(See Cover)
A black Cadillac picked a path out of the traffic along Manhattan's Central Park South one afternoon last week and glided to the curb before the plush and towering Hampshire House overlooking the grass, trees and lake in lower Central Park. From the back seat edged the car's solitary passenger, a handsome, meaty man with wavy silver hair. He was dressed in a businesslike grey summer suit, red and white striped bowtie and soft black loafers. Stepping to the pavement, he turned slightly, tossed the driver of the rented limousine a "Thank you, James." Then David John McDonald, 53, president of the United Steelworkers of America, strode confidently past the smiling doorman, through the revolving door of the elegant apartment hotel.
Puffing a cigar instead of his customary burnished brown pipe, Dave McDonald marched into the elevator, rode 20 floors to his three-room, $65-a-day suite. He changed into tailored lounging clothes, considered which of two books−Auntie Mame or a condensed edition of Toynbee−to pick up for relaxation. Another bargaining session between the steelworkers' union and the country's three largest steel companies had ended a few minutes before. McDonald, who had been leading the union delegates at the sessions in the Hotel Roosevelt, was anxious to be away from the stress and the press to sit back and relax.
Access to Ike. The cost of a rented Cadillac in New York City or the daily bill for the apartment suite overlooking Central Park was of no more concern to McDonald than it would be to the steel executives he had recently left. The steelworkers' union, with 1,200,000 members spread across the U.S., each paying $3 in monthly dues, has like other unions moved into the realm of big business itself. Since the U.S.W. is one of the most highly centralized major labor organizations in the U.S., its $40,000-a-year president wields more authority than, for example, the $242,367-a-year president of mighty United States Steel Corp. Far more readily than most businessmen, he has access to the White House; once, during the shortlived "recession" of 1954, almost persuaded President Eisenhower to take off on a major Government spending program.
Dave McDonald lives his businessman's role right to the tips of his grimeless fingers. He surrounds himself with a hardworking staff of economists, statisticians, and public-relations men. He has been glamorized in an inspired and gushing biography. A onetime amateur actor, he sometimes rolls off pronouncements with more than a touch of ham. He regularly buys part of his vast wardrobe from Manhattan's Ivy-Leaguish Brooks Brothers
("Why not? They're union made."). He likes classical music the hi-fi way, seeks out exotic jazz dives when he gets a chance, lunches periodically at Pittsburgh's tony Duquesne Club. Three years ago he was honored by the biggest names of Pittsburgh on Dave McDonald Day. At home he works for the local Community Chest, the Rosalia Foundling & Maternity Hospital, Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra and the Parents' Athletic Council of Mount Lebanon. He is a member of the Government's Export-Import Bank advisory committee, and was a member of the Randall Commission, which surveyed foreign economic policy.