CHAPTER 10, Part Four: Los Angeles Mutual Insurance Co. Werner flips out-again. The office Christmas party. Bonuses, and more . . .

Every commercial property insurance company employs either an engineer or inspector, or contracts out for one.  Los Angeles Mutual had under contract an older, grey-haired man, near retirement.  I’ll call him Henry.  He was tall but stooped, lanky, arthritic, and somewhat hard-of-hearing.  He would shuffle into the office every now and then in his shapeless tweed overcoat and brown wingtips, carrying a worn, leather briefcase containing either updated reports or new ones on properties our agents wanted us to insure, and blank forms.  Linda and I questioned his ability to clamber around buildings, inspect stairways, elevators, roofs, utility rooms, etc., carrying his tape measure, strut locators,  and other devices as well as a magnifying glass to check out window frames (outside and inside).  How could he do it?   He had no assistant as far as we knew.

The Olema Inn today

One morning, Werner threw a new application on my desk for a building I knew all too well:  The old Olema Hotel on Hwy 1 between Olema and Bolinas.  It had been vacant for as long as I could remember, having ridden my 10-speed past it countless times on trips from West Marin to Point Reyes.  I asked him why we were going to insure this old wooden, building in the middle of a grassy field, on an embankment bordering on the St. Andreas fault line.  Werner grunted:

            “We need the business.  I’m sending Henry out to look at it.”

            “Don’t waste his time,” I said. “It’s a firetrap.  A really bad risk if there’s a fire.  The whole thing will go-”

            -“I’ll see what Henry says.  Now, get back work.”

            “I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” I said.  I found out later that the new owner was going to remodel it and turn it into a bed and breakfast.  After all, it was a historic building dating back before the ’06 earthquake.

            It was 1973, and Nixon declared the Vietnam War over and the last troops were sent home.  There was no parade, no welcomes at airports.  The war was an embarrassment, a shame and the poor draftees bore the brunt of it and, except for a small population in a  few sections of the country, were treated abominably by the public and given shoddy care in VA hospitals, as in Oliver Stone’s 1989 film, “Born on the Fourth of July.” 

Uncredited illustration from "Cherries- A Vietnam War Novel” by John Podlaski.

“We were treated like outcasts, blamed for a war we didn’t start, accused of killing innocent women and children, called dope heads, spit at and ridiculed by citizens most of the way to Michigan.  Don’t get me wrong, I did meet some very generous and friendly people on the way, but they were solely the minority and far and few in between.  Some uniformed soldiers with missing limbs were jeered at and told that they deserved their fate…” From Cherries- A Vietnam War Novel” by John Podlaski.

 

Wounded Knee

 Native Americans seized Wounded Knee, holding it for 90 days in protest of violations to American Indian treaties over the past centuries.

Los Angeles Mutual held their Christmas Party at the Home Office.   Linda and her husband flew down early that morning.  I took a later flight, seeing first that my kids were set up for the day.   I had a return ticket for the next morning.  As I discovered, the whole affair was so tawdry, I arranged to leave that night with a couple who agreed to drive me to the Burbank airport. 

            Jim had opened the office folding doors between two conference rooms.  Food-laden tables- along with a few upholstered chairs- lined the walls. I poured myself a glass of red wine and nibbled on a half baloney and cheese sandwich.  An employee played bartender, mixing drinks.  The big event was when Jim gave out of the bonuses; there was a drawing for joke gifts.  After a couple of hours, I didn’t see Linda or her husband.  I figured they’d left.  The only people I knew were Jim, Teddy, Werner, Al and Carla; and Jim’s secretary, Angie.    but no one talked to me.  People huddled in little groups.  I had once learned the art of small talk and that one of the ‘ins” for succeeding at this social "skill" is to approach a group, listen to the conversation for a minute or two, get the gist and just start talking.  I tried it, but still I was invisible.  Fine.  I went out on a balcony.  I was alone.  I smoked a joint Robert had given me that I’d stashed in my wallet,  and watched the sunset- beautiful through the smog.

LA Sunset through the smog

When I went back inside, Jim was handing out our bonus checks.  Angie whooped and hollered, read hers aloud: “1000 bucks!”  I opened my envelope, took a look:  $50.  Better than nothing.  Werner opened his: $1500!  Wait- there was a card, too.  “It’s me!” he guffawed and held it up

for all to see.   On the front was a cartoon, showing a bald fat man sitting on a low stool.  Straddling his head was a nude woman, her pubic hair, his toupee.  More whooping and hollering.  Werner passed it around so people could get a closer look.  When it came my turn, I just handed it to the next person.  The couple who volunteered to drive me to the airport told me they were ready to leave.  I called home, said I was on my way.  I was home by ten.  Robert and the kids were listening to Stevie Wonder’s “Sunshine of my Life,” and doing homework.   It was late.  Bedtime.

            “How’d it go?” Robert asked me.

            “I really hate company parties,” I said, pouring myself a glass of wine.

           
Werner fired me a week later.

We were behind in getting policies out and making changes by endorsement on existing ones.  He saw me typing one.

“You’re not supposed to type those.  They’re supposed to be handwritten.  You give ‘em to Linda to type.”

“But Werner, we’re so far behind, this is faster," I said, "Writing them out makes absolutely no sense at all."

“I don’t care!  It's office procedure!” he argued, sweat beading on his head, dripping down his forehead.  He wiped his head and face with a big white hanky, and drew it across the back of his neck.

“Werner,” I said, “we could do that if we had a typing pool, but we don’t.  We have Linda.  She's your secretary.  Sure, she types policies and endorsements, too, but since we were so far behind, why can’t I type them?  Why double the work?”
  What year was this?  Typewriters had been around since the 1860s.  I rolled one into my IBM Selectric and typed away while looking at the change request.   Werner huffed, flapping his arms, then shoved the hanky into his pocket.

The next morning, I hadn’t even taken off my coat when Werner called me into his office.

            “I’m letting you go,” he said, not looking at me.  He slid an envelope across his desk.  “It’s two weeks’ pay plus unused vacation pay.”

            “Why?”

            “You don’t meet our requirements.”

            “Oh, it’s because I typed those endorse”-  He didn't let me finish.

            -“Get out of my office; get your things and go!”

            I couldn’t stop myself, words just tumbled out of my mouth.

            “Werner.  You are running scared.  I can see and smell your flop sweat.   You’re terrified Jim and Teddy will can you-”  I was on a roll, yet calm, “but you'll probably die of a heart attack first.”

            I turned around, walked out and slammed the door.  Before I realized it, I was on the Banker’s Heart Plaza, my legs shaking.

Next:  Chapter 11, Part One.  The TransAmerica Pyramid.  Mononucleosis.  Lured away by better pay.