Chapter 10, Part Two: Los Angeles Mutual's Open House

The Monday after the Friday we got our new furnishings, Werner announced that we were going to have an Grand Opening party to celebrate LAM’s San Francisco branch office on the following Thursday after business hours, at 5:00.  Jim and Angie told us they were having it catered; they danced up and down in anticipation of showing off the office and décor.  We were ordered to dress our best for the account managers and officers from the agencies who bring us business.   

“Why Thursday?”  I asked Werner.

“Jim says so.  Most agencies close early or are short-staffed on Fridays,” he explained, “So . . .”

“So, it’s after hours.  Will we get overtime?”  Werner looked at me, huffed, turned his back and walked away.  I guessed NO.

But on Wednesday, disaster struck.   I opened a drawer in my new desk and the front came off.  Evidently the office supplies and insurance forms were too heavy for the cheap, pine construction.  Werner told me I pulled it out wrong; if I’d done it right, he said, this wouldn’t have happened.  How many ways, I asked him, are there to open a drawer?

  “It has to be fixed fast, before open house!” he whined, mopping his sweaty red face with a fistful of Kleenex he’d snatched from a box Candy kept on her desk, and throwing them back on it when he finished.

Candy sneered, “Ewww, ugh.”  Using a clean tissue, she swept them into a waste paper basket.  She left the office and returned with paper towels and soap, and scrubbed the top of her desk.  Werner called the furniture company and they sent someone out.  The guy told him he couldn’t fix the drawer in the office but had to take the desk back to the factory.  There was no guarantee  it’d be fixed by Friday.  Werner  almost had a heart attack,

“The whole friggin’ desk?” His jowels shook.

“ ‘Fraid so, sir.”

He stomped around and flapping his arms like Ralph Kramden. Candy and I sniggered.  But, he calmed down when the guy said,

“We will replace it with a new one.  We can deliver it by the end of the day.”

 So I ended up with a new, new desk. I filled the drawer with the same stuff and gingerly opened it. It held.

Thursday morning, Candy and I cleaned off every surface in the file room, moving files and supplies.  The caterers showed up with snack trays loaded with shrimp canapés, cubes of ham and cheese speared with colored tooth picks, chips and dip; crackers; small, bacon-wrapped wienies; and celery and carrot sticks with dip.  Werner saw that the hutch was filled with scotch and vodka to supplement the Bailey's.  Besides finger-food, the caterers set out buckets of ice and champagne.   At 4:45, Werner siad we could quit working and to fix the phones so all the calls would go to an off-site, message taking service.  (The era before message machines, voice mail, etc.)  Angie wore a frilled, low-cut white blouse, a pencil-slim, black skirt,  and 6 inch steel-tipped heels; her hair up in a loose chignon. We stood in a “receiving line” with Teddy, Jim, and Angie at the open office door.  Guests trickled in at first, then descended in bunches.  The women and some of the men complimented the LA contingent on the new office, running their hands over the furniture and stroking our gold, crushed velvet typing chairs. 

North West view

            “And the view!   Come look at the view!”  someone shrieked.

“Look at it from Werner’s office, then from Teddy’s!”   The view at night was spectacular, I had to admit.  The dark night sky, the streets from East to West lit up from the Bay to the Ocean; the lights on the Bay Bridge; the head- and taillights from traffic moving in all directions.  And practically every window in nearby hi-rises glowed.  

Bay Bridge looking East

"You girls don't know how lucky you are to be working in such a lovely office with such a lovely
view!"

             

View looking West

Jim held court, going into great detail about how he and Angie had driven to the Mission District where they found the desks, tables, chairs and hutch at a discount office furniture store .   I could tell by the looks and inflections that the comments were insincere, even sarcastic.  An account rep I knew looked at me sideways, half-laughing.  “Are they serious?” she said.  I told her to be nice.  I had to work here. 

Candy and I ended up like hired help (we were, anyway).   People asked us to fill their paper plates with this or that and pour drinks.  We had no time to eat but when the guests thinned out, we dove in.  Finally, we saw the last of them out the door.   Jim suggested to Werner that we propose a toast to our successful open house.  The good stuff was gone, all that was left was Bailey’s Irish Cream so we filled paper cups with it and raised them:  "Cheers!"  Then Jim, Teddy and Angie left to fly back to LA. 

            “Who’s going to clean up this mess?” Candy asked.

            “Oh, the janitors,” Werner assured us as he drew on his suit jacket and bustled out the door.

            “Okay, then, let’s split from this banana stand!" Candy shouted.”   It was almost seven o’clock.

Next up:  Chapter 10, Part Three: Post-party depression.  Werner talks about his girlfriend: TMI!  I refuse an archaic forms processing method, Werner threatens to fire me.

CHAPTER 10, Part one: A surreal experience at LAM (Los Angeles Mutual Insurance Company), in the brand new Bank America building.

My kids were in junior high (middle school); RK had decided to ship out once more (he had seaman’s papers as well as a being a longshoreman), so was on a ship sailing along South America’s west coast, due home in a month or so.  We now lived in a Victorian up the hill from my sons’ middle school, in Noe Valley, which the owners had tried to modernize with asbestos siding, fake ceilings, and a partially finished rear deck overlooking the garden.   It seemed like it rained constantly that year.

The imposing Bank of America building.

At eight o’clock one morning, on my way to an underwriting interview for the Los Angeles Mutual Insurance company, I found myself on the 23rd floor of the three-year-old Bank America building.   Walking down a labyrinth of deserted, urine-yellow, carpeted halls, I felt as though I were trapped inside a Kafka novel, or worse, Witold Gombrowitz.   The dark wood doors bore no company names, not even gender distinctions to indicate bathrooms.  I knocked on a door- no answer.  I opened it; angry office-workers glared at me from their IBM Selectrics.

“Is this Los Angeles Mutual-"

“-No!”

On I walked.  I reached a right angle in the hall and ended up in front of yet another unmarked door.  I knocked.  A high-pitched voice said, “Come in!”  I let myself in and crossed a wide expanse of an unfurnished beige-carpeted room and approached a glassed-in, corner office.  A curly-haired blond man about 30 sat behind an old metal desk with his back to the awe-inspiring view of the west side of the City.  He wore a blue, windowpane plaid suit with wide lapels and a floral tie.  In his lap was a white toy poodle.

I had to be in the wrong place.  “Is this Los Angeles Mutual Insurance Company?” I heard myself ask tentatively.

“Yes, it is, honey.  I’m Teddy.”   Teddy stood up and shook my hand, holding his wriggling poodle to his stomach.  “Are you here for the interview for underwriter?”

“Yes,” I said, glancing around.  He gestured me to a chair.  I gave him my resume, and we talked.  Or rather I sat there while he was on the phone making arrangements with kennels to board his poodle when he is in San Francisco, getting the branch office off the ground.  After he hung up, he went on to tell me that they had an office in San Jose, but were closing it once this branch opened.  Some of the people down there would come to SF to work, he explained.   I heard footsteps behind me.  I turned to see a tall, willowy, sandy-haired man wearing aviator glasses and a lime-green stretch-knit, bell-bottom, zip up front leisure suit, leaning against the door frame.

“Oh, dear, meet Jim, my partner,” Teddy said, then added, “Actually, he’s the president, I’m the vice.”  He giggled.  “Well,” he went on, “from what you’ve told me and looking at your resume, we need look no further, do we, Jim? For our property-casualty underwriter?” 

 

“If you say so, I’ll take your word for it.  I’m still new at this,” Jim said, extending a hand; Teddy introduced us.  “Hello dear,”   Jim drawled. 

“So, just show up tomorrow and your boss Werner Gross will be here,” Teddy explained.   “He’s driving up from San Jose.  Oh, and Candy, the secretary, too.  Jim and I have to skedaddle back to LA.  First, let me explain about this dreadful furniture:  It’s rented.”

“My wife and I just got back from Mexico,” Jim put in.  “I have some wonderful ideas for the décor.  Our office will be the envy of everyone on the street in no time!   My hot, little tamale of a secretary, Angie, will help.  She’s has a degree in interior decorating.   So, honey, report to Werner tomorrow and we’ll see you in about a week with brand new office furniture.”

“And bric-a-brac accents!” Teddy added.  “ ‘Bye, dear, I’m sure you’ll love it here.”

My rented, metal desk was in place the next morning, along with one for Werner Gross’s office which was next to Teddy’s and Jim’s.   Werner had a high-backed, black Naugahyde, executive chair.    Across from me was the secretary’s desk.  To my left, and her right, was the file/utility room. Its shear-curtained glass wall and door faced us.  When I got there, a gum-cracking Candy and a sweaty Werner were in this room already unloading boxes and boxes of files and sliding them onto metal shelves the length of the room.

“Get in here, honey, and give us a hand,” Werner growled, leaning over a box.  From where I stood, I could see his huge behind straining the seams of his cheap, polyester brown slacks.  He straightened up and mopped his sweaty, red face, and bald head with a white hanky.  Candy kept on shelving files while snapping her gum.  She was petite with short blond hair and wore very short shorts, a tank top, and sandals.  She was gone within a week.  Couldn’t handle the commute or the weather.  The non-identical twins, Jim and Teddy, hired Patsy, a friend of Jim’s mother’s daughter, just out of typing school-not secretarial school, but typing school.  She was a baby-faced, plump eighteen who wore ‘50s style full-skirted cotton dresses  and cat’s eye glasses with translucent pink rims.   Her face seemed always red from embarrassment.  It took her forever to type one letter, sighing and swearing under her breath as she back-spaced to utilize the “correct-tape” function.   Huge sweat stains grew under her armpits.

Before Candy left, Werner called us into his office .  He was standing at his window looking West and motioned us to his side.  He put his arms around our shoulders, and said, “Look out there, gals.  From here, we can see way past those islands almost to Hawaii.   We’re going to write every piece of property down there.  Los Angeles Mutual will take 'Frisco by storm!”

View looking North. Transamerica Pyramid in foreground.

Insurance agents came by with files of risks they wanted Werner and me to look at, approve, and write insurance policies for.  They’d walk around, inspecting everything, commenting on the gorgeous view.  I assured them that we were getting new furniture in keeping with occupying a huge corner space on the 23^rd floor. 

A week later, Teddy and Jim dropped in with Angie.  She was a petite, feisty Latina who reminded me of Rita Moreno.  She wore a low-cut, sheer white blouse tucked into a pencil-thin black skirt, and glasses with heavy black frames.  Her thick black hair was piled on her head.  She swept around the main room, the offices, and file room on Jim’s arm, leaving holes in the carpet from her three inch spike heels, talking so fast in heavily accented English, I could hardly understand her.   Jim, Teddy, and Werner smiled and nodded,  “Yes, doll,”  and “You’re absolutely right, doll.” 

 “Jes, jes, the furniture we order,"  Angie said, turning to Patsy and me, "eess goink to look beyoootiful in here with these jello carpets, hah?”

“Yes, girls, Werner,” Jim agreed, “It’s being delivered tomorrow and they’ll take these awful metal contraptions and chairs away.  Poof!  Never see them again.”

As promised, our new desks, chairs, side tables, and utility table for the entry way, were delivered the next day.   Teddy, Jim, Angie and Werner oversaw its installation.  The desks were of cheap pine stained dark and designed to look like Mexican refectory furniture.
  Our typing chairs were upholstered with gold, crushed velvet. A huge, black leather, executive recliner replaced Werner’s rental chair.   The rectangular utility table for the entry way was of the same construction and design, as were the occasional tables, and credenza and hutch which would serve as a liquor cabinet.   How on earth could Angie, a Latina with a degree in interior decorating (if Jim was to be believed), be proud of having selected this furniture meant for an office?  She had to be kidding, right?  I couldn’t tell.  She swanned around, cooing, running her hands over everything.  Jim placed a cardboard box on the refectory table, opened it  and pulled out ceramic sculptures of Mexican village churches, and stereotype peons- sombreros, cacti, donkeys, and wrought- iron sconces. 


 He and Angie placed them on the tables and hung the sconces on the walls.  Then they stood in the middle of the floor and beamed.   Werner opened the door of the credenza, and pulled out a bottle of Bristol Irish Cream, poured it in paper cups, and handed them to us  Patsy and I, following their lead, raised our cups in a toast.  Everything about the place felt wrong.

Next up:  Chapter 10, Part Two:  Desks fall apart; open House; Werner talks about his girlfriend: TMI!  I refuse an archaic forms processing method.

Chapter 9, Part Four: My Own “Office;” Ruth Gordon and the Yellow Dress; Hallways: Off-limits to Bikes.

After being a constant presence in his office, Parker now seemed never to be there; when he was, he appeared to be daydreaming.  He came in late (later than I did).  He would walk past my desk trailing an almost imperceptible effluence of alcohol that Alan, a co-worker, alerted me to.  Alan from Alabama had a slight Southern accent, a soft-spoken guy- tall and lanky, with limp, longish blonde hair.  He was a senior underwriter and an assistant vice-president.  I'd never seen him in a suit or a suit jacket over his white dress shirt and tie, and khaki slacks.  His office was two down from Parker’s.  The guy in the one between his and Parker's quit after I’d been there only a couple of months.  It stood vacant for more than a week.  Parker hadn’t decided to hire anyone to replace him.  These offices were no more than roofless glass cubicles (See illus. below) set at right-angles to the back wall, with glass fronts and thick glass doors, that seemed always to be open.  

             “Why don’t you move into the vacant office?”  Alan said, turning to me from the side chair beside my desk.  “You deserve it.  You’re a senior underwriter.  You shouldn’t have to sit in the middle of the floor, right in everyone’s path-
            "-And being mistaken for a receptionist."
            "Parker can see you every minute of the day.”

            “When he’s here.”

            “Well, there’s that.  But that’s not the point.”  He paused, then brightened, “Hey, he’s not in today, so, come on.  I’ll help you move.”  So that afternoon, Alan and I packed up my desk, piled files, my in-and-out box and other stuff on a chair and in a couple of trips, wheeled it all into the vacant office.   Parker was not pleased when he showed up the next day.  Standing just inside my door, he growled,

            “How could you just take it upon yourself to move without consulting me?”  Alan, who happened to be going over an account with me, said, 

            “R-, listen.   Agents and brokers come in, they see an empty office right next to yours,” he reasoned, “it’s not conducive for business, makes it seem like the Company is not doing well.”

            “Well, we’ll see how it works out, then,”  R-said, eyes red and bleary.  He flopped down behind his desk and lit a cigarette.

            Inane Muzak constantly warbled through the PA.   On one very slow summer day, Parker hadn't shown up, Alan and I were chatting in my office when “Top Hat” came on.   He jumped up on a chair and started singing, then leaped on my desk and did a few tap steps in a clear space.  I sang along with him.   Co-workers passed by, glanced at us, then walked on. 

Astaire & Rogers in "Top Hat."

   Lisa (I think that was her name), a woman with a slight frame and long, brown hair, peered in the door and laughed.  She was wearing a soft yellow, scoop-neck, dress with ¾ length-sleeves and a swing skirt that hit her just below the knee. 

            “What do you guys think you’re doing?”

            “What does it look like, honey?”  Alan said, jumping down from my desk, “We’re putting some life into our boring old jobs.   I mean, how can you hear “Top Hat” and not dance?”   He started to take her around the waist, but giggling, she twirled away. 

           “Man,” Lisa said, going to her office, “they could at least play something groovy:  Beatles, or   Carole King, anyway.”

          “Earth, Wind and Fire,” I called after her, adding, “Hey! I really like that dress.”

 The next day, she told me she’d gotten another job.  This was her last day.  She handed me a box and told me not to open it until I got home. 

            “You know,” she said, “You and Alan made coming to work fun.  I hope there’ll be someone like you guys at my new job.  In fact, I hope you won’t feel insulted, but you remind me of Ruth Gordon.”

          “Insulted?  No.  Thanks.  She’s one of my favorite actresses.”

Ruth Gordon

 I opened the box when I got home; inside, wrapped in tissue paper, was the yellow dress.  It was kind of weird, I thought, because she hadn’t had it cleaned.  I held it up and looked at it.  It smelled slightly of underarm deodorant and perspiration and had some small holes in the fabric near the hem.   When I got it back from the cleaners, I tried it on.  It fit perfectly.  The color brought out my summer tan.  I disguised the tiny holes with an orange sunburst tie-dye patterns.  It ended up being one of my favorites.

“I can’t believe it’s the same dress!”  Alan said when I wore it to work. “It looks beautiful.  I love the tie-dye.  Perfect.”  I didn’t tell him about the holes. 

The papers were full of news about Daniel Ellsberg leaking the truth about Vietnam to the New York Times.  The documents were dubbed “The Pentagon Papers.”  People wondered if this prompted military veterans to admit to US atrocities in Vietnam.  Earlier that year, Calley had been tried and convicted for the My Lai massacre, and Charles Manson and his evil minions were sentenced to death after one of the longest trials in California history.  The only people I could talk to about these things in the office were Alan, and Lisa, before she quit.  I overheard someone in the coffee room say that Ellsberg was a traitor and should be executed for treason.   And whenever I brought up the Black Panthers, someone would remark, “I’m ready for ‘em.”  When I'd ask how, they'd never elaborate.   Lisa and I wondered what kind of hold a guy like Manson had over women.  “Creepy!”  We were glad that he and his “harem” got their due.
 

Daniel Ellberg

 Towards the end of summer, business picked up as usual and we were asked to work overtime.  One evening, Alan peaked in.

          “Aren’t you going home? It’s almost 6.”

          “I just want to finish a few things,” I said, “I don’t want to have to face them tomorrow.  It’s quiet.  The phones aren’t ringing.  I can get a lot done.” 

 I lost track of time;  I reached a stopping point.  The office seemed eerily quiet.  Muzak had shut down. The janitors were going around emptying waste baskets and turning off lights.   I gathered up my bag, pulled on my coat and went into the supply room for my bike.  I started to wheel my bike down the deserted hall for the quarter of a mile that separated me from the elevators.  I stopped, listened, looked around, climbed on my bike and rode the distance.  I chuckled to myself.  I felt I was doing something wrong, but what law was there that said you couldn’t ride a bike down an empty hall in a place that had closed for the night?  There was absolutely no one there.

But someone had ratted on me.

Parker called me into his office the next morning and started ranting away about me jeopardizing Yosemite’s liability . 

    “What if you hit someone?”  I tried to protest, explain that there was no one around to hit.

He countered with, “What if YOU got hurt?”  

       “How?  I only rode a few feet.   I’ve been riding for years.”

       “I don’t want to hear it!  I’m revoking your privilege of stowing your bike in the supply room.  You’ll have to take your chances outside.”

      Who had seen me?  Alan hadn't a clue.  Verne had left hours before I did.  A janitor?  But why?    Oh, well, I had other things to think about.  Parker had confirmed a rumor that the company was moving the SF branch to its corporate headquarters in Evansville, Indiana.  He assured us that if we wanted to relocate, we would retain our current positions.   I didn't want to leave the City for Evansville.   One of the questions on insurance industry applications was: Are you willing to relocate?  One Human Resources interviewer had advised me that it would be to my advantage to mark it, “Yes”, ensuring promotions and raises.  She hinted that I could always change my mind.  I never took the bait.  I had left San Francisco once and didn’t want to think about leaving it again.  We had a couple of months to find another job.  Alan was moving back to Alabama.  His ailing mom was dying.

        “But, darling,” he said, “I’ll be back when, well, you know . . .” 

Next: Chapter 10, Part One.   The Surreal Los Angeles Mutual Insurance Company:  Werner Gross, my  Bosses, Mexican Décor, and Orange Velvet Poof Chairs.

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