To Be in the Presence of the Big Man

By Gus Saltonstall

I first met Robert Tannenhauser in 2023, when I began working for West Side Rag.

As many of us do, I quickly began sharing with friends and family about the people I was meeting within my new workplace.

The Rag world is relatively small, and at the center of it was Bobby, along with his wife Carol.

A pattern began to emerge from those conversations.

On repeated occasions, whether it was my partner, my parents, or my friends, they would articulate the same unprovoked sentiment — Bobby must be a physically large man.

I couldn’t figure it out.

I didn’t talk about Bobby’s appearance or size, and while he was not a small person, you also wouldn’t describe him as large.

But, as the days pass since his death, I realize it of course had nothing to do with that.

It was about the way I spoke about him.

The only way to describe Bobby was to evoke a larger-than-life presence — not one tied to any sort of flashiness — but one deeply grounded in an air of assuredness.

He emitted this level of conviction that gave a sense of confidence to all those around him.

Leadership in its truest form.

His presence was one that could only be molded through decades and decades of serving as the person people looked to for what to do, of being the boss, which Bobby did with a steadfastness and kindness for his family, his many business ventures, and West Side Rag.

It was a level of assurance that brought this sense of calm for all those within the umbrella of his care.

I know it did for me.

For much of the time over the past two years, it was just Bobby and me in the West Side Rag office. I knew that every time I opened that door, no matter what topic or issue came up on a certain day, he would be in his office, and he would know what to do.

It centered my days. It allowed me to do my best work.

He almost always beat me into the office in the morning. The door to the space opens directly into an eye-line of his desk, but his focus on most days for whatever he was looking into would be so absolute that his eyes would not rise initially.

I’d make my way to his almost always open door and offer some version of good morning. His head would rise, his face would warm, and after some greeting back — the words — “so what do we have cooking today?”

I never wanted to not have something to tell him.

And he was always excited to share some particularly amusing comment left on a story about bike lanes or empty storefronts.

The idea that I will never again open those office doors to see him sitting at his desk is a painful one. To never be able to talk through another story, or advertisement idea, or whatever the conversation of the day might be.

But, I am comforted by an understanding this his legacy is all around me at West Side Rag.

That the lessons learned from him will always be there.

And, more than anything, I am incredibly grateful for all those days that I had with him.

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