The writer was born in a housing project near Jefferson and St. Jean on Detroit's east side. He worked his way through Wayne State University by building Chryslers. He began his career as an automotive journalist and later wrote ads. This is the second excerpt from a memoir under way.
By Mike Nickele
Try working on a weekly magazine. It’s pretty damned hectic. Deadlines can be brutal and draining. At least that’s how it was at AutoWeek in the ‘80s. Oh, Mondays were different. With Friday go-to-press stress finally over and a full week ahead, there was always time for goofing around, going to lunch and often enjoying a bucket or two of the house white at some bistro down in the warehouse district of Detroit.
Mike Nickele, who also goes by Nick Pivot,
So, any chance to “get out of town” was greeted with secret joy. You really didn’t want anyone to know that you were overjoyed to get the fuck out of the office. Oh, they knew it, ‘cause they were often seething that they weren’t going, too. As soon as I was assigned to cover the Chicago Auto Show, I started making calls with area contacts to line up shenanigans.
Just in case there was time for something other than meetings, buffets, drinks, buffets, drinks and buffets. And then there was the show itself, which would be a grand display of four-wheeled wonder.
As news editor, I met a lot of people - some in person, some on the phone. Some seeking information, some donating it. There was one particularly friendly and funny young woman from Chicago who I spoke with once in a while. We shared an interest in punk rock music. I told her I was coming to Chicago for the auto show and she suggested that we get together. She was going to take me out to rock in one of their popular punk palaces. Sounded good to me! Cool cars and rock ’n’ roll — what’s not to like?
The trip started off just like a zillion others. Race to the airport from the office, meet a group of journalists waiting for the same plane, jump into a cab upon arrival, get to the hotel and get ready for a meeting and an accompanying buffet.
American Motors hosted the biug diunner. A PR guy picked up three of us at the hotel in a Jeep Cherokee. One of the reporters took the wheel, while the PR guy bantered and entertained -- generally pretending that he really enjoyed our company. And he did a really good job.
The plan was to attend a swanky dinner atop the Standard Oil Building and then jump in a fleet of press cars to visit the hallowed press night at the auto show. Press night? That means even more free food and booze along with a bunch of flashy models — both the automotive and female type.
Yikes! A Cop
OK, so we’re back in the Cherokee with the two other journalists and the PR guy from AMC. A Jeep is a good vehicle to be riding in during a Chicago winter storm.
As we approached McCormick Center, there was a bumper-to-bumper traffic jam of vehicles all headed to the same place. Our bellies are full of food and alcohol and there’s a lot of joking and guffawing. As the driver rounded a corner in front of the Center, he turned to say something to us in the back seat. Then came various sounds you really don’t want to hear:
Bam, clank, "Son of a bitch!" We had just hit a person. OK, not just a person, a Chicago cop. That BAM, CLANK was the walkie-talkie thing that was hanging on the chest of his leather jacket.
Now, his face is pressed up against the driver’s side window and he’s squawking and screaming at us like a big blue parrot. The driver lets the Jeep creep up a few inches. We feel a slight bump and now he’s jumping around like he’s got a bee in his pants.
Mike Nickele
“You mother-fucking son of a bitch. You hit me, asshole. Get out of that car!” The PR guy ducks his head down below the dash to cover his laughter. Now the back seat has also erupted in laughter. The driver, very much like a ventriloquist, mumbled without moving his lips, “Shut up guys. I’m going to jail.”
He carefully followed the officer’s direction on where to pull the vehicle over. After a short conversation on the walkie-talkie a fleet of police cars with red and blue party lights spinning surrounded the Jeep. The driver and PR guy spoke with a group of officers for a minute or two and returned to the idling Jeep. They told us that we were all going to the hospital along with the cop we hit. While we should be strolling the auto show, we’re rolling in a slow procession of squad cars, lights still spinning, heading towards a hospital.
Hospital Drama
In the hospital, we were accompanied by two officers and the flatfoot whose foot we flattened. The injured officer was admitted to the ER, while his two buddies took an extensive report from we three journalists.
After the interview, we sat in the waiting room, trying to suss out just what the hell was going to happen to us — more specifically to our pal the driver. He was so damned nervous, just shaking his head and staring at the carpet. Sitting next to him was an inebriated, filthy dirty homeless guy who was dressed in layers and layers of stinky clothing to help him fend off the harsh Chitown winter.
Then it happened. The homeless stinker lets out a loud moan, like a donkey getting his tail pulled. “Whoah-oa-oa-oa-oa!” He falls sideways, on top of, and hugging our frightened, bewildered cop-smacking driver.
Once again, we burst into laughter. He wiggled out of the guy’s arms and long-jumped across the room like an Olympian, joining us with another round of whispers, “Why me? Why me? Why me?”
After about a half hour, the cop we tagged came walking into the waiting room with a big smile. “I’m all right, I’m alright,” he said in a welcomed tone of reassurance. “I’ll get a little time off out of this. Beats standing in the cold in front of McCormick Center!,” he confided to us.
Then he lets out an unexpected chuckle and recalls another traffic mishap. “One night, the street is ice-coated like glass. I turn around and this lady in a big Olds 88 hits me head on. I’m bent over the hood of the car and my feet are sliding backwards on the ice. She drove another half a block with me on the front of that damned car. All kind of crazy shit happens out there.” He waves goodbye to us and advises us to be more careful and have a nice evening. Now tell me that doesn’t deserve a gigantic, collective “WHEW”!
And now, off to the Chicago Auto Show. By now we’re all pretty much in need of a drink or three. Everyone’s making plans on which displays they will visit first, how to navigate the show and what press conferences were scheduled for the rest of the evening. As the others were making plans, I remembered that I was supposed to meet the girls and catch some Chicago-style punk music. They were supposed to pick me up in front of McCormick Center in about 15 minutes. Shit, now the decision had to be made. Chicago Auto Show, or strange, fun-loving girls and punk bars.
An older model Volvo sedan rolled up to the curb. A window descended and sweet-looking girls with pink hair and enough piercings to drive a TSA officer out of his mind stuck her head out the window and asked, “Are you Nick Pivot?” I looked at her, looked back at my journalist friends and blurted, “Sorry guys, I’m ditching. I gotta go with these girls.” I jumped in the back seat of the Volvo and one of the three girls handed me a tiny bottle of Jack Daniels. I slammed it down like medicine. I told them what I’d been through and they gave me another. Then it was off to punkville. And I had a ball, hitting a number of bars and saw a bunch of bands. Oh, what a night it was!
Sorry, No Story
Back in Detroit, I had to inform my editor that I had skipped the Chicago Auto Show because we hit a cop and ran over his foot, and then I chose to ditch the show all together in favor of carousing with some punk princesses.
Now, this editor had a reputation for a steaming temper and a smart and sarcastic sense of humor. He paused, tugged on his graying beard a few times and mumbled, “You fucked up real good. I have a hole in the magazine now where your auto show report is slated”. I figured I was done. Time to clean out the desk and start perusing the help wanted ads. He got a familiarly devilish smile on his face, accompanied by a satanic chuckle. He looked up at me and said, “Do what you do best, asshole: Do a story about not getting the story.”
I did, and it carried the contributing byline, Nick Pivot. Readers were used to Nick’s idiocy. Because Mike Nickele -- the news and industry editor -- never would behave like that. Ha!
First installment:
Mike Nickele: How I Became the World’s Greatest Phony Automotive Expert
