I was told, the Dean of the University of Louisville Graduate School of Social Work. At twenty-five years of age and a neophyte in the field of social work, I considered this the equivalent of a Broadway audition.

The next morning, I was filled with dread as I waded through the increasingly disastrous scenarios flooding my mind. I was tense and so terrified I could hardly eat. I knew then, as I know now, that I often eat to reduce anxiety, so not being able to eat made matters considerably worse.

At the meeting, the organization's president introduced me. I stood up, stepped over to the podium, opened my binder, thanked the president, looked down, and saw that the page was wet where my fingers were touching it. As I focused on my sweaty hands, I noticed a slight tremor in the pointing finger, and it was difficult to keep it on the correct line.

When I began to read, I felt both my throat and chest tighten. I opened my mouth as wide as I could and expanded my chest, but felt nothing coming in. Preoccupied with breathing, I couldn’t remember what I had just read. I stood there, terrified and ashamed.

The president of the NASW Chapter, sitting beside me, offered me a glass of water, but my hand was shaking so much that I was afraid to bring it to my lips. He offered me a lozenge, unwrapping it before handing it to me. I nodded, slipped it into my mouth, sucked on it, waited to calm down, and waited, and waited, and waited.

While I stood there, I wondered if I would be able to get through my presentation. If not, I wondered whether I should just sit down or maybe leave the building. I wondered if this would happen again whenever I needed to speak in public. Because almost no one in the audience was making eye contact with me, I wondered what they were thinking and what they would say to their colleagues who had not come to my presentation. I can’t remember anything past that set of wonderings. I remember only the panic. I always remember the panic.

I have given presentations to large groups since then, and although I always pop a lozenge into my mouth to keep it moist, I have never had a similar experience. I discovered that, for me, courage is not the absence of fear but the willingness to keep showing up despite it.

Hull House

After Louisville, I got a job at Hull House, one of the most famous settlement houses in the United States. In 1964, my first year, I provided treatment services to members of families with multiple environmental, economic, and psychological problems. Part of that work, as described in Chapter 4, involved group treatment for children who were resistant to treatment. That work came to the attention of the University of Chicago faculty, and social work students from that school came almost weekly to observe my practice.

Within a year, I was promoted to Director of Social Work Services, responsible for all social work practice and programs within this seven-agency settlement house association. We provided social work field instruction for 32 students from 3 graduate schools of social work. That student program and my group treatment achievements were of great importance in securing my admission to a doctoral program at the University of Chicago.

In early 1970, during my last year in the doctoral program, I received a letter from Boston Children’s Service Association asking whether I would be interested in being considered for its Associate Director position. I don’t know how they knew about me, but the opportunity sounded intriguing. I learned what I could about the agency and then met with Chuck Bates, the Executive Director. I thought the interview went well.

Chuck wrote that my credentials and knowledge were perfect, but I came off so low-key that he didn’t think I had the power or energy to handle the job. He suggested a second interview. I said I would return, but I was sure I would not act differently. That’s just the way I was; I spoke softly and slowly. However, I pointed out that this did not imply that I lacked power, that I was considered by many to be a radical. Chuck checked with some of his Chicago contacts and learned that I had led demonstrations and participated in other forms of social action. He decided that a second interview would not be necessary and offered me the job.

After I graduated, my growing family left Chicago for Belmont, Massachusetts, a Boston suburb, and I started my new job.

Chuck and I worked very well together for about two and a half very positive years. I was responsible for the services the agency provided, continued to provide group treatment, and participated in an effective advocacy organization, The Task Force on Children Out of School.

During that time, Chuck’s close friend, Jack Hanson, was the Chief of Staff for Ohio Governor John Gilligan. He offered Chuck the position of Director of Public Welfare. Chuck accepted and asked me to join him as Deputy Director. I accepted the offer, and we moved to Ohio.

Deputy Director of Public Welfare

I was kept busy inside our office building, tracking federal laws and regulations, and ensuring that internal and external communication flowed smoothly. I liked the work, but never got used to being so invisible. I held a Deputy Director-level position, but everything I produced bore Chuck’s name, not mine. I told myself this was the price I had to pay for being close to power, but the cost was higher than I expected. Recognition mattered to me, and not being recognized the way I wanted to be began to wear me down.

Governor Gilligan had been preceded by James Rhodes, who served two four-year terms and could not run again due to term limits. Before leaving office, Rhodes placed his top staff in lower-level positions, offering them job security while keeping them on board if he ran again, which he did, and when he defeated Governor Gilligan, his former team emerged, as if by spontaneous generation, to resume their previous jobs. At noon on inaugural day in 1975, Jack, Chuck, and I were all out of work. It was a clean sweep; three levels of the bureaucracy were gone.

Both Chuck and I heard that Westchester County, New York, was seeking a social services commissioner, and we each independently applied for the position. Of course, I had no chance against him. Chuck was the head of a state agency, and I was actually operating as his assistant. At the end of February, 1975, Chuck was appointed Commissioner of Social Services in Westchester County for a five-year term.

The Department of Social Services was in bad shape at the time, with the County Police and District Attorney investigating possible welfare fraud and mismanagement. Chuck wasted no time implementing a major shakeup and asked if I was interested in becoming Deputy Commissioner. I had been looking unsuccessfully for a job and eagerly accepted his offer. I started in May 1975.

Deputy Commissioner of Social Services

I was responsible for overseeing all services within the Department of Social Services. That included managing quality control, ensuring the staff were doing their jobs competently, and that people receiving our services were qualified for those benefits. We uncovered an issue involving a group of Chasidic Jews who operated a school and, from what we understood, officially paid their teachers a pittance, but provided additional money under the table. Since the teachers could claim little income, each of them qualified for Medicaid. From our perspective, the County appeared to be supplying the school with a free comprehensive health insurance plan.

I contacted the school's head and asked him to come to my office. When the Rabbi arrived, he tilted his head and asked my name, which he already knew from our correspondence. I pronounced my name, and he countered, “That’s a Jewish name, isn’t it?” I answered that it was. He responded, speaking with an upward inflection, “You’re Jewish?” I said I was and, then, in a very accusatory tone, he said: “Then how can you perpetrate this holocaust?” I glared at him, said nothing for about 15 seconds, and then responded “Because it’s a shanda fur die goyim ” – a Yiddish expression used to suggest that this kind of activity by a Jew would be very embarrassing to the Jewish community if observed by a non-Jew. The Rabbi stopped the grilling and settled into the interview.

My encounter with the Rabbi clouded my perceptions. I believed the stereotype that they treat fellow Chasidim with honesty and respect, but treat those like me who are outside of their community with disdain. I also thought that whatever resources they could get from the outside world would be considered an end, justifying whatever means it took to achieve it. Fortunately, subsequent contacts with Chasidim reduced my stereotypic thinking and lessened my negative feelings.

Needing to Move On

During my third year at the Department of Social Services, I knew it was time to move on. The American Public Welfare Association had asked Chuck to write a paper on public social services at the local level. However, Chuck was not a writer; I was, and I had already published two articles in professional journals. I wrote the paper, but because Chuck was the Commissioner, his name appeared as the senior author. I understood why that happened, but didn’t like it. Like in Ohio, I thought my individuality was being suppressed by my coat-tailing. I thought it was time to get out from under. I learned that the county’s mental health operation had been reorganized, and a search was underway to recruit a commissioner to head the new Department of Community Mental Health.

I told Chuck I was interested in the opportunity, but he was not encouraging. For the past eight years, and I’m sure during our conversation, he considered me second banana. Also, I had just turned 40, 10 years younger than him, and he probably considered me too young. I concluded that the Commissioner job might be my best, and perhaps last chance, to be the high-level, independent professional I wanted to be. I wanted that job.

I knew I had the qualifications, but I didn’t look the part. For years, I projected a laid-back, relatively informal image, rarely wearing a tie. One day, I saw a Doonesbury cartoon. One of the characters was a United Nations representative from some obscure country who went to a tailor to buy some new clothes. He said he wanted some ethnic garb, something like the apparel worn by people in his country. The tailor said he would be better off with a conservative suit. The guy said he wanted to wear “colorful indigenous garb” like Arafat. The tailor said, “Well, Arafat’s a fool. If he wore a nice suit, he’d have a country by now.”

INSERT STRIP

I bought the very popular book "Dress for Success," devoured it in a day, followed its advice, and bought three very conservative three-piece suits in the correct colors, with all the proper accouterments. After dressing appropriately, I asked for an appointment with Alfred DelBello, the County Executive of Westchester County. During our two-minute meeting, he said he would certainly consider me for the job.

I was a little put off by being dismissed so quickly, but DelBello had a lot on his mind. The United States Department of Labor had issued a report citing “major deficiencies” in the County’s $35 million federally funded CETA (Comprehensive Employment and Training Act) program. The aim of the program was to help unemployed or underemployed individuals by offering them jobs with public agencies or not-for-profit organizations, thereby helping them develop marketable skills and, once that was accomplished, helping them transition to unsubsidized employment.

Aside from the government's critical report, the District Attorney was investigating what he called “pervasive corruption” in the CETA program, including nepotism and the misuse of funds. To make matters worse, one of the New York City television stations, Channel 4, had assigned an investigative reporter to see what was happening. Unfortunately, the Director of the CETA program ignored him, which so irritated the journalist and the station that their frequent reports were blistering. The County Executive was vulnerable because the CETA Director was a long-time friend of his, who had worked with him as he rose politically.

A few days after we met, the County Executive asked me to take over the program and do whatever was necessary to get it under control. I saw his request as a potentially prolonged and perilous job interview. If I screwed up, I could forget about the promotion. However, if I stopped the scandal and improved the program, my prospects would be excellent. I wanted that job badly, accepted the challenge, and was appointed Acting Director of the CETA program, on partial leave from my Social Services position.

I recruited a small team of human resources and data analysis specialists to assist me in reorganizing the program. We established new, more efficient procedures and created overly stringent internal controls to assure the federal government and the media of our resolve. Many agency administrators objected to those controls, but they seemed essential to me. I believed that satisfying the press was vital because scandals can escalate if not addressed quickly. I decided to grant the press unfettered access. Consequently, there was continuous coverage in newspapers, on radio, and on television regarding the program’s restoration. A column in a local paper noted, “Friends used to call him Gene Anonymous, but Pleasantville resident Dr. Eugene Aronowitz has lately become a prominent figure in Westchester news. ” An article about the search for the Commissioner of Community Mental Health position stated, “One name recently mentioned is that of Eugene Aronowitz, a deputy social service commissioner...” Two weeks later, a column describing my work with CETA read, “Dr. Aronowitz’s name has now come up in a new context, as a candidate to head up the new Department of Community Mental Health under the County Executive."

A month later, I was appointed.

Commissioner of Community Mental Health

As Commissioner, I was responsible for services in Westchester County for people with mental illness, those with developmental disabilities, and those abusing drugs and alcohol. Shortly after being appointed, I organized an event to discuss where the department had been and where I anticipated it would go. During the gathering, I introduced many of those who had come before me.

Honoring my predecessors

I attended many large gatherings, which was essential, but being at these events constituted one of the most difficult problems I had to deal with. At those events, people often shouted to be heard, and the shouting of hundreds of people can be deafening and diminish anyone's ability to hear others. That has always been a problem for me. I developed hearing problems while serving in the Marine Corps. I had difficulty hearing and didn’t get hearing aids until many years later. I also speak softly, and the din can obliterate my speech. I also talk slowly and somewhat thoughtfully. which often left me unable to connect with others. There is often a moment of silence as I consider what to say. That’s just enough time for people to tune out and for someone else to fill the gap. Small talk is not even close to being something I’m good at.

As a public official, I often had to sit on a dais at sit-down dinners, usually a long table on a raised platform. Organizers of these events considered such seating an honor, but I regarded it as a burden. Being unable to hear was not my only problem. Particularly egregious times were when I was placed at the end of one of those long tables, and the two people next to me spent all night talking with each other. I resented being so isolated and exposed. But, even worse, when I was not at the end, I would have to lean back when the person to my right and the person to my left wanted to talk to each other.

I always despised the idea of sitting on a dais, so I came up with what I thought would solve the problem. In 1984, I not only served as the Commissioner but also as Chair of the United Way fundraising campaign in Westchester County, New York. I insisted that all United Way fundraising events use what came to be called the Aronowitz Dais Design. It consisted of small round tables on an elevated platform. Even if I was not involved in any conversations, at least I didn’t look or feel ill at ease. I could nod at the speakers even if I couldn’t understand a word they were saying.

Thirty Minutes of Fame

A series of tragic events in Westchester County in February 1984 thrust me into the limelight. Five teenagers committed suicide within 30 days. As the county's senior mental health official, I had to respond to almost continuous press inquiries. There was intense interest, not only locally but nationwide. NBC Network News and the major New York City television stations interviewed me. The wire services, including the Associated Press (AP) and United Press International (UPI), spread the story. Newspaper articles featuring my comments appeared in Arizona, California, Colorado, Florida, Georgia, Illinois, Iowa, Kentucky, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Montana, New Jersey, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Vermont, Virginia, South Dakota, and Texas.

I enjoyed the celebrity and, at times, even exaggerated it. Once, I offered a colleague a ride when I drove up to Albany for a meeting. When my car approached the Tappan Zee Bridge, the toll taker reached for my money and said, “Oh, hi, Mr. Aronowitz.” I nodded and smiled. My passenger’s face revealed his astonishment as he remarked on how well-known I had become. I shrugged, giving him the impression that this happened all the time. I never let on that the toll taker was a teenager who lived in the cul-de-sac behind our house. Shameful, I know, but at the time, hilarious and exhilarating.

Nevertheless, delighting in my notoriety soon began to bother me. The attention felt good; the reason for it did not. The media attention resulted from alarm and compassion for those poor, dead kids and their grieving parents and friends. They are what made the story so compelling, not me. It was unsettling to acknowledge that my brief celebrity, my fifteen minutes of fame, blossomed because of such misfortune. That disturbed my confidence in my motives.

I also made many blunders during my years as Commissioner. For example, I screwed up while delivering a speech to my counterparts from other counties in New York State at a large professional mental health gathering. I was telling them about an idea I had and anticipated a reasonable, if not benign, response, but I misread my colleagues and received a dramatic, antagonistic response instead.

New York State had been experiencing a crushing financial crisis, some of it due to increased costs and poor administrative practices within the state’s mental health system. I was asked to serve on the Governor’s Select Commission on the Future of the State-Local Mental Health System. The then-Governor, Mario M. Cuomo, called for “a total overhaul of the system,” including restructuring mental health services and improving mechanisms for financing the system.

I was asked to report on Select Commission activities at the gathering. But in addition to describing some of the proposals being discussed in the Commission, I decided to also share the details of a cost-saving idea I was considering. Since I was only asking for their opinions regarding my idea, I expected a civil discussion that would help me refine my thoughts. Their response was far from civil.

Here was the idea that I told them about: The County and State governments both planned for and oversaw county mental health services. I considered that a costly redundancy, and wondered whether the planning and oversight functions of those mental health operations, including my own, should be carried out solely by the State government. I thought that would save a lot of money.

After the meeting ended, the Chairman of the Conference of Local Mental Hygiene Directors, of which I was a member, demanded that I accompany him and almost fifty other members to a small room. I was irritated by the way I was being treated, and to make matters worse, the room was hot and windowless. We were not about to have the civil discussion I had anticipated. The Chairman was irate and hurled many invectives at me. About ten others joined in the barrage.

Those who spoke expressed resentment that one of their own was about to propose eliminating a major part of their job responsibilities. Some implied that I was a traitor, erroneously suggesting that I had been appointed to the Select Commission to represent them and, by implication, to express their views. I sat there silently, seething, but my anger soon dissipated as I rationalized that the negative comments were simply self-serving and not to be taken seriously.

One of the members came over to me after the meeting to say that he agreed with me, although he wouldn't say so publicly. I imagined that many of my other silent colleagues felt the same. That was not the case. I subsequently learned that many believed State employees would have limited knowledge of individual counties' needs and perhaps insufficient investment in addressing those needs. They had a point.

I subsequently ran for Chair of the Conference of Local Mental Hygiene Directors and lost the election.

That was not my only interaction disaster. One December, I was invited to be the guest on a radio talk show about holiday blues. I said that this was a time of the year when everybody is supposed to be having a great time, but that these expectations are rarely met, as holiday celebrations can often be troublesome. Old sibling rivalries and animosities can get in the way, as can political differences. I said that for many of those unconnected, New Year's Eve can be the loneliest night of the year, and everyone should be on guard for the warning signs of suicide, which I enumerated. After about 45 minutes of discussion between us, the host said that the phone lines were open and wondered whether anyone had any questions or comments. She gave the phone number, after which there was dead silence. She repeated the number, and the studio fell silent again. To fill the disconcerting space, she asked me how listeners could help if they knew of someone who might be contemplating suicide. The gist of what I replied was that they should take them seriously, let them talk, never argue with them or say it's all going to be alright, and possibly help them access a hotline or a mental health clinic in their area. I had brought along the county's directory of mental health services and anticipated that someone might ask for some details. But nobody did. The host repeated the telephone numbers, but still no one called in. She filled the rest of the hour talking about an unnamed friend who suffered silently for years before killing himself. That distressing story ended the program.

When I returned to my office, Steve Friedman, the Deputy Commissioner, looked at me and said that if the audience wasn’t depressed before I got on, they surely were by the time I got off.

My next mistake could have been a disaster. I had to attend a seemingly endless number of annual meetings and fundraisers, almost all of which served food and many of which offered alcoholic beverages. At one event, I had a little too much to drink, and at about ten or eleven o’clock that night, I was swerving slightly on my drive home. A New York State police officer pulled me over. He asked me if I had had a few drinks that evening. I was fully coherent and said that I had. Seeing that my car had official plates, he asked if I was a public official. I told him what my job was. He understood that I was responsible for services to those involved in alcohol abuse and asked if I could imagine the headline if I was caught driving drunk? I said, or maybe I whimpered, that I could. He replied, “OK. Get home safely.” I appreciated the courtesy and, as a result, was always more careful about drinking.

Another night, I walked into such a large annual meeting. The room was already crowded, and I started looking around for the right person to talk to, which was difficult for me because the lights were dim and my eyesight has always been poor. I have lost a few inches in height as I have aged, but even before that, I was of below-average stature. My head was slightly elevated as I tried to find my way around the room, and was surprised when the lower part of one of my legs collided with a soft object, throwing me off balance. I heard a whiny bark, looked down, and saw a seeing-eye German Shepherd. As I careened, I instinctively reached out to stop my descent and grabbed the arm of the blind guy who was holding the loose leash. Shocked, he shouted a very audible “Shit!” His screech caused a cascade of head-turning. Then, there was silence, not a slowly diminishing fade-out kind of silence, but a sudden power failure kind. I shoved the dog aside with my leg, not thinking about how this could result in a painful puncture from the dog's sharp canine teeth. I pulled the blind guy toward me until we were both standing somewhat erect. My face was red, my heart was pounding, my head was throbbing, and my hands were cramping. I was humiliated. I leaned close to my victim’s ear and apologized, saying, “I’m sorry” twice. He said nothing, just tilted his head. His face bore a blank expression, possibly connoting a carefully controlled rage. I started worrying about what people in the hall would say to each other during the event and to others in the days that followed. I apologized again and moved away, trying to figure out how to salvage the rest of that already disastrous evening. I thought my best bet would be to make a self-deprecating joke about it, but I really didn’t feel very much like laughing.

Moving On

I had been Commissioner for almost 10 years, felt good about my successes, and dealt reasonably well with my mistakes. But my responsibilities and activities had become repetitive. I was a little turned off by being so public and newsworthy. Therefore, I was pleased when I received a call from the President of Westchester Jewish Community Center, a large, well-regarded agency. He asked me to meet with him, and when we did, he asked me to consider becoming the Executive Director of that agency. He offered me a salary that was 60% higher than what I was earning, a very persuasive hook because I had mortgages on two houses, hefty child support, 2 kids in college, 1 about to enter, and another expected to go in 2 years. After some polite conversation, I told him I would get back to him and, after a few days, I accepted the offer.

Executive Director, Westchester Jewish Community Services.

The agency had some serious financial difficulties. I did some reorganizing, tightened our spending, secured government grants, and started new programs that generated surpluses. In about a year and a half, the agency was solvent. That’s when my troubles with that agency began.

On a day off, Linda and I paid a visit to Woodstock, New York. Linda had brought her Tarot deck with her and suggested that this would be a good time and place for a reading. Dubiously, but in the spirit of Woodstock esoterism, I agreed.

We sat down under an ash tree along the bank of the Millstream. Linda placed a piece of silk cloth on a large rock, asked me to lay both hands on the deck, and think of a question. No specific issue came to mind, so I simply thought, "What is in store for me?" She asked me to cut the cards, then distributed 10 of them from the top of the deck in a specified pattern, each position determining the card's implication. The card in the position that signified what is likely to occur soon was The Tower.

We looked at each other. That card is particularly unwelcome, for it can connote caustic change, the collapse of current ways of life, crisis, conflict, and catastrophe. Getting that card in that position can be very upsetting, but to me, it seemed unlikely. Everything in my life seemed to be going along smoothly. My relationships with my wife, children, and friends were positive. I was pleased with how my work life was going. I had solved the problems I was hired to solve and felt secure.

But within weeks after the Tarot reading, the prophecy began to emerge. The Board President who hired me had stepped down, and the new Board President told me she was concerned about my relationships with Board members. She said I was not communicating with them as all three of my predecessors had. They saw me as distant and aloof. I had been hired for my management skills, but once I had addressed the problems those skills were designed to solve, other unexpected requirements emerged. Board members wanted a more sociable relationship. My interpersonal skills with family and close friends were good, but not so good with others. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't meet their expectations for cordial and friendly relationships, and I became increasingly discouraged. Once, while brooding in a chair at home, Linda said I looked like I was sitting inside a walk-in refrigerator.

After several months of bleak progress, the Board President called me and asked if we could meet that afternoon. The tension in her voice was unmistakable. When we met, her face was flushed, and her eyes darted around the sparsely furnished room.

“Gene,” she said, “it’s not going well.”

“I know," I said. "I've tried. But what you want me to do is not in the cards. It’s just not me. Are you saying that it’s time I left?”

She said softly, “I guess it is.”

I strutted out of the room, but once on the sidewalk, my shoulders drooped, and my chest heaved. I gave up a great job for this, I thought. The job change to a higher-paying one had made sense, but now, although the financial obligations persisted, the job didn’t. It was over.

They provided me with a reasonable severance package, and I subsequently began consulting. However, progress was slow, and after the initial infusion of money ran out, the challenge of meeting my immense obligations was terrifying. Missing payments or even being late was unacceptable because I had previously established an excellent credit rating and wanted to maintain it. I borrowed from a credit union to cover large expenses, often borrowed from a friend to repay the credit union, and sometimes, if necessary, borrowed from the credit union to repay my friend.

But one time, that didn't work. A mortgage payment was due in two days, but both loans were still outstanding. I had no idea where else to get the money. I was like a duck on a rotisserie as I tried to sleep that night. But then, seemingly miraculously, I received a call the next morning from a former employee who had since become an agency executive. He asked if I was free to help them on a project. I said I was and met him that afternoon. I was stunned when he asked if I would like to be paid in advance. I considered this a sign and asked Linda for a follow-up Tarot reading.

When she laid out the cards, The Tower appeared once again, but this time in a different position and, therefore, with a different implication. Linda smiled and said that this time, its position signified that the destructive influence on my life was ending, and the future looked more promising.

And so it was. I became well-known for my consulting skills, including seven interim management positions. Consulting suited me. It rewarded clarity and competence over charm and sociability. But consulting did not relieve the anxiety that hard times can create. Income was highly dependent on whether my consulting was considered effective, since bad news travels fast. It was also dependent on whether the organizations that needed a consultant could afford the cost. Many couldn’t. I was doing well financially, but I knew that could change abruptly. But for the moment, my workflow remained uninterrupted. As my reputation swelled, so did my income.

Five years after the second Tarot reading, which was eight years after the first, Linda suggested it was time for a third. Mystified by the divination capabilities of the first two, I enthusiastically said, “Sure! Absolutely!” When she dealt the cards, The Tower, incredibly, showed up again, but this time in the position that indicated that my troubles were now in the distant past. There are 78 cards in the Tarot deck. The odds of that same card coming up in those three different positions are astronomical, 474,552 to 1.

If I was skeptical before the first reading, I was a true believer by the third, but I vowed to stay as far away from the Tarot as possible. I have no interest in finding out whether there are any other misfortunes lurking to make my life miserable. If they come, they come, but I always have enough to worry about without worrying about lurking misfortunes.

Notwithstanding the many career slips and falls described in this chapter, as well as other problems not mentioned, my work life was very fulfilling, and as it turns out, fairly lucrative. But it didn’t end with my last paying job and final consulting gigs. In my last career move, I took on an unsalaried position. It started when a friend told me about a very appealing person running for a seat on the New York City Council. He suggested I consider volunteering in Carlos Menchaca’s campaign.

Director of Legislative Affairs

Something about getting back into politics appealed to me. I was already pumped up, having, by that time, watched every single episode in all seven seasons of “The West Wing” - twice. Although fanciful, that series led me to imagine that electoral politics could be exciting, useful, and enjoyable. I had enjoyed the administrative side of politics while serving as a public official in Ohio and Westchester County. However, I had never been involved in electoral politics except for a brief period when I made a few telephone calls for Barack Obama.

Carlos’s headquarters was just around the corner from our house in Brooklyn. I walked over and asked if I could be of any help. His campaign manager, Ivan Luevanos, asked if my wife, Linda, and I would be willing to host a “meet and greet” for Carlos, and we agreed. We had a group of friends and colleagues in our backyard. The discussion was terrific; Carlos was knowledgeable, engaging, and responsive. I was immediately impressed and asked Ivan if I could be more involved with his campaign.

Since I was 76 years old, he asked if I would be willing to make some telephone calls to older people. I was hesitant because I hated making calls for Barack Obama during his first campaign five years earlier. They had me making calls to Ohio, a swing state, where most people were being inundated with political calls. Many hung up on me, and most of the others made me feel that my call was a huge imposition. A bit reluctantly, I told Ivan I would try, and was delightfully surprised to find that making those calls was satisfying; I was calling older people who lived in or near my neighborhood. They were responsive and interested. My favorite call was to an elderly Chasidic man from Borough Park. The call went something like this:

Me: Hello, my name is Gene Aronowitz, the chair of Seniors for Menchaca. Do you have a couple of minutes to talk?

Him: No. I’m too busy. But tell me, is he good for the Jews?

Me: Well, I’m Jewish, and he’s good for me.

Him: OK. I’ll vote for him.

Ivan then asked if I would help Carlos meet with older people in senior centers. My involvement led Carlos to call me his Trojan Horse. At the first senior center we approached, I deceptively told the receptionist that Carlos, 33 at the time, helped me get around. We were both admitted. Carlos was engaging and even danced with some of the elders. Political activity at publicly supported facilities was discouraged, and once the director figured out what we were up to, she asked Carlos to leave. By then, he had won over most of those attending and left in a way that cemented a positive relationship with the director. We also visited several nearby facilities, always worried that the directors would tell their counterparts at other senior centers about our scheme, but apparently none did.

Carlos won the primary against the incumbent with 58% of the vote and went on to win the general election with 90%. Pumped up, I asked Carlos if I could continue working with him. He said he would be delighted and asked me to be involved with legislation.

At first, I was tasked with evaluating legislation proposed by other members of the City Council. This helped Carlos decide whether to lend his support. The more members who sign on to a piece of legislation, the greater the likelihood of its passage. Later, when Carlos promoted his legislative director to chief of staff, he asked me to take full responsibility for legislation, and I became the unsalaried Director of Legislative Affairs.

I prepared numerous legislative bills, sometimes on my own initiative, focused on cycling and street safety, which were significant issues for me. A few became laws.

I attended numerous meeting of the City Council and its committees. These were often done remotely, enabling me to do instant computer research on matters being discussed and text Carlos about what I learned.

 When Carlos ran for reelection in 2017, I was made Campaign Chair. I recruited and oversaw a group of volunteers to handle community relations, data processing, fundraising, opposition research, and similar functions. I held that post until I became overwhelmed by the combined responsibility of ongoing legislative work, campaign work, and my day job as a management consultant and gave it up. However, I continued to work with the campaign, primarily to seek endorsements from political action and advocacy organizations. Carlos won the Democratic primary, 48% to 33%, outdistancing Félix Ortiz, then the Assistant Speaker of the New York State Assembly. He won the general election with 82% of the vote.

The whole experience was a turn-on, working productively and happily, not for status or salary but for sheer pleasure. Even though unsalaried, I thought the time I spent on his campaigns and as his Legislative Director constituted a terrific career move, which turned out to be my last before retirement. Linda and I prepared to leave Brooklyn and move 120 miles north to East Taghkanic, New York, her old hometown. Political associates asked me if I was planning to run up there. I said I wasn’t, that we were going to drive."