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.

.