CHAPTER 10, Part Three: Post-party depression, Werner’s girlfriend, I fly to LA for training, a not-so secret scandal.

I could smell it as soon as I got off the elevator Friday morning:  rotting fish.  It was nauseating.  Despite Werner’s assurance, no one had cleaned up.  The B of A janitors only emptied ashtrays and vacuumed; they couldn’t be bothered with wastebaskets filled with food encrusted paper plates.    I dumped everything into huge plastic bags, went to the bathroom  for paper towels, pumped the soap dispenser on them,  and started cleaning.  Candy wandered in and got busy, too, scrubbing down desks, cabinets and  the executive offices. An after-hours maintenance man had shown me once, when I was working late, the secret of opening a window in the hi-rise by using  a key kept in Jim and Teddy’s desk, which was never locked.  I found it and swung the window open a crack to air the place out.  Then Candy and I dragged the full plastic bags into the hall and left them in front of the service elevator.   Werner showed up.  We complained about having to clean up the mess, but he wasn’t hearing us.
         Riding my bike home from the party last night, I had thought about what Werner had said.  He didn’t think I looked  "dressy” or “feminine" enough.   I’d worn a two-piece black and white crepe dress:  The top was white, scoop-neck, ¾ length sleeves; the bottom was black flared culottes that hit me just below the knees.  I’d added a string of pearls and pearl earrings.  What was not “dressy” about it?  It was one of my favorites because I could wear it to special occasions yet ride my bike.  Candy had worn a rose-colored, very low-cut, tight, sparkly nylon dress with a sarong skirt and black flats.

               Now, he paced the office, scratching his butt.   “Girls, I’ve got to go check in at our Sacramento branch and I’m stopping off to see my girlfriend."  He sweated and strode from his office into our area and back, mopping his forehead and bald head with his hanky.  “I need to get her a present.  Candy, go out and buy a hairdryer.  Have it gift wrapped.  And make it fast.   I’m leaving soon as you get back.”  Candy and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes.  Werner gave her a 20; she took off.  I started going through my inbox and calling agents.  Werner stomped out of his office,

“It’s too Goddamn hot in there.  How do I turn the damn heat down?  Come and take a look, will yah?”  It seemed he couldn’t figure out which way to turn the knob to “Cold” though arrows plainly showed the direction.   I explained, then demonstrated.  My phone rang. “Go answer that!”  he barked, fiddling with the knob, sweating and swearing. 

 

                A few minutes later, he came out of his office musing about his girlfriend.  He told me she was a waitress at the Nut Tree Café where he stopped for coffee before going on to the Rodeway Inn where he stayed when he had business in the Capitol.   He went on about how he hadn’t got up the nerve to sleep with her yet.  I really didn’t want to know.   Candy came back, saving me from having to hear any more.  She handed him the gift in a Woolworth shopping bag; he grabbed his jacket and left.  I told her what he’d said.  She sneered,

                “Yeah, I heard it all before.  Man, the guy’s been married for a hundred years.  He’s got twenty-thirty-year-old kids, for fuck’s sake.  He’s such a creep.” 

           Werner reminded me of Willie Loman in Death of a Salesman.  He was "running scared,"  always pacing and sweating.   He'd leave sweaty hand prints on my desk.  I felt he was afraid he'd do something wrong and Teddy and Jim would get rid of him.  He couldn't stay behind his desk for more than a few minutes, unless he was on the phone with agents or friends.  He never shut his door.   I almost felt sorry for him until I overheard his side of the conversation which was lewd with four letter words and totally disrespectful of women  He used the "c" word when referring to them.   Once, when I closed his door, he stormed out.

     "Leave my fuckin' door open, will yah?  It's too Goddamn hot in there!" he'd hollered.

        

          Candy typed up a few letters, then left.  It was two o’clock.   It was quiet.  I liked being alone.  I caught up on a lot of work, and made some calls.   I took my break in the guys’ offices, closed and locked the window, and gazed down at traffic on Pine St going east and west; teensy people hustling along.  Peaceful wasn’t to last when Candy finally quit and they hired Shirley, the inept secretary.  She didn’t last either, and the next one was Linda, I think, a willowy girl in her mid-twenties.

Linda grew up in San Francisco, but when she married, her husband didn’t want to raise their kids in the city, so they moved to the Peninsula.    She missed the city terribly, she told me.  One quiet Friday afternoon before a holiday on Monday, Werner was out and Teddy and Jim were in LA, so about two o’clock, I forwarded the phones to the answering service, closed the office, and took her for a cable car ride to Fisherman’s Wharf.  From there, we walked to Aquatic Park and back.  She told me she missed Golden Gate Park and recalled playing there as a kid and strolling through it with friends.  She said she was sad her kids wouldn’t be able to do that.  Her husband didn’t even want to visit.  He hated the idea of her working in the City, but he did, too.  He picked her up after work every day and they drove home together.  After we got back, she thanked me and said she’d remember our outing forever.

                 The following Tuesday morning, Werner called me into his office.  He was furious.

                “How could you just close the office for a whole afternoon without authorization?” he yelled.

                “It was a Friday before a holiday,” I explained, “Nothing was going on.  It was just for a couple of hours anyway.”  And I told him why.
 

                “Well, you’re going to miss ‘Frisco [I winced] for a couple of days.   Jim and Teddy want you in LA at the home office Thursday and Friday for training."

A 1970s "stewardess"

                I had to be in the LA office by 9AM.  I got up at five, took Sam Trans to the airport, and caught the commuter flight to LAX.  As I boarded and found my seat in the business class, I was surprised to find that I was only one of two women out of a plane-load of men.    The “stewardesses (now flight attendants)” all but ignored us as they fawned over the suits, bringing them coffee, pastries and drinks.    I finally got some attention and ordered a glass of orange juice and a bearclaw, which she took her time getting.  I watched her pander to the men, stepping from seat by seat, leaning over them-  a hand on a shoulder, and a huge smile.

                Al, a man from LAM, with hair the color of paste with a face to match, wearing thick, rimless glasses picked me up.  He was wearing a short-sleeve, white, nylon shirt and grey slacks.  He asked me about the weather in SF and went on and on about the smog and heat in LA.  He drove me to the two-story stucco motel I’d be staying in that night   It had an exterior glass elevator looking out on bungalows, withered palm trees, and garbage bins.  The company had booked me a room on the second floor.

      "It's s a nice, comfortable little place," he said.  "You’ll like it.  It’s only a block away  from the office, across the street from the Ambassador Hotel, just around a corner on a side street.”

a bungalow court

 

Taking the elevator up one flight seemed dumb, so Al lugged my suitcase up the stairs to my room, which smelled like bubble gum and Lysol.  He waited while I freshened up.  I felt strange being in LA again, a decade later.  St. Paul was in the same area.  I had neither the time nor the inclination to find it or visit my old place on Alvarado.  I couldn't wait to get back home.

Once in the office, Al introduced me to the branch manager, Mr. D (Jim and Teddy were nowhere in sight), who turned me over to Carla, a sweet, older Latina with long, thick, brown hair.  She wore a spiffy tailored suit with a skirt and Cuban heels.  She gestured to an unoccupied desk, handed me an employee handbook the size of a phone book, told me to read it, and left me alone.   I couldn’t keep my eyes open.   I surreptitiously observed the others and noticed that Al spent a lot of time at Carla’s desk.  At noon, she came and got me and we all went to lunch at a nearby café.  They sat very close, touched hands, and murmured.  I concentrated on my turkey sandwich and the entertainment section of the LA Times someone had left.   Al picked up the tab.  I spent the rest of the day flipping pages in the handbook.  One of the rules was that employees were not to fraternize.  Still, during the afternoon break, I saw Carla and Al (not their real names) holding hands as they walked out of the office.  I turned to Blanche, a woman sitting at a nearby desk,

             “I thought employees weren’t supposed to fraternize.  It says right here.”

“Oh, you mean Carla and Al?  Oh, that’s been going on for a long time.    He’s married but his wife won’t give him a divorce.  We all know about it, but just look the other way!”  She laughed.

Blanche was tasked with showing me the routine of handling new and renewal business.  Not any different from other companies I'd worked for.  I read lists of agents LAM did business with, in and around LA, from San Bernardino to Pomona, and almost as far south as San Diego.  Mainly, she just wanted me to watch her write up policies and endorsements, and take notes as she got on the phone with agents; she then talked to me about procedures:  We weren’t allowed to leave the building except for lunch, so I had to drink the awful coffee in the break room. 

                At the end of the day, Mr. D, approached me, grinning, and asked me how I liked working at Los Angeles Mutual, and how everything was going.

“Fine, fine,” I said, “everyone is so helpful and friendly.”

“Well, we’re all just one happy family here,” he paused, “I understand you’re staying at a nearby motel.  Do you want Al to escort you there?” 

“No, no.  I know where it is.  Thanks, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?  I mean . . ."

“I’ll be fine.  Thanks.”    I picked up my stuff and left.

 It was dusk.  The sky was a smoky, yellowish grey with pink and red-hi-lights.    The humid, fetid air smelled of flowers and garbage.  I took the glass elevator to my room.  It creaked, rumbled and shook.   It had gotten dark.  I couldn’t see anything because the lights were on in it.  I called the kids.  RK was roasting a chicken (he was a great cook) while they hung out with their friends outside.  I’d be flying home the next afternoon, so I’d be back that night.  Al was driving me to the airport.

The Ambassador Hotel

I went to the same café for dinner, saving my receipt.  I fell asleep immediately and woke at 6.  I packed my suitcase and left, leaving a couple of dollars on the dresser.  I laughed to myself at the thought of taking the elevator down, but I did, to see the view it afforded.   I treated myself on LAM’s dime to a good breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast and coffee at the Ambassador Hotel, feeling like a celebrity, sitting in a leather upholstered booth, surrounded by photographs of movie stars.  I peeked in at the Coconut Grove.  At the office, I resumed reading the handbook; Blanche let me take a few calls, work up some endorsements on a couple of policies, and underwrite new business, subject to her approval.  At noon, Mr. D stopped by my desk to tell me that he was glad to have met me and that I was a good fit for the company.  I said goodbye to Blanche and Carla and thanked them.  Al drove me to the airport.  He surprised me by saying,

“About me and Carla-"

“-Look, it’s none of my business, Al,” I said.  ”Really, okay?  Everyone knows anyway, so . . . big deal.”  He was quiet the rest of the drive except to say goodbye.  I would see them again during the Christmas holidays when I flew down for the office party. 

Next up:  Chapter 10, Part Four:  Werner flips out-  again.  The office Christmas party.  Teddy and Jim give us measly bonus checks.  Werner shows off a lewd Christmas card.  Big surprise.  I tell Werner off.