I had graduated from high school and was still living with Dad, in a third floor, share-the bath walk-up, on Grove off Divisadero. I not only wanted something better, I wanted to have my own place where Harry, my boyfriend, and I could be alone. I wanted independence. Work was the only means. Though I had majored in college prep, I hadn’t made up my mind about going. College meant I’d still have to live with Dad, or work part time and share an apartment; I never liked the idea of living with people not related to me. I didn’t want to rush or even join a sorority because of the practice of initiations, discrimination, and black-balling, nor did I want to live in a dorm.
When I was in school, Dad kept badgering me to take secretarial courses: shorthand, typing, dictaphone operation. “I flunked typing, Dad,” I whined, “I’m an artist, a creative person, I don’t want to be a secretary, beholden to a boss.”
“In other words,” he said, “a snob.”
“Do you want me to put up with bosses’ tantrums,” I countered, “shop for their wives or girlfriends, or both, on my lunch breaks; stay after work typing letters or forms, and tolerate my boss’s sexual come-ons, laughing them off, just to keep my damn job?”
Once out of school, I scanned the Help Wanted section of the Classifieds. I spotted an ad for a salesgirl in a toy store. What could be more fun! The next morning, in my hat and high-heels, I took a streetcar down Market to California Notion and Toy, a wholesale-retail outlet on Market between New Montgomery and Second Street. From Third Street east, which included Second and New Montgomery, Market Street was lined with one or two storey buildings catering mostly to soldiers and sailors on leave, or discharged now that the Korean war had allegedly ended (The Armistice lasted until November 1954). There were pawn shops, luggage outlets advertising cheap locker storage fees, hole-in-the wall stores selling cut-rate clothing, cigars and newspapers; dark, smelly bars from which bump-and-grind music pumped loudly from open doors, and greasy spoon restaurants stinking of overcooked hamburger and burned onions, upstairs were cheap hotels, and rooms, and pool halls (a description that fits Market Street west from 5th, today). Winos from the waterfront dives and other down-and-outers traipsed this area. Back then, few ventured below Third, unless you worked in the financial district, which was a couple blocks north of Market, bordered by Bush and California, Montgomery and Sansome. The toy store was tucked in the middle of the block on Market.
When I was in school, Dad kept badgering me to take secretarial courses: shorthand, typing, dictaphone operation. “I flunked typing, Dad,” I whined, “I’m an artist, a creative person, I don’t want to be a secretary, beholden to a boss.”
“In other words,” he said, “a snob.”
“Do you want me to put up with bosses’ tantrums,” I countered, “shop for their wives or girlfriends, or both, on my lunch breaks; stay after work typing letters or forms, and tolerate my boss’s sexual come-ons, laughing them off, just to keep my damn job?”
Once out of school, I scanned the Help Wanted section of the Classifieds. I spotted an ad for a salesgirl in a toy store. What could be more fun! The next morning, in my hat and high-heels, I took a streetcar down Market to California Notion and Toy, a wholesale-retail outlet on Market between New Montgomery and Second Street. From Third Street east, which included Second and New Montgomery, Market Street was lined with one or two storey buildings catering mostly to soldiers and sailors on leave, or discharged now that the Korean war had allegedly ended (The Armistice lasted until November 1954). There were pawn shops, luggage outlets advertising cheap locker storage fees, hole-in-the wall stores selling cut-rate clothing, cigars and newspapers; dark, smelly bars from which bump-and-grind music pumped loudly from open doors, and greasy spoon restaurants stinking of overcooked hamburger and burned onions, upstairs were cheap hotels, and rooms, and pool halls (a description that fits Market Street west from 5th, today). Winos from the waterfront dives and other down-and-outers traipsed this area. Back then, few ventured below Third, unless you worked in the financial district, which was a couple blocks north of Market, bordered by Bush and California, Montgomery and Sansome. The toy store was tucked in the middle of the block on Market.
Norman S--, who co-owned the business with his brother, Robert, interviewed me. He was short, wiry, and as cool as a snake in hibernation. He wore expensive grey sharkskin or Italian silk suits, with ties of a modest pattern, white shirts. His hair was silver gray, receding, patterned like Ezio Pinza’s. I told Norman that I knew how to punch a cash register and that I’d worked at the Emporium part-time in high-school, so I had some sales experience. He asked me why I didn’t work full-time there. The Emporium wasn’t hiring, I explained, which was true. (I didn’t tell him about Ronson. If he called to check, I would feel bad if Ken Tilles found out I’d lied and wasn’t in college.) Norman said he would call me during the week. He called the next day and told me to start on Wednesday. Now, I could figure out what to do with my life while saving money. So, in a year’s time, I went from posh Stockton and Post, and modeling at the Emporium, to the sleaziest part of Market Street. But I wanted a job. I liked working in sales at the Emporium; engaging with customers except in the women’s half-size clothing department. I felt I'd enjoy this job.
My first day, Norman introduced me to Robert, who was boss when Norman was out of town getting new accounts - - two unlikely guys you would never think of as brothers. Robert reminded me of a Broderick Crawford character. He was big, bald with a bulbous nose; he wore owlish glasses with thick, black rims, and cheap, Robert Hall suits, or loud sports coats and slacks, and ties that made you want to scream. And his clothes were always wrinkled. He blustered around, shouting and complaining, thick lips twisting around words, saliva spraying from his mouth. You didn’t want to be near him when he was angry, which was most of the time. Norman spoke softly, never shouted, never got angry. He was kind. Smiled in a Cheshire Cat manner, like he knew his brother was a jerk. He encouraged me to learn the stock--both toys and notions. (I found out about notions at the Emporium. See previous chapter.) “During slow hours,” Norman said, “go up and down the aisles memorizing prices and where every item is shelved, so when a customer comes in, you can help him [sic: BPC era] efficiently and show him you know what you’re doing.”
As a salesgirl at a toy store, I didn’t have to lie to customers anymore; you helped people pick out items based on whom they were buying for. The place was filled with happy things: dolls, games, models, stuffed animals, baby rattles and toys for infants and toddlers, real sports equipment for kids, and toy musical instruments. The store was narrow and long. A back door opened on to an alley and parking lot, the First Street Transbay Terminal was a half-block away. Robert opened the doors at seven-thirty - - an odd time - - earlier than other stores. He wanted to take advantage of stockbrokers and insurance people who he felt would want to buy something on their way to work rather than when rushing to get home, unless they had secretaries who’d shop for them on their lunch hour. Robert was delusional. Neither Norman nor the others clued me in. These financial district folks used the store as a short cut from the Terminal and the parking lot, to the financial district. Ninety-nine percent. were men - - tall grim-faced men, wearing shiny, black shoes, white, button down shirts, dark three-piece suits, and Fedoras. They’d hustle in through the back door, push their way down the aisle - - padded shoulders and briefcases bashing against the stock, knocking things from shelves - - and fly out the front door. My first week, I would stop each one, smile and say, “May I help you?” They looked down their long noses and all but elbowed me aside. Yet, I had this dream: a rich CEO would see me on his way through the store and fall in love with me. We’d marry and live in a mansion in Sea Cliff or Saint Francis Woods. (Decades later, I learned that the feet of rich corporate heads never touch the street; to them, the idea of using a store as a short cut to get to work is beyond their imagination.) The other salesgirls called them “Back Door Men,” laughing as they clued me in on that term’s other meaning. After a while, I ignored these blustering, short-sighted drones, shuddering at the thought of what my life would really be like if I were to marry one. For the hour or so that the BDM blasted through the back door and rushed down the aisle like the bulls in Pamplona, I busied myself in another aisle.
One morning, I felt a hand grip my shoulder as I was rearranging some Effenbee dolls one aisle away from the bull-run corridor. I turned. It was Robert. “Please, help this gentleman!” he spat through clenched teeth. He apologized to the man, explaining that I was “still wet behind the ears.” This Back Door Man was in a hurry to buy something for his eight-year old daughter. Anxious to get out of there, he bought the first thing I showed him: a baby doll, a new-born, complete with bottle and layette. He grabbed it off the counter as soon as it was wrapped, and barged out the door. One afternoon, a tall, distinguished looking dark haired man, in a charcoal gray suit, asked my help in buying something for his son, a boy of twelve. He picked out a model tank. I pulled it off the shelf for him to look at. He took it in one hand and only then did I notice his other hand, hanging limply by his side. It was smooth and shiny, a sickly pale grayish-yellow; a prosthetic, made - - but failing - - to resemble, a normal hand. It was the first time I’d ever seen one. I tried not to betray my shock, yet I couldn't help stepping back and drawing in my breath.
Again, I lucked out with not having to deal with a cash register. We had a cashier, Patty, a hugely obese woman who sat at the register, behind the front counter all day, like the caterpillar sitting on a leaf, puffing a hookah, in Alice in Wonderland, or Jabba the Hutt, in Star Wars. There were three of us besides Patty: Jody, a petite short-haired, hard-nosed blonde, who, several weeks after I had quit, was arrested for check fraud (she once met me for lunch, out on bail, and wanted to borrow money. I had none. Dad had moved out, so I was living on peanut butter and crackers and walking home from work. Still, I wouldn't have given her any). Josephine was an older Italian woman, heavily made up with hair dyed coal black. She was married to a man she whined constantly about, complaining that he listened to opera on headphones all the time, ignoring her. She bought Chanel No. 5 at lunchtime one day, and later, in the break room, she whispered to me that she wanted to show me a secret. She stood up, hiked her skirt above the tops of her stockings, fastened with garters, revealing fat, milk-white thighs. I muttered something, then blurted that I had to be back on the floor before Robert started yelling.
“Oh, honey, I just wanted to demonstrate where is the best place to wear perfume,” she dabbed some on her inner thighs with fingers tipped with red-lacquered nails, “It’s here, darling,” she said, dropping her skirt and flouncing off. The next day, she was in a better mood. There was Barbara, a blowzy bleached blonde, who wore purple and red low-cut cocktail dresses to work, like she had come in from nights out, without bothering to go home first, lots of perfume, cheap jewelry, and heavy makeup. She, too, was married. She sneered sarcastically about sex, how boring it was, doing it with the same guy all the time. I wondered if when Harry and I got married, would I come to feel the same.
Toy Story: Part 2 (Continued.) Gossip - - who’s cheating on whom? Our rank workplace environment. The break room. I'm the victim of Robert's wrath trying to crack the wholesale code and almost get the ax.
My first day, Norman introduced me to Robert, who was boss when Norman was out of town getting new accounts - - two unlikely guys you would never think of as brothers. Robert reminded me of a Broderick Crawford character. He was big, bald with a bulbous nose; he wore owlish glasses with thick, black rims, and cheap, Robert Hall suits, or loud sports coats and slacks, and ties that made you want to scream. And his clothes were always wrinkled. He blustered around, shouting and complaining, thick lips twisting around words, saliva spraying from his mouth. You didn’t want to be near him when he was angry, which was most of the time. Norman spoke softly, never shouted, never got angry. He was kind. Smiled in a Cheshire Cat manner, like he knew his brother was a jerk. He encouraged me to learn the stock--both toys and notions. (I found out about notions at the Emporium. See previous chapter.) “During slow hours,” Norman said, “go up and down the aisles memorizing prices and where every item is shelved, so when a customer comes in, you can help him [sic: BPC era] efficiently and show him you know what you’re doing.”
As a salesgirl at a toy store, I didn’t have to lie to customers anymore; you helped people pick out items based on whom they were buying for. The place was filled with happy things: dolls, games, models, stuffed animals, baby rattles and toys for infants and toddlers, real sports equipment for kids, and toy musical instruments. The store was narrow and long. A back door opened on to an alley and parking lot, the First Street Transbay Terminal was a half-block away. Robert opened the doors at seven-thirty - - an odd time - - earlier than other stores. He wanted to take advantage of stockbrokers and insurance people who he felt would want to buy something on their way to work rather than when rushing to get home, unless they had secretaries who’d shop for them on their lunch hour. Robert was delusional. Neither Norman nor the others clued me in. These financial district folks used the store as a short cut from the Terminal and the parking lot, to the financial district. Ninety-nine percent. were men - - tall grim-faced men, wearing shiny, black shoes, white, button down shirts, dark three-piece suits, and Fedoras. They’d hustle in through the back door, push their way down the aisle - - padded shoulders and briefcases bashing against the stock, knocking things from shelves - - and fly out the front door. My first week, I would stop each one, smile and say, “May I help you?” They looked down their long noses and all but elbowed me aside. Yet, I had this dream: a rich CEO would see me on his way through the store and fall in love with me. We’d marry and live in a mansion in Sea Cliff or Saint Francis Woods. (Decades later, I learned that the feet of rich corporate heads never touch the street; to them, the idea of using a store as a short cut to get to work is beyond their imagination.) The other salesgirls called them “Back Door Men,” laughing as they clued me in on that term’s other meaning. After a while, I ignored these blustering, short-sighted drones, shuddering at the thought of what my life would really be like if I were to marry one. For the hour or so that the BDM blasted through the back door and rushed down the aisle like the bulls in Pamplona, I busied myself in another aisle.
One morning, I felt a hand grip my shoulder as I was rearranging some Effenbee dolls one aisle away from the bull-run corridor. I turned. It was Robert. “Please, help this gentleman!” he spat through clenched teeth. He apologized to the man, explaining that I was “still wet behind the ears.” This Back Door Man was in a hurry to buy something for his eight-year old daughter. Anxious to get out of there, he bought the first thing I showed him: a baby doll, a new-born, complete with bottle and layette. He grabbed it off the counter as soon as it was wrapped, and barged out the door. One afternoon, a tall, distinguished looking dark haired man, in a charcoal gray suit, asked my help in buying something for his son, a boy of twelve. He picked out a model tank. I pulled it off the shelf for him to look at. He took it in one hand and only then did I notice his other hand, hanging limply by his side. It was smooth and shiny, a sickly pale grayish-yellow; a prosthetic, made - - but failing - - to resemble, a normal hand. It was the first time I’d ever seen one. I tried not to betray my shock, yet I couldn't help stepping back and drawing in my breath.
Again, I lucked out with not having to deal with a cash register. We had a cashier, Patty, a hugely obese woman who sat at the register, behind the front counter all day, like the caterpillar sitting on a leaf, puffing a hookah, in Alice in Wonderland, or Jabba the Hutt, in Star Wars. There were three of us besides Patty: Jody, a petite short-haired, hard-nosed blonde, who, several weeks after I had quit, was arrested for check fraud (she once met me for lunch, out on bail, and wanted to borrow money. I had none. Dad had moved out, so I was living on peanut butter and crackers and walking home from work. Still, I wouldn't have given her any). Josephine was an older Italian woman, heavily made up with hair dyed coal black. She was married to a man she whined constantly about, complaining that he listened to opera on headphones all the time, ignoring her. She bought Chanel No. 5 at lunchtime one day, and later, in the break room, she whispered to me that she wanted to show me a secret. She stood up, hiked her skirt above the tops of her stockings, fastened with garters, revealing fat, milk-white thighs. I muttered something, then blurted that I had to be back on the floor before Robert started yelling.
“Oh, honey, I just wanted to demonstrate where is the best place to wear perfume,” she dabbed some on her inner thighs with fingers tipped with red-lacquered nails, “It’s here, darling,” she said, dropping her skirt and flouncing off. The next day, she was in a better mood. There was Barbara, a blowzy bleached blonde, who wore purple and red low-cut cocktail dresses to work, like she had come in from nights out, without bothering to go home first, lots of perfume, cheap jewelry, and heavy makeup. She, too, was married. She sneered sarcastically about sex, how boring it was, doing it with the same guy all the time. I wondered if when Harry and I got married, would I come to feel the same.
Toy Story: Part 2 (Continued.) Gossip - - who’s cheating on whom? Our rank workplace environment. The break room. I'm the victim of Robert's wrath trying to crack the wholesale code and almost get the ax.
