Chapter 7, Part Two: A New Department. The Odd Couple; Racism; The Token Black Guy.

"The Street" - - Montgomery Street at Columbus Ave. with the Transamerica Pyramid (completed in 1972) in the background.

Evidently, I wasn't doing too well in "casualty," so after a month, because I had experience in property, my bosses elected me for a new department where I'd learn to process Special Multi-Peril policies. They were similar to the Homeowners’ I’d worked on in LA, the difference being they covered apartment buildings over two units.

BOSSES
My new boss, Sam, a wiry, high-strung woman near retirement with short, curly, natural auburn hair, had more patience with me than Jane. One morning, after walking me through some procedures, her phone rang. She reached for it and said, “Hello,” before picking up the receiver. She did this every time. I thought it was strange, but the more years I spent in the business, I found most insurance people strange.
The department head, I think his name was Dick, was a slight, wiry, freckled, red-haired man. Dick talked on the phone sitting sideways, all bent over with his head cradled in his hands like he was either terribly anguished over some catastrophe or had a massive migraine. He brought out the same mothering instincts in me that John at Ronson had. Where Dick dressed nattily in expensive three piece suits, Jim Monroe, our supervisor, an affable, easygoing man - - built like a fullback - - walked around with white shirttails flapping, tie askew, and sagging brown suit pants riding his hips. Behind their backs, we called them "Felix" and "Oscar" from "The Odd Couple," a popular play on Broadway (later a TV series).

The Russ Building entrance on Montgomery. The tallest building on the West Coast until the completion of the Transamerica Pyramid in 1972.

THE INSPECTORS AND THE TOKEN BLACK GUY

We underwriters had to liaison with the engineering department who inspected properties for us to write insurance policies on. If an inspector found something wrong, like stuff cluttering public areas, or flammable junk piled high in an attic creating a fire hazard, he would issue a recommendation that the problem be taken care of within thirty days. We would then go ahead and insure the place, but if the problem wasn't fixed, we'd issue a cancellation notice. Often time limits were extended. If the engineer was golfing or otherwise socializing, or was a friend of the properly owner or his or her agent, Jim would tell us to extend the recommendation for another month until the policy came up for renewal. The owner would then get yet another round of thirty day notices. I supposed that they either prayed the place wouldn't burn to the ground or were in major denial.

Once, I ran across an egregious, racist recommendation on a policy I hadn't initially worked on, but had to underwrite for renewal. The engineering report read that a white woman in one of the apartments was ironing. Sitting and playing on the floor were some toddlers the report described as white and "Negro." The woman explained to the inspector that she baby sat for friends and that the "Negro" kids were theirs. The recommendation? That the women either get rid of the Negro kids or move out or St. Paul wouldn't insure the property. Such were the early 1960s, although the Civil Rights act had passed, paving the way to desegregation. On the way to my desk one day, passing another department, I noticed women chatting amongst themselves while they worked, over and around Harry, the company's token black guy. He and I became friends when he told me the guy I had lunch with looked like D. H. Lawrence. We ended up having coffee every day with Harry's teammates on the company baseball team. As the only woman in this otherwise all-male coffee-klatsch, this incited rumors. Harry, being invisible (his words), often overheard what the women in his department said about me; he also told me to watch out for Carl, from the engineering department.

Next up:
Chapter 7, Part Three
"D. H. Lawrence;" What the Women Said; Harry's Warning; I'm a Rape Target; Leaving St. Paul.

CHAPTER 7, Part One: Back in SF; A "Cowboy and Indian" saloon; "The Street"; New Skills; Big Brother; Mistaken Identity.

Entrance to our flat on Rondell Alley, 1963

I couldn’t blame Dad for renting the flat for us on Rondell Alley which runs between Mission and Valencia and 16^th and 17^th Streets. He was in his mid-sixties and had to apartment-hunt on public transportation during the two hour break in his split-shift at the Bohemian Club on Taylor. He did his best. Arriving in San Francisco from Chico on Greyhound to 7th St, we took MUNI to Mission and 16th and walked up to Rondell. I took one look at our surroundings and knew I'd have to start putting money away immediately for a place in a safer part of the city. The spacious three bedroom flat was on the first floor of a huge apartment building facing 16^th Street with the entrance on Rondell, both managed by a tall,blowsy woman with a bed-ridden husband. On the corner was a shit-kickin', red-neck saloon across the alley from a Native American support center. Both frequented the bar and as the night wore on, the alley got noisy. Leaving for school and work in the morning, we often had to step over bodies and/or vomit - -or both. The area has changed radically since 1963, becoming over the years a trendy hot spot for restaurants and clubs.

Once inside the flat, it was quiet and I didn’t have to worry about the kids making noise. Weekends, we went to Golden Gate Park, Angel Island, Aquatic Park, or to the library when it rained. As before, we took buses to Commodore Stockton pre- and elementary school in Chinatown, where I dropped off the kids, then walked down the hills to the St. Paul Insurance Company in the Mills Building on “The Street” - - Montgomery Street, the heart of the financial district.

ST. PAUL

A bee-hived, red-headed, be-spectacled divorcée, Jane, showed me to a metal desk in the front of several rows of desks, facing the entrance and bathrooms where I could quash my ennui by watching people come and go. The only job available when I applied for a transfer to SF was in the commercial casualty department. I knew zip about casualty, especially the mysteries of rating the intangibles of liability and automobile coverage. Comprehensive I could understand because it dealt with real stuff - - fire, property damage, vandalism, and theft. Also, there was a lot more to Commercial than Personal underwriting. Jane tried her best to train me while I tried her patience. The bosses sat in the back row. Telephone receivers appeared permanently attached to their head. Phones rang constantly, calculators chugged, typewriter clacked and clanged, file drawers slammed, and it sounded as if everyone were trying to out shout everyone else while puffing cigarettes. If I had questions, I asked Jane who often knew no more than me; so she’d ask someone else.

TAG DREAD

Around this time, I was trying to quit smoking. But with The California Insurance Bureau (now known as ISO - - Insurance Services Office), which I called Big Brother, overseeing every transaction performed by everyone in the industry, sometimes the stress got too much and I'd have to light up. Besides being like something out of “1984”, The Bureau seemed Kafkaesque as well. It got copies of every policy so we issued three: One for the Insured, one for St. Paul, and one for the Bureau, which consisted of a bunch of bean-picking clerks. When a clerk found a mistake, the policy was “tagged” - - returned with a form attached. The error had to be corrected within an allotted time, otherwise the company was fined. Bosses kept count of every tag and we were not only warned, but also threatened with termination for outstanding tags which could follow you around for months, even when you were transferred to another department. I had the tough luck of inheriting several from people who had left the company so had to clean up their mess. Some of my days were fraught with "tag dread." I managed to quit smoking by sucking on mint Life Savers. Besides, I was making so little money - - still two-fifty a month - - that when I caught myself weighing whether to buy milk for the kids or a pack of smokes, there was no question.

One day, just after I started work at St. Paul, a honcho from the LA office, Mr. Miller, paid a visit. He stopped at my desk.

“Oh, you’re the transferee from the LA office, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Another girl transferred to this office too, just a week or so ago,” he added, “I think her name was - -" He said my name.

“I am she, Mr. Miller." His face turned fiery red.

“Ha, ha! I knew that!” he laughed, rushing off.

To be continued . . .

Next up: Chapter 7, Part Two: A new department. Dick and Jim: "The Odd Couple"; the sole black guy; D. H. Lawrence; jealousy; Creepy Carl wants to rape me, and I want a raise.