I first met Seymour Hersh at the offices of The New Yorker when the magazine moved from West Forty-Third Street to 4 Times Square. We met on the elevator.
Seymour asked me what I did for the magazine, and I told him I was a cartoonist and cover artist. He introduced himself as Sy, extending his hand. We chatted briefly, and I told him I was heading back home to Nyack. He asked me how I was able to come up with cover ideas if I didn’t live in the city.
People are often curious how I’m able to capture the city, having never actually lived in Manhattan (my twelve years in Philadelphia doesn’t count). I explained to Sy that I soak up the city on the days I visit. I walk everywhere, take photographs, and make sketches in my journal.
Sy was genuinely interested in this. He said his idea of a terrific New Yorker cover was like a “mindfuck.” This made me laugh. Sy told me about a time in the eighties when he was living in the East Village with his family. One particular Sunday, Sy had to take his young son to an early tennis lesson and it happened to be the morning after the Village Halloween Parade. As Sy and his son exited their building, they discovered one leftover drunk parade participant stumbling and singing in the middle of the street dressed in full Nazi regalia, wearing assless leather chaps.
“That,” Sy said to me, “was a mindfuck—a New York City mindfuck.”
We both laughed out loud. The elevator reached the lobby; we shook hands and parted ways. I’m still in touch with Sy. Every now and again when I receive one of his emails, I’m always amazed at how brilliant and hilarious he is.
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From You Can Never Die by Harry Bliss. Copyright © 2025. Available from Celadon Books, an imprint of Macmillan, Inc.