Meeting Bartley
Christopher Buckley recalls his first encounter with the Wall Street Journal's Robert Bartley.

By Christopher Buckley
From the November 19, 2001, issue of National Review

Editor's note: These are remarks from a dinner honoring Robert L. Bartley, October 17.

hen my father asked me to be on the program I happily agreed, for I feel that it is now safe for the world to know about the Other Bob Bartley. Not Bob Bartley, the great writer of editorials, or Bob Bartley, the scourge of liberals, or Bob Bartley, the 34-year-old wunderkind, but — as the character Max Bialystock in the movie and play The Producersput it — "the Führer with a song in his heart."

I first met Bob at the National Review anniversary dinner in 1985. At this grand occasion — attended by President Ronald Reagan, blessings be upon his name — I found that I would be seated next to him. When I noticed this placement on the program, I was overcome with nervousness. I had worked in the previous years in the White House, where the Wall Street Journal editorial pages were taken as Holy Scripture, and now I was about to have several hours of close proximity to The Great Bob Bartley.

In something very close to panic, I sought guidance during the cocktail hour from someone I knew who was close to him personally. What was he like? I asked. What topics of conversation should I pursue? Did he have any hobbies? This person, who shall remain nameless, but whom, at the time, I underestimated, took in my distress and suavely replied, "Oh, not to worry. He's casual as can be. A great one for small talk. And he loves — loves — above all things in life — a really good off-color joke. As for hobbies, not many people know about it, but he has this thing for soap opera. He tapes them and watches them at night. He has an encyclopedic knowledge of As the World Turns and Guiding Light. Get him going on soap opera and you'll have to stuff a napkin in his mouth to shut him up."

I was greatly relieved by this intelligence. I would be spending the dinner hour not only with one of the great minds of our time, but also, clearly, with a regular guy, a man of the common touch. Indeed I found myself wishing I knew more about soap opera. Presently I found myself at Table 38 with the great man. I found him entirely pleasant, if not quite the bubbly small-talker I had been told to expect. Perhaps it had been a hard day at the office. So I awaited my chance. As soon as my wife and Edith Bartley were engaged in their own conversation, I leaned over and said, "So, how many lesbians does it take to screw in a light bulb?"

His reception of my little jeu d'esprit seemed somewhat muted. I put it down to the acoustics of the Grand Ballroom. When the main course had been served, I seized my chance to engage him in something I knew to be close to his heart. And in full hearing of all at the table said, "So, Bob, I hear you're a great aficionado of soap opera. Do you think Susan Lucci will finally win a daytime Emmy this year?" Again his response struck me as muted. Indeed, quite so. He looked at me owlishly, with an expression of seven-eighths disdain and one-eighth contempt, as if he had been suddenly thrust into the company of someone prematurely released from an asylum for the mentally feeble. My wife, who at the time worked for the CIA and was adept at evaluating disastrous situations, kicked me under the table.

Thus began — and ended — my long personal association with Robert Bartley. After the dinner was over, I sought out the person who had given me the pre-dinner briefing. I found him hiding in a bathroom stall, convulsed in hysterics.

I shot him, and disposed of the body in what is now the Meadowlands Sports Complex.

And yet as I look back upon it, I'm somewhat grateful to the fellow. If he hadn't given me that meretricious briefing, I probably would have attempted to engage the Great Man conversationally in such matters as the Laffer Curve, the conquest of Grenada, or David Stockman. And no doubt he would have found my offerings on those banal, if somewhat less alarming than the conversation I ended up offering him. This way I can at least look back and say that for a brief, if not shining, moment, I had the whole of Robert Bartley's attention. We connected. If he himself has no recollection of it — having put it out of his mind long ago — I do, a vivid one, and it remains somehow one of the great moments of my life, rococo, improbable, proud.

Thus the theme of my toast to him. I feel like the tumbler in the medieval tale who, amidst all the wise and scholarly monks, had only his one small talent to offer up, and performed his humble and awkward obeisance. But seldom do I get the chance to play the fool so gladly, or with such awe and respect.