The entrance to the headquarters of Leaders Magazine was next door to Syms Menswear on 51st in Midtown Manhattan. I was there for my first ever job interview after college. I was applying to become the personal assistant to Leaders’ Chairman and CEO, Henry Dormann.

The 5th floor elevator opened to a dark, wood-panelled room with two maroon chesterfield sofas and a large, ornate Persian rug. The walls were decorated with framed photographs of an older man shaking hands with world leaders like Kissinger, Reagan, Ford, Qadafi, Chairman Mao, Nixon, and Margaret Thatcher. One wall was a testament to the man’s relationship with Richard Nixon. Nixon and the Man having lunch at the White House, Nixon and The Man playing golf, Nixon and The Man in a serious conversation in front of the Resolute Desk. The other decorations on the wall were Renaissance paintings that seemed like they were pilfered by the Germans during World War II. The air was hazy and smelled of pipes and cigars. 

A woman with a grey pencil-skirt suit, a pleasant smile and a tight black bun peered over her glasses and asked, “Can I help you?“

“Hi. I’m Greg Larkin. I have an interview with Henry Dormann.”

Her smile vanished immediately. “He’s Mr. Dormann.” she said. “Now, please fill out this form.”

I filled out the form and was then escorted to a large wooden, corner office with even more Nixon photos and Renaissance art. 

“Please sit here,” she said, pointing to an antique leather chair. 

Twenty minutes later the white-haired man from the photos walked into the room reading my resume and smoking a cigar. 

“Hello” I said. 

He didn’t respond.

While still reading my resume, he picked up the forms that I had just filled out and threw them in the trash can. 

He finally peered at me above his reading glasses and said “It says here that you’ve travelled to Israel. Are you Jewish?” 

“Half-Jewish. I’ve traveled to Israel twice.”

“That may be a problem. You might be kidnapped.” He said.

“Why would that happen?” I asked

He sat down in the leather chair across from me and squinted at me. He then raised his voice slightly and said, “Young man. You will be my personal assistant. That means that you will travel with me to interview three world leaders every thirty days. Many of these men lead countries that are at war with Israel. And you might be kidnapped.”

“Now, do you have a valid United States passport?” he asked.

“Yes” I replied.

“Good. Did you bring a writing sample?” 

“Yes.” I handed him a college essay I’d written about the origins of the 1991 Persian Gulf War.

He threw it in the trash. 

“Do you speak any foreign languages?” he asked.

“I speak Italian pretty well and I speak adequate Spanish and French.”

“That will come in handy.

“During the summer you will stay with me at my compound in the Adirondacks. While there, I entertain world leaders. There’s a helicopter pad. I will expect you to be on call at all times. I will work you to pieces.”

And then apropos of nothing he said, “My last assistant was someone I grew to hate. Immensely.” He then peered at me over his reading glasses to make sure that his words sunk in.

“Can you cook?” he asked.

“Yes.” I replied.

“Good. Do you use drugs?” 

“No.” I lied.

“I spoke to Bush’s handlers about this nonsense.” he was referring to a story that broke that morning revealing Candidate George W. Bush’s checkered history of cocaine and DWIs. “It might lose us the election. That imbecile.”

The phone then rang in an adjacent office. A young man emerged in an expensive suit and said, “Sir, Martin Winterkorn, CEO of Volkswagen is on the line for you.”

“Martin!” Mr. Dormann said jubilantly as he answered the phone. “How are you?”

“Yes. I’ll see you next Tuesday.”

“Karl will be joining us as well.”

He ended the conversation and returned to the interview. “I’m sorry for the interruption.” he said as he re-lit his cigar. “I hope you don’t mind cigar smoke. I just had a delicious lunch and I like to follow it up with a nice Habana.”

“Do you have any questions for me?” he asked.

“What do your assistants normally do once they’ve moved on from being your assistant?”

“I got one assistant placed on the board of a major Swiss bank. I got another blacklisted. So it depends on their performance. I’m friends with every CEO, college dean, and world leader.”

“Now I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Samuels.”

Henry Dormann then led me down the hall, past the photographs, to a slightly less opulent office where a middle aged man was smoking a pipe.

Henry Dormann placed his left hand on my lower back, and said. “Mr. Samuels, this is Greg Larkin.” With his left hand still on my back he shook my right hand and left the room. 

“Mr. Dormann is an extraordinary man.” Mr. Samuels said. “I began as his assistant and now I’m a deputy editor at the magazine.”

“But it can be a difficult job.” he continued. “If you don’t know what movies will be playing on his upcoming flight he will explode. You will need to carry $1,000 in cash at all times because he screams at waiters if the service doesn’t meet his standards. And it never meets his standards. You will need to quietly reimburse the server for their patience so that he can keep coming back. When you spend the summer at his country compound in the Adirondacks you will be expected to play pool and cards with him every evening. And you cannot ever win. You will be compensated handsomely.”

Mr. Samuels description of my first potential job was a vivid illustration of Hell for me. Wrapped in the veneer of immense privilege and opportunity. In this Hell I would be a deferential, manservant to a White-haired, narcissistic despot. 

Henry Dormann, I learned, was the founding Chairman of the National Enquirer. When I interviewed to be his assistant in October 2000 he was the CEO of his second venture, Leaders Magazine, “A magazine for and by World Leaders.” 

I never got the job.

He died in 2018, at age 86, at his country compound in the Adirondacks.