Man on the Moon, Stonewall, Manson & More . .

CHAPTER 9, Part One:        

  Outside of work, exciting things were happening.  Jim Hester, a friend of Lynn’s gave us a TV so we could watch history being made on July 20, when Apollo 11 landed on the moon.  We watched, awestruck, as Neil Armstrong took the “first step for mankind” on the moon’s surface, at about 8PM PDST, three hours ahead of schedule we were told.    Later, we went outside and stared through patches of the fog at the moon with naked eye and with binoculars to see if it looked any different.  Some neighbors peered through telescopes.   Everyone at work was talking about it the next day.  We’d beat the Russians to the Moon!  Then someone suggested that the whole thing was staged to take the attention off the war.  Hoax theories, based on photographs taken on the moon, still abound.  I, and most of my co-workers, believed it really happened.  

Stonewall protests in Greenwich Village

Not a week later, the Stonewall riot in Greenwich Village took place between two thousand protesters and 400 police, calling attention to the discrimination against gays.   The gays I knew at Continental (See previous post) didn't talk about it openly at work, but told me about the joyous atmosphere in the bars in the Castro. 

Charles Manson: Then and Now

Then August brought the Manson Family’s bloody massacre of Sharon Tate and others.  Actress Tate was eight month pregnant with Roman Polanski’s baby. 

Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate

 The Beatles’ song, “Helter Skelter,” was blamed as the impetus that drove Charles Manson (who’s still in prison) and his wacked out “family” to go on a killing spree. 

   Next:  Woodstock, a festival of peace, and live rock for 500,000 people, was held in a farmer’s meadow in upstate New York; a festival alleged to have changed the world.

Woodstock Festival

 One day in October of that year was declared Peace Day and half-million protesters across the nation showed up for the First Vietnam Moratorium. 
   And the war went on for at least four more years.   A few days later, Beat writer, Jack Kerouac died.

Jack Kerouac of "On the Road" fame.

  The Supreme Court ordered nationwide desegregation.  The insurance industry- in fact in all of the the financial district, remained dominated by whites with "people of color" relegated to service jobs: running elevators, maintenance, or hidden away in the typing pool orthe mail room.  Any "on the floor" were file clerks.  Throughout the rest of the year, more peace marches took place involving half-million or more in D. C. alone; Calley was charged for the My Lai massacre; US troop deaths and injuries top 100,000.   And on Christmas Eve, the Rolling Stones held a free concert at Altamont outside of Sacramento, California to match that held at Woodstock.   Lynn and I thought about going, but decided against it, mostly because his ride was a 1940 Pontiac Sedan and we feared it would break down on the freeway. 

1940 Pontiac 4Dr Sedan

 In the end, we were glad.  The concert turned violent.  The Stones had hired the Hell’s Angels “security” faction to police the crowd and one attendee was killed.  What were they thinking?  (See a Hell's Angel to Jagger's left in the picture below.)

Mick Jagger at Altamont

Continental’s Branch Manager, Mr. What’s-His-Name got sent to head up another office in some other city, maybe Portland.  Honchos from New York came west to take over in SF, and my department got a new boss.  First thing he did was call a meeting not only to introduce himself, but to give us the news, in a few short           words, of changes, one that would affect me, specifically.  One Friday, my supervisor, Tom Morgan, came over to my desk and sat down  and gave me the news (every desk on the open floor has a chair at its side so people who have to consult you on an account, visit, advise, or whatever).  “I hate to tell you this, but ‘they’ need experienced raters downstairs, and your name came up.”  In short, I’d been demoted to “rater”- no longer a senior underwriter.  Did Mr. What’s-His-Name tell the newby manager about my Time Magazine letter?  Tom didn’t know when I was to report to that department.   I told Lynn about it and that I really didn’t care.  I felt it was time for a change anyway.  Still, the weekend seemed to drag.  Thank heavens for my kids who always provided a wonderful distraction, whether they ran in and out of the house with their friends, or were in the Pontiac with us on the way to Mt. Tam or just out to the beach.

One of the many "easy" trails on Mt. Tamalpais.

 Monday morning, on time for once, I started to hang up my coat and shove my purse in my desk when I saw Tom walking toward me.  Looking morose, he got right to it.  “They need you downstairs right away, sorry.”

 The rating department was hidden away in the windowless basement.  I’d had to venture down there sometimes when a rater had a question on of my accounts.   Some things couldn’t be handled over the phone; you had to see the file.

 That first morning felt interminably long, I kept glancing at the clock, waiting for coffee break.  When the break bell rang, I left my desk and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” asked my new supervisor whose name I've forgotten, but  recall as being a heavy-set woman in a paisley patterned dress, bouffant bob, and cat’s eye glasses.

“Just down the street for coffee,” I said.  “The coffee here is horrible.  I always go out for a decent cup.  Want me to bring you one?”

“No! Not any more, you don’t.”

“Why?  I never-” I started to explain.

“Didn’t anyone tell you that your job classification has changed to ‘Non-exempt’?”

“No.  What does that mean?”

“It means, my dear, that you cannot leave the building during the work day except for lunch.  Workman’s Comp rules- and you cannot leave the department unless you’re going to the restroom.”  This was a blow.  So, if I wanted a caffeine fix, I was stuck swilling down the company’s battery acid coffee.   I ended up bringing my own from home the preparation of which added a few more minutes to my routine, hence adding a couple minutes to my already ingrained lateness.   The signal that break was imminent was the sound of coffee carts being trundled around to each floor and each department .  These carts held two huge, plastic, spigotted urns (coffee and hot water), Styrofoam cups, Coffee-mate, Splenda, Lipton tea bags, gooey pastries and donuts.   By the time the carts traveled seven floors, through many departments, ending up in the basement, bitter dregs was what was left of the coffee.  These heavy carts were pushed by middle age, Latino or Filipino women, barely five-feet tall, whom most employees treated as though they were appendages to the carts. 

Office coffee service.

  I found that when I tried to start a conversation, they looked away or down, or fiddled with items on the cart.  I chalked it up to maybe they couldn’t speak English.  Yet, these encounters made me think of films and documentaries I’d seen of blacks in the south reacting to white people.

A week or so later, I came across a problem on an account and took the file with me as I left to go up to my old department to talk to the underwriter.  No sooner had I crossed the threshold, when Helen barked,

“You can’t take a file with you to the restroom.”   I almost laughed.  Why would anyone take a file to the bathroom?

“I’m not, Helen, I’m going to see an underwriter.”

“I told you, you cannot leave the floor.  Call him.”

When I started as a rater years ago, underwriters thought it beneath them to return our phone calls, much less acknowledge our existence.   I learned that when I had a question, to confront them personally.  I always got results.  From then on, they returned my calls.  So I went back to my desk and rang the underwriter.   The underwriters knew me: I was one, once.  If I didn’t get a call back, I’d have to let it go and get blamed for the mistake.

I started interviewing for another job.

Next: Chapter 9, Part Two.  I get short-lived account rep underwriting positions at small insurance agencies and, at one, along with other underwriters, am given gluing lessons at the agency's president's desk, by Himself, no less.   And personal issues, as well.