My father, Ennis, and Russ in LA at Griffith Observatory, 1963
I slept on the couch in Russ's Hollywood apartment he shared with his wife, Gayle, and their one-year old daughter, Michelle. The next morning, he drove me to an employment agency. Because I had worked at Met Life Insurance and Springfield Life, I was sent to St. Paul Insurance Company. St. Paul was Property and Casualty, but insurance is insurance in the minds of employment agencies.
The head of Personnel was Mr. Loomis, who looked like Clifton Webb. He had white hair combed straight back, a big pointy nose, steel rimmed round glasses, pinched lips, and wore a double breasted grey suit. In the space on the application where it said “hobbies,” I wrote "touch-football on the beach," because the Kennedys played touch- football on the beach at Kennebunkport. I had a feeling it would get me hired. Laughing, Mr. Loomis read the application, then said, “So, you and the Kennedys, eh?” He called me later that day and told me to come in the following Monday.
I called the kids every evening to tell them I would come for them soon. With my first bi-monthly check, I rented a small cottage on Alvarado St., a couple of blocks from Echo Park, for fifty bucks a month. The first time I walked to work, I approached an overpass; crossing it, I thought the sound coming from beneath it was that of a rushing river. I looked over the parapet and was disappointed to see instead that the sound was caused by all kinds of vehicles roaring along on an eight-lane freeway. My walk led me past a day care and grammar school where I enrolled my boys. Then on a Friday evening, I took Greyhound to San Jose. Carl picked me up the next morning and that night, we took Greyhound back to LA, sleeping all the way. We were overjoyed at being together again, starting over in a new place. On Monday morning, the boys and I walked to their school. I watched them being welcomed by the teacher, ensuring that Roark, my oldest would be escorted to his 2nd grade class, and his brother, Terrence, to Kindergarten, while the youngest, Douglas, would stay in day care till I picked them up. They went off to play with the other kids and I went on to work.
Me, Roark, and Terrence while Douglas naps with his cousin, Michelle.My job description was “Personal Lines Rater.” Ruth Conlon, my boss, a wound-up, wiry ash-blond woman, had shoulders like a half-back; she not only looked like she could chew nails - - with her jaws clenched tight - - she appeared to be doing just that. Because Ruth’s hair was wiry and her face was similar, except her features were spread out, she reminded me of Rhonda at Met Life; and Linda from the shipping department at Ronson thrown in, too, for her mannish swagger and gravelly voice. Ruth wore sleeveless, cotton blouses; straight, gabardine skirts that hit her just below the knee, and dirty white high heels, but no nylons (this was LA) on legs had never seen the sun. She smoked constantly and tromped around the department like a general in her high heels worn down to steel nubs.
I was where I never thought I’d be: at a property and casualty insurance company, not realizing at the time that I would spend the next three-plus decades in this industry. At St. Paul, I “wrote” homeowners’ and fire insurance policies for residences. Anything above a duplex went to the commercial insurance department. Behind me sat Carol, a precursor to the hippie with long blond hair, sandals, and no make up. In front, was Elaine, a sweet, Southern blond who wore pastel cottons. I was nervous, scared. I’d never been away from San Francisco by myself, let alone with three children. My brother was here but he had his own life, a wife and a toddler. I was a single mother with three kids under the age of seven and I was their sole support. I couldn’t afford to screw up on this job. I was finding out that all bosses are not as forgiving and fun as Ken Tilles.
I had mastered a cash register, now I had to master the beast of a calculator. The major part of rating had to do with rating risks. This meant taking the insured value of a house times a rate you looked up in a manual, according to where the house was in an area that included all of LA and San Bernardino Counties - - the beaches, the canyons, the valleys, Beverly Hills, Watts - - what the house was made of, what kind of roof it had, and apply (multiply) the rate times the value which resulted in the premium. Ta da! A calculator back in the day hunched on top of a large part of your desk like an ancient double-sized Royal typewriter on steroids. Once activated, it makes a deafening metallic ca-chunking clatter as its carriage literally jumps across its body, calculating rates that are displayed in little holes across the top. Imagine six or a dozen of these things ca-chunking away all day. You had to scream to be heard. To operate one required you to set the decimal point so that the premium would come out right when you keyed in the rate and the value. This seemed a thousand times worse to me than operating a cash register. e. g. If a premium showed up in the little holes as some outlandish figure for a fifteen-thousand dollar house, like $25,659.26, it had to be wrong. So I’d end up doing it manually, till I caught on.
Ruth sat beside me and walked me through the rating of a couple of new policies. Once you get the rates and the premiums, you write all the information on a form and send it with a blank policy to the typing department which types up the policy, then it comes back to you to check for errors; then you mail it out with an invoice for the premium and you keep a copy of the policy for the files. Accounting was responsible for seeing premiums get paid. The policy copies are called “dailies” “Why?" I asked Ruth. “Because they seldom stay in the files for more than a day.” People were always calling for changes to their coverage requiring endorsements which is too boring to explain.
In writing down some numbers on the blank form off an application, Ruth made a couple of mistakes. She ferociously wrote the correct numbers over them with a ball-point pen, over and over, almost tearing the paper. She made grunting noises and her face was all screwed up in a knot, like she was on the verge of hysteria. It struck me funny. I started laughing. Suddenly she looked up.
“What’re you laughting at?" she shot at me.
“Nervous,” I heard my voice quavering, “I always laugh when I’m nervous.”.
“Well, don’t be.” She grimaced in an attempt to smile, “This stuff’s a piece of cake.”
The créme de la créme homeowners policies were called something fancy like Gold Packages and had all kinds of broad coverages on them and included burglary, robbery, casualty and automobile coverage. Only very wealthy people like those in Beverly Hills could afford them. Underwriters (the ones who analyze the risks) drew the line at entertainers, I found out. I approved a Gold Package for Duane Eddy. Ruth hit the fan. I’d already called the agent and told him I’d accepted Eddy's application. I asked Ruth why Duane Eddy couldn’t insure his home under that type of coverage. He was a millionaire and lived in Topanga Canyon or some such ritzy place.
“Because of their lifestyle, you know, they smoke and drink and throw orgies. Entertainers are too great a risk.” Ruth called the agent, explaining that I was new and was still “wet behind the ears.”
This was my first lesson in the unfair and discriminatory practices of insurance.
Ruth took coffee breaks with an old fop named Bunker Hill, a suave character whose real name she told me was Cornelius. He was about five-five, balding; he had a John Waters mustache and freckles. What little hair he had was slicked back. He wore nave-blue blazers with gold buttons and grey slacks, pink shirts with green and pink ties and a pink and green hanky sticking out of his breast pocket. He talked with a built in sneer and sashayed when he walked. He was St. Paul's special agent who went around to solicitors and brokers at agencies to drum up business for the company. He knew everything about property insurance. Whenever I got stuck, I went to Ruth; whenever she got stuck, she went to Bunker.
Business was picking up and Ruth needed a senior personal-lines underwriter. Elaine, who’d been there at least a year before I was hired, was in line for the promotion. Carol was so flaky, she couldn’t care less, she was happy just to have a job. Ruth passed by my desk and spoke to me out of the corner of her mouth like a character out of a Scorsese film. “Take a walk with me.” (She didn't have an office. This was decades before cubicles. Desks were lined up in rows, like in school. Our department manager didn't have an office, either. He sat alone, in his own huge space, behind us, like a prison guard in a recreation area.) Ruth and I crossed back and forth between personal lines and claims. She folded her arms across her chest and held a burning cigarette between her fingers. The smoke trailed up into her eyes.
“Look, you catch on fast and I got the approval of the manager to promote you to the position of senior underwriter.”
“Elaine’ll hate me- -”
“- - She doesn’t use her head. Underwriting is all common sense. Do you want the job?”
“Well, yes.”
“I’ll talk to Elaine. Nothin’ll change. I mean, you’ll still be sitting in the same desk an’ all, but Elaine, Carol and the others’ll have to go through you to approve new business or significant changes on existing policies. Of course, you’ll get a raise.” She turned to me and blew smoke in my face.
“Thank you!” I said, trying not to cough. I went back to my desk and sat down. Elaine shot me a dirty look. Carol winked.
I was where I never thought I’d be: at a property and casualty insurance company, not realizing at the time that I would spend the next three-plus decades in this industry. At St. Paul, I “wrote” homeowners’ and fire insurance policies for residences. Anything above a duplex went to the commercial insurance department. Behind me sat Carol, a precursor to the hippie with long blond hair, sandals, and no make up. In front, was Elaine, a sweet, Southern blond who wore pastel cottons. I was nervous, scared. I’d never been away from San Francisco by myself, let alone with three children. My brother was here but he had his own life, a wife and a toddler. I was a single mother with three kids under the age of seven and I was their sole support. I couldn’t afford to screw up on this job. I was finding out that all bosses are not as forgiving and fun as Ken Tilles.
I had mastered a cash register, now I had to master the beast of a calculator. The major part of rating had to do with rating risks. This meant taking the insured value of a house times a rate you looked up in a manual, according to where the house was in an area that included all of LA and San Bernardino Counties - - the beaches, the canyons, the valleys, Beverly Hills, Watts - - what the house was made of, what kind of roof it had, and apply (multiply) the rate times the value which resulted in the premium. Ta da! A calculator back in the day hunched on top of a large part of your desk like an ancient double-sized Royal typewriter on steroids. Once activated, it makes a deafening metallic ca-chunking clatter as its carriage literally jumps across its body, calculating rates that are displayed in little holes across the top. Imagine six or a dozen of these things ca-chunking away all day. You had to scream to be heard. To operate one required you to set the decimal point so that the premium would come out right when you keyed in the rate and the value. This seemed a thousand times worse to me than operating a cash register. e. g. If a premium showed up in the little holes as some outlandish figure for a fifteen-thousand dollar house, like $25,659.26, it had to be wrong. So I’d end up doing it manually, till I caught on.
Ruth sat beside me and walked me through the rating of a couple of new policies. Once you get the rates and the premiums, you write all the information on a form and send it with a blank policy to the typing department which types up the policy, then it comes back to you to check for errors; then you mail it out with an invoice for the premium and you keep a copy of the policy for the files. Accounting was responsible for seeing premiums get paid. The policy copies are called “dailies” “Why?" I asked Ruth. “Because they seldom stay in the files for more than a day.” People were always calling for changes to their coverage requiring endorsements which is too boring to explain.
In writing down some numbers on the blank form off an application, Ruth made a couple of mistakes. She ferociously wrote the correct numbers over them with a ball-point pen, over and over, almost tearing the paper. She made grunting noises and her face was all screwed up in a knot, like she was on the verge of hysteria. It struck me funny. I started laughing. Suddenly she looked up.
“What’re you laughting at?" she shot at me.
“Nervous,” I heard my voice quavering, “I always laugh when I’m nervous.”.
“Well, don’t be.” She grimaced in an attempt to smile, “This stuff’s a piece of cake.”
The créme de la créme homeowners policies were called something fancy like Gold Packages and had all kinds of broad coverages on them and included burglary, robbery, casualty and automobile coverage. Only very wealthy people like those in Beverly Hills could afford them. Underwriters (the ones who analyze the risks) drew the line at entertainers, I found out. I approved a Gold Package for Duane Eddy. Ruth hit the fan. I’d already called the agent and told him I’d accepted Eddy's application. I asked Ruth why Duane Eddy couldn’t insure his home under that type of coverage. He was a millionaire and lived in Topanga Canyon or some such ritzy place.
“Because of their lifestyle, you know, they smoke and drink and throw orgies. Entertainers are too great a risk.” Ruth called the agent, explaining that I was new and was still “wet behind the ears.”
This was my first lesson in the unfair and discriminatory practices of insurance.
Ruth took coffee breaks with an old fop named Bunker Hill, a suave character whose real name she told me was Cornelius. He was about five-five, balding; he had a John Waters mustache and freckles. What little hair he had was slicked back. He wore nave-blue blazers with gold buttons and grey slacks, pink shirts with green and pink ties and a pink and green hanky sticking out of his breast pocket. He talked with a built in sneer and sashayed when he walked. He was St. Paul's special agent who went around to solicitors and brokers at agencies to drum up business for the company. He knew everything about property insurance. Whenever I got stuck, I went to Ruth; whenever she got stuck, she went to Bunker.
Business was picking up and Ruth needed a senior personal-lines underwriter. Elaine, who’d been there at least a year before I was hired, was in line for the promotion. Carol was so flaky, she couldn’t care less, she was happy just to have a job. Ruth passed by my desk and spoke to me out of the corner of her mouth like a character out of a Scorsese film. “Take a walk with me.” (She didn't have an office. This was decades before cubicles. Desks were lined up in rows, like in school. Our department manager didn't have an office, either. He sat alone, in his own huge space, behind us, like a prison guard in a recreation area.) Ruth and I crossed back and forth between personal lines and claims. She folded her arms across her chest and held a burning cigarette between her fingers. The smoke trailed up into her eyes.
“Look, you catch on fast and I got the approval of the manager to promote you to the position of senior underwriter.”
“Elaine’ll hate me- -”
“- - She doesn’t use her head. Underwriting is all common sense. Do you want the job?”
“Well, yes.”
“I’ll talk to Elaine. Nothin’ll change. I mean, you’ll still be sitting in the same desk an’ all, but Elaine, Carol and the others’ll have to go through you to approve new business or significant changes on existing policies. Of course, you’ll get a raise.” She turned to me and blew smoke in my face.
“Thank you!” I said, trying not to cough. I went back to my desk and sat down. Elaine shot me a dirty look. Carol winked.
Russ directs me to strike a pose in in his garden, 1963
One day I came to work and the doors to our department were locked. We all stood or sat in the hallway to wait for someone to unlock them. Ruth had been there since seven; she stomped around so hard in her nubby steel heels I expected to see machine gun bullet holes in the carpet. She had been searching for the building manager when I got there. She was so mad, she only got as far as removing the bobby-pins from her pincurls and her hair coiled up like bed-springs. I was standing in the hallway with the others when she came stomping around a corner, hair coils bouncing, and nearly bumped into me. Without thinking, I blurted out, “Ruth! You look like Medusa and the Snakes!” Her eyes shot lasers at me. I thought for a second I'd had it. Then, her faced crinkled; she laughed.
Next up: Chapter 6, Part Three: The office moves across the street from the Ambassador Hotel. I find out about Ruth and Bunker’s lives outside the office. Pre-computerized city maps. More hassles on time off for children issues; Ruth sticks up for me. A co-worker gets orgasmic over a new desk. The evil religious fanatic defends "Doris Day". Ruth changes her image!
