. . . Swallows New Employer; Cool Closet Gays; The Bear, the Weasel, and His Brother; Pot in the “Dish”; The Warning.
Pine St. looking toward Montgomery and Bush Sts. (Photo by Ingrid Taylor).
Springfield Fire and Marine
I applied for the position of property underwriter at Springfield Fire and Marine and was given a test based on syllogisms. I had never been asked to take such a test when applying for a job. It was hard to concentrate what with all the other edgy applicants lining up, typewriters clacking away, phones jangling and people going in and out. Plus the test was difficult; I couldn’t answer all the questions in time; I wouldn’t get the job. I handed the test back to the woman in personnel explaining that I didn’t finish it. She smiled and said, “Take it home and bring it in in the morning.” This struck me as very unusual. I wondered if they let all applicants do this or if she’d tuned in to my frustration and felt I could pass it under a less stressful atmosphere. Or: maybe she just liked me. I nailed the test and was hired.
Medical insurance turned out to be an elective which I couldn’t afford, so went without. A month or so later, Terrence, my middle son, age 9, had an appendicitis attack. I took him to Emergency at General Hospital and told the clerk I had no insurance; they admitted him, anyway, said they’d send me a bill. If I could pay it, fine; if not, let them know. He received excellent care and recovered swiftly, running around the flat soon as he got home. Months later, I got a statement from General for almost a thousand dollars. I wrote back saying I couldn’t pay it and why. I never heard from them again and no collection agency hounded me, either.
My supervisor at Springfield was lanky Tom Morgan, a Jimmy Stewart type, the closest thing to Ken Tilles for a boss I would have for decades. One of my co-workers was Bruce Justis. He was tall, dressed elegantly, and reminded me of Rex Harrison. Born and raised in Bulls Gap, Tennessee, he spoke with a slight southern drawl which made him sound like a native of upper class London. The Navy got him out of that "hick" (his word) town, he said, and shipped him to European ports where he discovered opera, classical music, art and literature. He rode the ferry in from Sausalito and often came to work later than I did. One day, when Bruce hadn't yet shown up, Tom said, “All Bruce needs is a good woman to get him out of bed in the morning.” To which I replied, “If he had a good woman, he wouldn’t want to get out of bed.” He laughed. After work one night, Bruce introduced me to his hunky partner who’d come to meet him. So, the “good woman” reference wasn’t a factor in the equation.
The Sausalito Ferry docks behind the Ferry Building.
Springfield is swallowed by Continental Insurance.
Soon after I was hired, the company was bought by Continental Insurance. Bruce resigned and got a job with another company; we kept in touch for years. Springfield moved from the second floor of a narrow building on Pine into Continental’s seven-story building on the corner of Pine and Sansome, whose facade has changed radically since, but retained its seven stories. Fortunately, Tom ended up as my boss at Continental, as well. He had an office at Springfield; at Continental he was relegated to a metal desk in a row of others, like mine, on the first floor. When I told him I felt bad for him,
"Hey!" "Least they gave me these," he said, jangling a couple of keys," to the executive bathroom and dining room!"
Corporate ethics; the bear, the weasel, and his brother.
I noticed a different ethic at Continental. Underwriters- both male and female- were notorious drinkers who spent their lunch- and after hours at Harrington’s and Dante’s, a couple of Financial District bars. Also: not-so-secret affairs. A married, middle-age, graying underwriter was involved with a new hire: a young, perky, brown-eyed blond, who wore business suits and flouncy, white blouses. On her first day, she asked me what “premiums” and “policies” were. She and this guy would leave for lunch separately and return by different routes. If they thought no one knew, they were dead wrong. After lunch, his face would be red, his suit rumpled, and her hair and clothes somehow didn’t seem as crisp as they did in the morning. One day, I passed Gateway Plaza on my way to lunch and saw them leave a town-house together. I couldn't care less that they engaged in “nooners” because one thing I swore I would never do was get involved with a guy I worked with. Few attracted me, anyway. Exceptions being Lynn; and at Continental, Gene Kaphammer, a rangy, dark, gypsy-type.
Harrington's Bar & Grill on Front Street.
Tom reported to a bear of a Bruce, Bruce M-, who was as tall as a bear standing on its hind legs, as hairy, and moved like one. His assistant, Bob, (or Bill), N-, was a small, wimpy, weaselly, balding redhead, who wore over sized glasses with clear plastic rims. They made quite a twosome. I was talking to him one day when his twin brother showed up with a painting under his arm. He was wearing all black- his long, stringy, reddish hair stuck out from a black leather gaucho hat. He lived in an artists' loft at Project Artaud on the Northwest side of Potrero Hill, on Alabama Street. Bob, or- tried to hide his embarrassment whenever he dropped by and acted extremely uncomfortable when he introduced us. His brother seemed not the least bothered by the fact that he looked totally out of place among the suits. He held up his painting- a sad attempt at Pollack, in black, overlaid with squiggly lines and splotches- for everyone to see. After he left, Bob, or- started making excuses for him, telling me that his brother imagined himself a great artist but was really a mental case with delusions of grandeur. “He looks really happy,” I said, wanting to add, “compared to you who seems worried, and frowns all the time from being browbeaten by Bruce.”
Project Artaud 1971. A boat in the parking lot; the Koret Building in the background.
All Bruce and Bob, or- seemed to care about was whether you came to work on time. Morgan pleaded with me, explaining that the Bs got on his case when I was late. So I did try. At the time, Lynn, the kids and I lived in a four-story, re-modeled Victorian painted a light yellow ochre, next door to my old flat on 20th Street in Eureka Valley. The kids went to Douglass Elementary a block away, now Harvey Milk Academy. I had started riding a 10-speed bike to work down Castro to Market, Market to Sansome, down Sansome to Pine. One morning, as I locked my bike to a pole across the street from work, I saw Tom waiting for me, sitting outside on the “dish”- a round concrete planter encircled by a wide rim just high enough to sit on comfortably- in front of the double glass doors. A few scraggly shrubs grew in its center. He patted the rim, inviting me to sit and proceeded to give me one last warning.
Our house at 4328 20th St., in Eureka Valley. Pictured are myself, my sons and some neighbor kids, sitting on the front steps in the sun. (See the door to our old flat at 4330 on the left.)
Next up: Chapter 8, Part Three: Hanging on; Pot in the "Dish"; Anti-Vietnam Rally; Lobby Attendant gets Physical; Red-lining; A Manager's Career Advice.
