Background: This piece was written for a class at the Columbia Journalism School that focused on writing columns — or, as I was taught, telling big stories in small spaces. Vito Perillo was a bit of a viral sensation when he was elected, and I always thought there was a fun story there. He was persnickety, to say the least, and didn’t really want to talk much. But I realized quickly that was only because he’d been asked the same questions over and over again. And when you’re lived on this planet for nearly a century, you’re a lot more complex than just the date on your birth certificate.
TINTON FALLS, N.J. – Vito Perillo just wanted the World Series to last a little bit longer. Then, he could worry about all that other stuff.
He settled into his living room for Game 6 without any rooting interest for either the Atlanta Braves or Houston Astros, just a desire for the series to head to a seventh game – to squeeze nine final innings out of the baseball season before real life came back into focus. That’s how it worked when he was 10 years old, listening on the radio when Dizzy Dean’s “Gashouse Gang” St. Louis Cardinals beat Hank Greenberg and the Detroit Tigers in seven games to win the 1934 World Series.
That was the first World Series Perillo remembers, during a time in his life when his father’s ear-piercing whistle — “Dinner’s ready!” — was the only thing that could interrupt the doubleheaders or tripleheaders of stickball in his Bronx neighborhood.
Linus Berens, Perillo’s son-in-law, does not have such a whistle. So as the Braves piled on run after run, Perillo largely ignored Berens’ frantic interjections from a few feet away about just how ahead or behind things were. But around 11:30 p.m., it became official:
The Braves had won their fourth World Series title and Perillo, the 97-year-old mayor of Tinton Falls, had been re-elected to a second term.
And with that, Perillo tried to get some sleep.
“But I couldn’t,” he said later. “The phone was ringing off the hook.”
The unofficial rule of talking to the 97-year-old mayor of Tinton Falls is to avoid the obvious: Don’t ask about his age.
Don’t ask who was president when he was born (Warren G. Harding) or the cost of a gallon of milk at the time (54 cents) or how it feels being quite possibly the oldest elected official in America (“I think I’ve said everything I have to say on that”).
His first days in the mayor’s office were a balancing act, fielding such questions from national news networks while trying to learn the do’s and don’ts of elected office.
(Do: Learn everyone’s name, from the secretaries to the cops to the John Q. Citizens who call to complain.
Don’t: Ask the bureaucrats in charge of redeveloping Fort Monmouth for a mayoral discount at the golf course — though they did remind him that he’s eligible for a senior discount.)
Instead, Perillo insists you ask about his record.
The property tax rate dropped almost 6 cents under his watch. The police department underwent what he calls a “complete culture shift” and he claims the public works department hasn’t missed a single trash, leaf or brush pickup in four years.
And even if he doesn’t know anything about pickleball, the court that residents clamored for has become so popular that neighbors are now complaining about the noise.
“You can’t win sometimes,” Perillo said, laughing and gingerly stirring the milk in his coffee.
When the 97-year-old mayor of Tinton Falls announced his re-election bid, people broke his unofficial rule yet again: They asked about his age – about how old he’ll be when his second term is up (101), about the effects of the campaign trail (he wore out two pairs of shoes the first time around).
And the questions were always posed in a tone of voice usually reserved for first graders on career day — not for a Navy veteran-turned-engineer-turned-CPA with both a bachelor’s degree and an MBA.
Perillo grew so weary of the condescending questions that he virtually swore off interviews for good.
So, the unofficial rule: Don’t ask the 97-year-old mayor of Tinton Falls, now heading into his second term, about his age.
Instead, ask the man about what he hopes to accomplish. Or better yet, listen to what he has to say.
Listen to his story about being ordered home from his Department of Defense job at Fort Monmouth due to excessive heat, only to receive a scolding after he instead organized a pickup softball game on the fields nearby.
Enjoy his quip about why he joined the Navy instead of the Marines when his draft number was called in World War II (“at least I’d be able to take a shower”).
Pay attention to his smile when he recalls visiting the borough’s summer sports camp. The children signed a baseball for him — now proudly displayed on his L-shaped desk, next to a birthday card signed by municipal employees.
“The kids in this town,” he said, “they love to play.”
Avoid asking about his age and maybe, just maybe, Perillo will shed a little bit of the wisdom that comes with 10 decades on the planet (“If you want to do something, just go for it.”)
You can ask about why, at 93 years old, he decided to spend four years sifting through the muck of New Jersey municipal government. And you can ask why, at 97 years old, he decided to do it again.
But the truth of the matter is that Perillo’s entire life, from playing stickball in the Bronx to running for mayor, is a history of swinging for the fences.
Or, at the very least, swinging for a bloop hit over the second baseman’s head — whatever will keep the game going just a little bit longer.