Chapter 11, Part One: At the New Transamerica Pyramid-Freezing, almost passing out, and the Great Pantsuit Conspiracy

The controversial (at the time) Transamerica Pyramid

I walked down Kearney to Montgomery and Washington Streets to the brand new Transamerica Pyramid building which was completed in 1972, replacing a parking lot on the site of the old Montgomery Block, which had been demolished, not without protest.  Monkey Block, as it was affectionately called, was once the tallest structure in San Francisco at four stories- and earthquake proof.  It offered space for writers, artists, and bohemians, as well as  restaurants and cheap housing, boasting famous tenants such as  Mark Twain and Dr. Sun Yat-sen, since its opening its 1853. 

Montgomer Block 1930s (w/early 1940s parked Chev or Pontiac coupe. )

Montgomery Block (far right) after 1906 EQ and Fire.

Transamerica Insurance had opened an office on the 10^th floor and were hiring.  I was glad to be working for a large, well-known company with lots of employees, again.  I could just do my work, keep my head down and not make waves.

 The bugs had not been fixed in heating system and our hands froze until the problem was resolved. Some of us wore mittens or gloves.  My desk was in the front row where fellow workers and bosses passed by, as well as visitors, and agents bringing old and new business to us.  Beyond it was a bank of file cabinets over which I could see people working in another department.  Telephones rang constantly, and conversations and raucous laughter traveled unobstructed.  It was hard to concentrate.

A corporate rest area

My boss, an owlish, old man with thinning grey hair and thick glasses, always wore his proverbial baggy, shiny brown suit.  His desk (he didn’t rate an office), was perpendicular to mine, three desks away.   What was neat about a big company is that it had an in-house medical facility a few floors up from mine, with  a recovery room with comfortable cots and warm blankets.  After a few months, I found that I was literally falling asleep at my desk.  I’d make myself stay awake until break, then drag myself up to the recovery room, check in with the nurse on duty.  I just had to say, “I’m not feeling well” and she’d direct me to a bed, saying, “I’ll wake you in 15 minutes.”  No one seemed to notice I was gone.  I’d read that an outbreak of mononucleosis was affecting college students, so I felt maybe that’s what I had, but was never formally diagnosed and no one else in the office had symptoms.   I was still riding my bike to work, seeing the kids off to school after breakfast .  The sleepiness just hit me on the job, after lunch I was okay.  But this went on for weeks.  Then I had a realistic dream:  I saw myself sitting down to my usual breakfast of coffee, a piece of raison toast, and a slice of orange.  That was it.  I figured the dream was telling me that I needed to start the day with something more substantial.  I could never stand eggs in any style, so I ended up eating a bowl of oatmeal with the kids after I'd whipped up an omelet for Robert before he went off to the docks.  It seemed to work; but even so, I'd sneak upstairs to crash every so often at breaktime.

More and more white collar companies were allowing their female employees to wear pant-suits.  I didn’t care one way or another, but it seemed a lot of women at TA started to complain about our dress-code which strictly forbade pants.  Still, we could wear miniskirts that barely covered our butts and that was fine. 

  Women started whining to the personnel department and their bosses, like, “Gee, why can’t we wear pantsuits.  The women at (insert name ) are wearing them.”  “Yes, but they’re a brokerage house (or law firm ), not an insurance company,” was the excuse.    The bosses got so sick of the whining, they allowed women to wear pantsuits for a two-week trial period.  The rules were that the top and bottoms had to match in color, style and fabric, worn with white blouses, and high heels. No boots.

The file clerks, mostly Filipinas, started coming to work in what looked to me like silk or rayon pajamas: sheer, glittery fabrics with colorful patterns, flowing, loose jackets and flared pants; but hey, the tops and bottoms matched.  Yet some women didn’t get it and began showing up in all kinds of mismatched outfits,

Various examples of pantsuit styles

 so after two weeks, the trial period ended and the formal dress code restored.  Women basically went on an unplanned, unformed strike.  They spent so much time sitting around complaining and whining about the injustice done to them, hardly any work got done.  I needed  risks rated that I had underwritten; I needed policies and endorsements typed, files filed, and mail “girls” to pick up and distribute mail.  Something had to be done.  I started a petition.  Women who wouldn’t sign told me they were afraid they’d lose their jobs; still, I got more than half the women’s signatures and we were once again allowed to wear pantsuits.

One day, I showed up in a form-fitting, one-piece, tailored, scoop neck, dark brown sleeveless jumpsuit with calf-length flared pants (oh, yeah, boots), with a rust colored long-sleeve blouse underneath.  Mid-morning, the head of personnel- a nice-looking man with thick silvery hair combed straight back-  leaned my on desk, his face inches from mine, and whispered, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to go home and change.”  I was stunned.  “Why?” 

“Because your outfit does not meet the dress code.”   I had promised myself I would not make waves.

“Mr_____, I am completely covered. I’m wearing a conservative, dark outfit, while the majority of women look like they’re ready for bed.”

“Keep your voice down.  Please.”  Co-workers were staring.

“Look,” I went on, “I’m right in the middle of a renewal that has to go to typing immediately so the policy can be mailed out tomorrow before it expires (I took a chance he didn't know about binders).   It’ll take me over an hour to get home and back, not counting how long it will take me to change.  You really want me to leave?”

“Well, okay, but I’m putting you on notice.  Do not wear that outfit here again, is that clear?”

This would not be the first time at TA I would be called on the carpet for what I wore to work.

Still to come:  Part Two:  The above, and spied and reported on by an obese female employee who watched me in the Redwood Park during lunch break.
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Strange noise in the bathroom emanating from same obese female's activities with tiny Filipinas.

My locked bike disappears from the building's lobby.  I'm tipped off by the building manager.

I'm offered a job with a small agency, for much, much more money.  Do I take it? Stay tuned . . .