Planning to quit Continental Insurance, I saw an ad in the SF Chron for a junior account rep at
a small agency on Pine Street off Sansome.
I applied and got the job which they held for me till the two weeks notice
I gave at Continental were up. It was a
rocky time for me personally and for the US. The Vietnam war continued despite the protests, and in May 1970, four Kent State students, who were part of an anti-war demonstration at the university in Ohio, were shot and killed by the National Guard, nine were injured, shocking the nation and the world.
Lynn and
I weren’t getting along. Bob K-, the
owner of our four-story rented quasi-Victorian on 20th Street, wanted to sell as he was
moving his family to Santa Rosa. The house was literally falling apart. When it rained, the roof leaked and rain-water
dripped on our bed and all over the floor. The main sewer line underground in the back
yard broke and that side of the yard collapsed the neighbor’s fence and
undermined the earth. Bob tried to patch
it with plumber’s putty which lasted only a couple of days.
He offered us the house, but Lynn didn’t want to buy it unless Bob fixed all the problems. I couldn’t envision going into debt when we were verging on breaking up anyway. So, he went ahead and listed it. For weeks we endured buyers traipsing through while the agent explained that, no, there was no hole in the floor underneath the cast-iron man-hole cover and base, grunting, as he shoved it aside and back to prove it. Lynn and Jim Hester had lugged this "artifact" home from a street reconstruction site one night after the bars closed. They'd rolled it into the middle of the front room and set it up. Lynn draped a throw rug, designed like the sun, over it. At our parties, friends jumped on top and danced.
Bob got a buyer, and I got a new guy, R-, a longshoreman and merchant seaman, whom I met through a friend from North Beach. One day, I came home from work- and the kids from school- to find an eviction notice nailed to the front door. We had to be out before the month was up. Lynn bought a motor home and took off, leaving us his dog, Ralph. While adjusting to my new guy and job, I looked for a house after work and on Sundays. I found one on Beacon Street in Diamond Heights, not too far from Eureka Valley, so the kids didn't have to change schools. We had a view of downtown, the bay, the Bay Bridge- gorgeous scene at sundown with the sun's reflection glinting reddish-gold from windows on the East Bay hills; and at night, the lights on Market Street cut a brilliant white, diagonal swath from Twin Peaks to the Ferry Building. I still rode my bike to work, sailng down the hills to Market Street into the financial district. Coming home wasn’t as much fun.
 | ||||
| Iconic photo at Kent State, May 1970 |
He offered us the house, but Lynn didn’t want to buy it unless Bob fixed all the problems. I couldn’t envision going into debt when we were verging on breaking up anyway. So, he went ahead and listed it. For weeks we endured buyers traipsing through while the agent explained that, no, there was no hole in the floor underneath the cast-iron man-hole cover and base, grunting, as he shoved it aside and back to prove it. Lynn and Jim Hester had lugged this "artifact" home from a street reconstruction site one night after the bars closed. They'd rolled it into the middle of the front room and set it up. Lynn draped a throw rug, designed like the sun, over it. At our parties, friends jumped on top and danced.
Bob got a buyer, and I got a new guy, R-, a longshoreman and merchant seaman, whom I met through a friend from North Beach. One day, I came home from work- and the kids from school- to find an eviction notice nailed to the front door. We had to be out before the month was up. Lynn bought a motor home and took off, leaving us his dog, Ralph. While adjusting to my new guy and job, I looked for a house after work and on Sundays. I found one on Beacon Street in Diamond Heights, not too far from Eureka Valley, so the kids didn't have to change schools. We had a view of downtown, the bay, the Bay Bridge- gorgeous scene at sundown with the sun's reflection glinting reddish-gold from windows on the East Bay hills; and at night, the lights on Market Street cut a brilliant white, diagonal swath from Twin Peaks to the Ferry Building. I still rode my bike to work, sailng down the hills to Market Street into the financial district. Coming home wasn’t as much fun.
 |
| View from Diamond Heights looking East,except the Transamerica Building was still being built. |
For the next year or so, I worked at the agency for a few months, then a couple more, ending up at Yosemite Insurance Company on Market near Third St. It seemed that when
I was at an agency a while, my boss would call me into his or her office and
say “I’m sorry, but you aren’t working out.” And can me. Weirdly, they all said that I was a “valuable,
experienced underwriter,” so they lined up jobs for me, gave me a good reference,
and guaranted I’d be hired. Which I
was.
On my first day at one of these short-lived jobs, I was shown a desk and a phone and that was it. Somehow, my big, beefy boss, who, unlike most agency men who could afford high quality clothes, favored dull, grey, ill-fitting suits. He walked around with his nose in the air, expected me to figure everything out on my own. He never looked at me when I asked him questions, gave me vague answers, and was rarely in his office. I didn’t know who my clients were, what insurance companies we had contracts with- anything. The files were a mess and none of my cliquish, co-workers would talk to me. It was a set up. One day, on a rare occasion when my boss was in his office, I looked up from my desk through the partly opened door and spotted R- . Working on the docks before the advent of container ships in the Port of SF in 1969, he had to shout to be heard. He carried this trait into his personal life, modulating his tone only slightly.
On my first day at one of these short-lived jobs, I was shown a desk and a phone and that was it. Somehow, my big, beefy boss, who, unlike most agency men who could afford high quality clothes, favored dull, grey, ill-fitting suits. He walked around with his nose in the air, expected me to figure everything out on my own. He never looked at me when I asked him questions, gave me vague answers, and was rarely in his office. I didn’t know who my clients were, what insurance companies we had contracts with- anything. The files were a mess and none of my cliquish, co-workers would talk to me. It was a set up. One day, on a rare occasion when my boss was in his office, I looked up from my desk through the partly opened door and spotted R- . Working on the docks before the advent of container ships in the Port of SF in 1969, he had to shout to be heard. He carried this trait into his personal life, modulating his tone only slightly.
“Hey, sweetheart!” he
bellowed, “Happened to be passin’ through from the hall [hiring hall], thought I’d
see how you were doin’!”
I went to him, took his arm, pulled him into the corridor, and tried to explain that the conservative insurance industry didn't like its employees having personal visits. This rule had been emphasized to me, as a new hire. R- said next time he'd call first. I told him we were not allowed to make or receive personal phone calls, either. (You considered it an honor and a perk when you got your own phone.) He refused to understand; miffed, he finally left. I went to the bathroom, threw cold water on my face, took a few deep breaths, and went back to work. When I got home that night he confronted me with the incident. He still didn't get it. His mother worked for the City, he said, and he’d pop in to see her several times a week, what’s the big deal? A few days later, my inattentive boss gave me the “it’s not working out” line. I wondered if R's visit had something to do with it.
I went to him, took his arm, pulled him into the corridor, and tried to explain that the conservative insurance industry didn't like its employees having personal visits. This rule had been emphasized to me, as a new hire. R- said next time he'd call first. I told him we were not allowed to make or receive personal phone calls, either. (You considered it an honor and a perk when you got your own phone.) He refused to understand; miffed, he finally left. I went to the bathroom, threw cold water on my face, took a few deep breaths, and went back to work. When I got home that night he confronted me with the incident. He still didn't get it. His mother worked for the City, he said, and he’d pop in to see her several times a week, what’s the big deal? A few days later, my inattentive boss gave me the “it’s not working out” line. I wondered if R's visit had something to do with it.
 |
| Market Street at Third |
Anyway, my boss,
at the agency (I don't remember its name ) I went to right after Continental Insurance was a Dina Merrill look-alike. She showed me my desk in the small accounts and personal
lines department, right outside the president’s office. She was a thin, icy blonde, had a noticeable
mustache, long black hair on her arms, and an atrophied leg I figured maybe
from polio. I felt sorry for her because I sensed
that her leg must turn guys off.
Well, I rationalized, most wouldn’t be sympathetic to her condition
anyway. Still, there was that mustache
and those hairs on her arms. She was placidly beautiful in silk, shirt-dresses, and wore her hair down to her shoulders. She never raised her voice.
“Dina” and others coached me about my clients; explained how to deal with insurance company special agents; and office protocol. J- the president, looked like Jimmy Stewart. Dina catered to his every whim. He was in his mid-forties, dressed in Brooks Bros ivy-league suits, suspenders, and button-down striped shirts with white collars, and pencil-thin ties. The vice president, M- was about 30, dark and swarthy, with bushy, black eyebrows and receding hairline. In dress, he was a clone of his boss. I told M- that I rode a ten-speed to work and asked him if I could bring it into the office because I’d had too many stolen when I locked them up on the street. No, I couldn’t, he said, but he arranged for me to use the freight elevator in front of the building to take it down to the basement. An old, white haired man reluctantly stopped wrangling boxes of supplies and equipment, and guided me to a cramped, dark storage room where I could lock my bike. Great, I thought. I could hardly see and the overhead light didn't work.
“Dina” and others coached me about my clients; explained how to deal with insurance company special agents; and office protocol. J- the president, looked like Jimmy Stewart. Dina catered to his every whim. He was in his mid-forties, dressed in Brooks Bros ivy-league suits, suspenders, and button-down striped shirts with white collars, and pencil-thin ties. The vice president, M- was about 30, dark and swarthy, with bushy, black eyebrows and receding hairline. In dress, he was a clone of his boss. I told M- that I rode a ten-speed to work and asked him if I could bring it into the office because I’d had too many stolen when I locked them up on the street. No, I couldn’t, he said, but he arranged for me to use the freight elevator in front of the building to take it down to the basement. An old, white haired man reluctantly stopped wrangling boxes of supplies and equipment, and guided me to a cramped, dark storage room where I could lock my bike. Great, I thought. I could hardly see and the overhead light didn't work.
"It'll be safe there," he said, then went on, "Look, honey, I close shop exactly at five and if you ain't down here to load your bike on the elevator by 4:59, too bad!" There were times I barely made it.
M- visited the break room one noon, which officers rarely did. He asked me how storing my bike in the basement was
working out. He used to lock his bike down there, he said.
“I rode my
bike in to the City every morning from Sausalito. It was a beautiful ride both ways, across the
Golden Gate Bridge. I loved it."
“I can imagine,” I said, “Do you still ride? I guess you can park your bike in your office, now.”
“Oh, no. Ever since I got a promotion to
vice-president, I stopped. I really miss
it.”
“Why didn’t you keep
riding?”
“What? And ruin my image!”
I was beginning to feel that commuting by bike would jeopardize my chances for a promotion. As a woman, it was hard enough to get recognition, a raise, and a title, let alone have riding a bike to work be a factor. It came down to what I loved the most: the job or riding my bike. That day, K- a helpful co-worker, who was married to a Filipino, brought in home-made dishes to share. K- offered M- some chicken adobo. He thanked her, said he’d just eaten, and left.
I was beginning to feel that commuting by bike would jeopardize my chances for a promotion. As a woman, it was hard enough to get recognition, a raise, and a title, let alone have riding a bike to work be a factor. It came down to what I loved the most: the job or riding my bike. That day, K- a helpful co-worker, who was married to a Filipino, brought in home-made dishes to share. K- offered M- some chicken adobo. He thanked her, said he’d just eaten, and left.
“I’ve never known
anyone to refuse chicken adobo, except vegetarians. Wonder what he’d of done if I’d offered him
balut,” K-said
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Duck embryo in the shell.”
 | ||
| Commuting by bike on Market Street in the pre-helmet days. |
Julie, a slender
brunette about my age was hired shortly after me. Inspired by my method of commuting, she
bought a ten-speed. She had an easy,
short ride down a few hills from her place on lower Nob Hill. She didn’t come in one day and was a no-show
for over a week. Personnel told me she’d
had a bad accident on her bike, but couldn’t give me any details. Almost two weeks later, I looked up from my
desk and saw her standing there with a scar on her forehead that ran from
her hairline, across her forehead to just above her left eyebrow. She saw the expression on my face,
“It’s
okay, really,” she said, nonchalantly.
“I’m glad I’m alive. I learned my
lesson,” she went on: “Never hang a big
heavy bag over handlebars. Mine got
caught between the fork and the wheel when I was speeding down the hills, and my bike suddenly stopped! I got thrown over the handlebars and landed
on my face in the street! It’s funny,
but I don’t remember anything, except being in the hospital with this huge
bandage on my head. The nurses and
everyone told me what happened, and how they tweezed
all the debris from my cut and cleaned it.
There was lots of blood. Hey, I could’ve died! But I’m not
giving up! I bought a new bike and rode
in this morning.” I admired her
spunk. She became a good friend.
One morning, J- came
out of his office, stood in front of our desks and said,
“I am tired of seeing
the sloppy way you people attach forms to our client files. Some are stapled, some are scotch taped, some
torn at the corners and folded over.
What are you? Kindergartners?” He paced back and forth, with his thumbs
hooked into his suspenders. “After
lunch,” he went on, consulting his watch, “promptly at one, I want to see all
of you in my office. I’m going to give
you lessons on exactly how to attach forms to our copies of clients’ policies!” He turned, marched into his office. The glass in his door vibrated when he
slammed it. We turned to look at each
other, stifling giggles.
“Should we synchronize
our watches?” someone asked, and we all broke up. Dina was not pleased.
Like good little
soldiers or naughty school kids sent to see the principal, we were in his office at
one and were there for the rest of the day as ringing phones swamped the receptionist. J-, with Dina at his side, instructed us to line up in
front of his desk. He stood at it with
files and forms spread out on top.
“First, I will demonstrate how I want each of you to attach forms
to files. Then, come up to my desk one
by one and do exactly what I’m about to show you. I want you to fully understand this procedure.” Like a magician, he swept
something from behind his back: a bottle of Le Page’s glue. Dutifully, we stood next to him, watching, as he carefully swiped the glue-laden rubber tip neatly across the top of a
form and glued it to our copy of a client’s policy. Smiling, he looked at us, sighing, with satisfaction. Then it was our turn.
Next up: Chapter 9, Part Three. I am invisible, short shorts. I land a senior underwriters job at Yosemite Insurance; and a surreal experience at a fly-by-night company in the brand new Bank of America building, with the black sculpture in front that the late Herb Caen presciently dubbed: "The Banker's Heart." And: is there some law against riding a bike in an empty hallway after hours?
