Feature Article |
The Real Tom Knox
By Robert Huber
Or consider another story involving USAir. Seth Schofield, the company’s CEO, paid a visit to Rendell’s offices early on in the mayor’s first term and offered VIP status to high-ranking members of the administration. His offer was turned down, because Rendell and company were uncomfortable accepting the perk. Two months later, a Rendell aide remembers, an embarrassed call came into the mayor’s office from Schofield, thinking maybe this was something they needed to know: A member of the administration, saying he was acting under authorization of the mayor, had demanded VIP status in the USAir reservation system. He wanted automatic upgrades to first class for himself and his wife, and preferential boarding, and while Schofield and USAir had no problem with it …
“Who’s making this request?” Schofield was asked.
“A deputy mayor by the name of Tom Knox.”
Knox denies this one, too. Why, he’s had VIP status since the ’80s, courtesy of his black American Express card, so calling USAir wasn’t something he’d ever stoop to.
When one senior Rendell aide thinks now about Knox’s tenure as deputy mayor, he has a sobering thought about the future of his city: “It is inconceivable to me, based on my experience with Tom, how government would work under him. Because government is about politics. It’s not about a monarchy.”
MAYFAIR, IN THE Northeast. This is a world Tom Knox, 66 years old, knows, given that his family moved up here when he was 16. At a spaghetti dinner in late March that his staff has whipped up for some 217 frustrated working-class folks inside a Knights of Columbus hall, he prefaces his stump speech by ticking off Orthodox and Rosalie and Torresdale and Calvert, the streets his family lived on. “I’m not sure if my parents were just gypsies, or they were skipping out on the rent, or they were just asked to leave — I’m not sure.”
The message is obvious, like his TV ads: I am one of you. And he gets a nice laugh, but he doesn’t look like one of them. Or act like one of them. Knox is wearing a dark, impeccably tailored suit. Before speaking, he works the crowd, sitting down at round tables of mostly older couples. He is quiet and regal and smiles often. At one table, Freda says, “Milton Street is running for mayor.”
“For City Council,” Tom clarifies. “Milton is messing things up for his nephew [Council candidate Sharif Street].”
“New Yorkers are buying and then renting the houses,” Freda says, moving on.
“Oh, yeah,” Tom says. “Section 8.” He smiles, and for a moment says nothing about a big problem, how minority renters might be changing the neighborhood. Then he says, “Yes, I understand.”
“There’s problems with ice on the steps and sidewalks,” Jim says.
“We are in the minority,” Freda says.
“There’s not a minority of complainers,” Tom says comically.
No one laughs.
Tom smiles. His teeth are very white. A minute later, he gets up, without a word — time for the next table.
In his speech, he talks cops and taxes and corruption and jobs. His passion for “bringing back the neighborhoods” and so forth is not entirely believable; even his staff admits that Knox is a work in progress in front of people.
“Who’s making this request?” Schofield was asked.
“A deputy mayor by the name of Tom Knox.”
Knox denies this one, too. Why, he’s had VIP status since the ’80s, courtesy of his black American Express card, so calling USAir wasn’t something he’d ever stoop to.
When one senior Rendell aide thinks now about Knox’s tenure as deputy mayor, he has a sobering thought about the future of his city: “It is inconceivable to me, based on my experience with Tom, how government would work under him. Because government is about politics. It’s not about a monarchy.”
MAYFAIR, IN THE Northeast. This is a world Tom Knox, 66 years old, knows, given that his family moved up here when he was 16. At a spaghetti dinner in late March that his staff has whipped up for some 217 frustrated working-class folks inside a Knights of Columbus hall, he prefaces his stump speech by ticking off Orthodox and Rosalie and Torresdale and Calvert, the streets his family lived on. “I’m not sure if my parents were just gypsies, or they were skipping out on the rent, or they were just asked to leave — I’m not sure.”
The message is obvious, like his TV ads: I am one of you. And he gets a nice laugh, but he doesn’t look like one of them. Or act like one of them. Knox is wearing a dark, impeccably tailored suit. Before speaking, he works the crowd, sitting down at round tables of mostly older couples. He is quiet and regal and smiles often. At one table, Freda says, “Milton Street is running for mayor.”
“For City Council,” Tom clarifies. “Milton is messing things up for his nephew [Council candidate Sharif Street].”
“New Yorkers are buying and then renting the houses,” Freda says, moving on.
“Oh, yeah,” Tom says. “Section 8.” He smiles, and for a moment says nothing about a big problem, how minority renters might be changing the neighborhood. Then he says, “Yes, I understand.”
“There’s problems with ice on the steps and sidewalks,” Jim says.
“We are in the minority,” Freda says.
“There’s not a minority of complainers,” Tom says comically.
No one laughs.
Tom smiles. His teeth are very white. A minute later, he gets up, without a word — time for the next table.
In his speech, he talks cops and taxes and corruption and jobs. His passion for “bringing back the neighborhoods” and so forth is not entirely believable; even his staff admits that Knox is a work in progress in front of people.
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