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.
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| 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.
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| Charles Manson: Then and Now |
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| 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.
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| Woodstock Festival |
And the war went on for at least four more years. A few days later, Beat writer, Jack Kerouac died.
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| Jack Kerouac of "On the Road" fame. |
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| 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.)
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| 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.
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.”
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| One of the many "easy" trails on Mt. Tamalpais. |
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.
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.
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| 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.
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.
