One subtle nudge from an immortal Irishman

It was 1980, and I was a high school dropout.

My mother had recently landed a job in the Byrne administration. She thought it best that instead of me working at the gas station at the corner of Montrose and Kedzie, I should at least make better money and learn something.

I got a job at O'Hare working for airport operations. Since the city of Chicago owns the airport, it is their duty to operate and maintain it. I was on the field side of the airport, which maintained the runways and taxiways. This meant snow removal in winter and repairs in the summer. You worked directly with the FAA tower to coordinate all non-aviation traffic in and around the taxiways and runways. 

I would start on the 4 to 12 shift. We worked out of the original FAA tower built at O'Hare, and that’s how I first met Mike Murphy. A stately man with a tight low-cropped haircut, button-down shirt and tie, and a V-neck button-down sweater. I was introduced, and Mike gave me the once-over. Not sure what he thought at first, but he could see this might be trouble.

He said, "Nice to meet you, Mike. If you have any questions, just ask."

There was no question where Mike was born. He sat at console one where the logbook was because he never failed to answer a call on the first ring, and his handwriting was impeccable. How many times did I hear, "Operations, Mike Murphy"?

It did not take me long to figure out that everyone in the airport knew Mike and liked him. As a retired policeman, everyone at the O'Hare precinct knew him. They knew his voice from the radio calls that he would make from the desk. It was hard to mistake him for anyone else. Highly professional and an accent that would make any request he made met with a "Sure, Mike, no problem.”

We worked together on and off for four years. He worked hard at keeping me out of trouble, which was not easy. He saved me from being fired more than a few times.

One night, I was out in the field in a place I should not have been and managed to bury a full-size Dodge Ramcharger up to the doors in mud. I had to crawl out of the window to get out of the truck.

I called Mike on the radio on our private line. He sent out a tow truck that found me. I hopped in the tow truck, and the driver did not even get out. He called Mike on our channel and said, "Mike, this kid buried the truck up to the doors." Long pause... "Ok, stay there."

30 minutes later, an end loader showed up, only to shake his head because he would need to shovel down to find an axle to pull the truck out. Not sure how Mike managed this, but never a word was spoken of it.

By far my fondest memories of Mike were at 10:30 at night when he would shut off the radar screen on one TV and put "The Honeymooners" on. He would laugh so hard at Jackie Gleason, he would pull out his handkerchief and dry his eyes. For this reason, I still watch "The Honeymooners," which I also find very funny, but I see Mike laughing, and this makes me smile as I watch.

He brought his dinner every day, usually a sandwich and a piece of fruit. Like clockwork, after dinner, he reached into his lunch sack and pulled out a tea bag. He would fill his mug at the cooler with hot water, letting the tea steep. He would wrap the tea bag and string around the spoon and squeeze the water out of it before tossing it. No sugar, no milk, just a cup of black tea. I had only had one cup of coffee in my life and hated it.

One night at a dinner out, I ordered tea after dinner. I did what I saw Mike do, but the tea was too bitter for me. I added a little sugar, and that was it... I got it now. Ever since then, it has been one or two cups of tea every day. I don’t understand coffee, nor do I care to. I started all of my children on tea, and four gravitated to coffee, but one drinks more tea than I do.

Mike had far more influence on me than just converting me into a tea drinker. He was soft-spoken, always professional, and would never really show you who he was until he was very comfortable with you. I knew he had accepted me based on a few occasions where he was only speaking to me.

One day, a new employee was telling us the story of how he lost his leg in a car accident. In the hours before he would be extracted from the truck, he swore to God that if he lived, he would dedicate his life to the service of God. He went on to say that he had been awarded $3 million in a settlement, and he gave it all to the church.

After hearing this, Mike turned around to walk back to his station and quietly said to me, "Mike, where I am from, charity begins at home." It took a lot of restraint not to laugh.

On another occasion, we were watching the news, and there was an attorney being interviewed about a big case that he won. The attorney had an Irish name, and Mike turned to me as he went to turn off the TV and said this as he returned to his chair so that only I could hear: "I really like to see our people do well."

Mike had included me in the Irish brand, if you will, because of my surname. It turns out we were more connected than either one of us knew.

After nearly a four-year relationship with a great girl, she broke up with me and had every right to. She from the right side of the tracks, namely Sauganash, and me, a guy who had finally achieved getting a GED, living in a shitty apartment in East Rogers Park, and whose beverage of choice every day was Old Style.

I became more disillusioned with the job, and Mike, like Obi-Wan Kenobi, detected something was wrong. He was not long on advice or being a mentor, but this subtle nudge was all it took. He said to me one night, "Mike, you are a smart kid.

"When I came to this country, there were not a lot of opportunities for me. If you were lucky, you got a job as a laborer, and then if you were really lucky, you got on as a fireman or policeman."

I always got the sense from Mike that he was destined for something better given his talents and intelligence, but there were some constraints for an Irish immigrant in 1920s Chicago.

I took the subtle hint from Mike and quit. I would eventually get to college (whole other story) and, after college, would never be on anyone's payroll again. I would make my own way in the world of performance-based pay or 100% commission income.

I received a letter from Mike in college and would give a tidy sum to have. I only remember one line from that letter that I can give to you word for word...

“Mike, when an Irishman begins to indulge in self-pity, he's a goner…”

I have pondered this for years and think it can only be fully understood based on his origins. The lack of opportunity where he lived, suffering some indignities from the English, and the heavy hand of the Catholic Church would drive many of the best to pubs to sing and drink their sorrows away until the next day.

I called Mike after I got the letter and said it would be nice to see him. It wouldn't be long before I had to go to the airport one day to pick up a girlfriend at O'Hare.

He said to meet at a steakhouse near his house. It's close to the airport. I was running late, and it was great to see Mike. I rushed dinner to meet the girlfriend at the airport. That girlfriend came and went, but my biggest regret was not having her wait while I told Mike how much he meant to me and how much I missed him. It would be the last time I would see Mike, and what I would not give to have those 30 minutes to tell him these things and ask him a few more questions.

That nudge out the door of being someone on the City payroll for life was part of the reason for the success I have had. I take comfort in knowing that he would be proud of me and what a blessing it was to know him.

It turns out that Mike joined the police department in 1927. My great-grandfather was killed in the line of duty in 1928. Mike served on the South Side at the same time as my great-grandfather, Edward Murphy. Mike would have likely attended the funeral service of the policeman killed on that day in February of 1928. The thought that he would have attended the services and then worked with his great-grandson some 62 years later is strange, to be sure. 

His obituary in the Chicago Tribune stated “Michael G. Murphy, 92, A retired Chicago patrolman, died Sunday, February 28th 1993, in Northwestern Memorial Hospital.

"Mr. Murphy joined the force in 1927, working out of accident patrol. He spent the last 10 years of his career at police headquarters at 11th and State Streets. He retired in 1965.

"Mr. Murphy worked for O'Hare International Airport security from 1969 to 1989. After spending the first 89 years of his life in Chicago, he moved to Elmwood Park in 1989.

"He is survived by two daughters, Mary O'Malley and Margaret; two sons, Thomas and John; two sisters; two brothers; and seven grandchildren.”

It gets a bit stranger yet. About 15 years ago, I was at the opening of a restaurant. My friend Rich attended and ended up sitting at my table. My mother was there, and I was recounting stories of Mike Murphy at O'Hare.

Rich said a few minutes into the story, "Are you talking about Mike Murphy, the retired policeman who worked for the aviation department?"

I said, "Yes."

He said, "That's my grandfather you are talking about."

Rich’s last name is Murphy, but it's hard to throw a rock and not hit a Murphy in New York, Boston, or Chicago.

It was true; Mike was his grandfather. We were friends already, but this was something few people could have in common. I would venture to guess that I have spent more hours with him than Rich did.

On occasion, Rich would need a favor from me, and I never said no. I always felt that this was just a way to pay Mike back for watching out for a very unruly kid who landed on his watch all the time.

Just like the Jewish people, the Irish play Irish geography: North Side, South Side, Ward, Parish, Union, corner tavern. Many are just a few degrees of separation from one another.

As I sit here, I wonder how far back we would have to go to find a common Murphy in Ireland. If I had to be completely honest, I don’t think I would have received the goodwill from Mike if my last name was Rizzo. He had nothing against other nationalities, he just came from an era of "Irish people first." This was born out of survival as an immigrant competing against other immigrants, and a unified Irish people was best for the group. The Irish are not unique in this.

To be sure, it is strange to have been the benefactor of this old-school immigrant culture. This many years later, I am grateful to him and the subtle nudge he gave me to reach higher, as he would have wanted to do. I can think of no way better to honor the man than to be like this Mike.

*This article was submitted to IrishCentral by Michael Conner, who regularly blogs on RealLifeAndRealEstate.beehiiv.com. You can email him at Mike [at] theconnergrp.com.