"Best effort"

I've read about 20 of John McPhee's 30 books.

He's one of a kind.

Responsible for endless star turns as a New Yorker staff writer.

"His beard was darker than a diplomat's shoe," a line in his current batch of memories, has floated in my head for days.

But I'm gob-smacked by a single paragraph on how McPhee got his job at the magazine, the climax of years of failed attempts. It's in the April 19 issue.

                          *   *   *

"He walked me to the office of (legendary New Yorker boss) William Shawn. 

Some weeks later, around my 34th birthday,  I was added to the list of New Yorker staff writers, actually a freelance arrangement with a 'best efforts' contract, spectacularly brief.

In those days, you just agreed to give your best efforts to the New Yorker."

                      *   *   *

Somewhere downstairs, is a cream-colored memo slip From the Desk of Douglas Creighton, the best and first of many.

"You serve at the pleasure of the publisher," it says. That's it.

It is the only "contract" I had at the Sun for my first decade.

What can any of us promise or extract beyond a best effort? 

It inspires imagination, not fear.

It's not even a handshake.

McPhee finds it memorable. 

Me too.