I was riding around with a mechanical contractor in northern New Jersey. We ended on a jobsite and it was time for me to catch a plane. The contractor had some important business to tend to, so he recruited a shop steward to drive me to the airport. I don’t recall his name, but I’m pretty sure that if he were the star of a blue-collar TV sitcom, the producers would have him answer to, “Yo, Vinny!”
Vinny, or whatever, knew little about this magazine, except he “seen it somewhere.” We wrote for management, he was a working stiff, but he told me he occasionally pulled foreman duty. That qualified him as a supervisor, so I gave him the latest edition and showed him how to fill out the subscription card. “Take some time to read it. You’ll find it interesting,” I said. He promised to “do dat’,” though I wouldn’t bet on it.