“Ah-hem,” my boss, Mr._________, began. (I don’t remember his
name.)
“Yes, what is it?”I asked, sitting in the hot seat in front of his desk.
“That outfit you wore the other day-“
“That outfit you wore the other day-“
“What? What
‘outfit’?” I struggled to recall what I
wore to work in the past few days and came up with nothing. I couldn’t remember what I’d worn yesterday,
let alone a couple of days ago. “I don’t
know what you’re talking about.”
“Uh, those, those, uh – ROBES.”
“I’m sorry but I have no idea what you mean.” Then it dawned on me. “You mean the striped dress?-“
“-Yes,” he said, leaning forward, fluorescent lights
glinting off his rimless glasses, “those ROBES.”
I almost burst out laughing. Not long after the Big Pantsuit Brouhaha, I had come down with a cold, stayed home for a couple of days, then went back to work. I still felt a chill so dressed warm: lavender knit-cotton turtleneck and purple, cotton-knit pants underneath a long-sleeve, calf-length dress I had made from a lavender, purple, and white striped Indian cotton bedspread: surplice bodice, and self-belt. A couple of days later, I’d been at my desk for an hour or so when my boss phoned me from about 20 feet away. “I want to talk to you,” he said. My “uh-oh” response kicked in. I walked over to his desk wondering what in the hell was so important. But he’s the boss. When he told me, I was flummoxed. So it was okay, I repeat, for us to traipse around in miniskirts. He and other male bosses never complained about them, not even when underwear or more showed if we bent over to open a file drawer. But it was not okay to cover ourselves completely from ankle to chin.
I almost burst out laughing. Not long after the Big Pantsuit Brouhaha, I had come down with a cold, stayed home for a couple of days, then went back to work. I still felt a chill so dressed warm: lavender knit-cotton turtleneck and purple, cotton-knit pants underneath a long-sleeve, calf-length dress I had made from a lavender, purple, and white striped Indian cotton bedspread: surplice bodice, and self-belt. A couple of days later, I’d been at my desk for an hour or so when my boss phoned me from about 20 feet away. “I want to talk to you,” he said. My “uh-oh” response kicked in. I walked over to his desk wondering what in the hell was so important. But he’s the boss. When he told me, I was flummoxed. So it was okay, I repeat, for us to traipse around in miniskirts. He and other male bosses never complained about them, not even when underwear or more showed if we bent over to open a file drawer. But it was not okay to cover ourselves completely from ankle to chin.
“Don’t ever wear
those ROBES again, understand?”
I went to the bathroom and released my suppressed, hysterical laughter. Linda (I think was her name) walked in,"What's so funny?" When I told her, she said, “Did you ask him what would happen if you did wear those ROBES again?”
I went to the bathroom and released my suppressed, hysterical laughter. Linda (I think was her name) walked in,"What's so funny?" When I told her, she said, “Did you ask him what would happen if you did wear those ROBES again?”
“No, I was afraid if I opened my mouth I’d laugh in his
face."
I needed this job. I didn’t want to get fired. But I came close- again. Someone spied on me during my lunch break.
Meanwhile, reports stated that by the end of 1975, 44% of married women were employed. By 1976, Bicentennial celebrations were planned and, throughout the year, went on all over the country; Jimmy Carter was elected president.
At TA, Filipinas did the grunt work: filing, the mail; some were in the typing pool; they assembled policies and forms and stapled them, put them in folders to deliver to us, and generally ran errands. They seemed always to be cheerful. I'd had noticed a stocky, heavy-set woman underwriter in Inland Marin who looked like a girls’ PE instructor, following- stalking, in today's parlance- and teasing a petite, gamin-faced Filipina I’ll call Perla. She had short, wiry brown hair, always wore white and spoke with a German accent. One day, I was in a stall in the bathroom and heard giggling and a voice that sounded like Perla's saying, “Stop, stop, that tickles, stop,” and more giggling and more pleas to stop. I heard a noise I knew came from an obese person sitting down hard on a toilet (which literally makes the commode in the adjoining stalls jump, which is weird); a door banged open, then the bathroom door opened and closed. I left the stall and went to the sink to wash my hands. In the mirror, I could see looming up behind me Perla's tormentor; her face was flushed. I got out of there fast. I was appalled at what I felt sure was going on. In those days, you didn't report what is now known as "sexual harassment."
So, a little more than a month after the “Robe” warning, my boss again called me to his desk. What th’ hell? I asked myself. My work was caught up, I’d been getting to work on time, abiding by the limits set for lunch and coffee breaks, I was dressing appropriately, was clean and neat; no hippie clothes, psychedelic colors, or jewelry; beads, leathers, feathers and fringe. What now?
I needed this job. I didn’t want to get fired. But I came close- again. Someone spied on me during my lunch break.
 |
| 1976 Bicentennial poster |
Meanwhile, reports stated that by the end of 1975, 44% of married women were employed. By 1976, Bicentennial celebrations were planned and, throughout the year, went on all over the country; Jimmy Carter was elected president.
 |
| Jimmy Carter and his wife, Rosalynn |
At TA, Filipinas did the grunt work: filing, the mail; some were in the typing pool; they assembled policies and forms and stapled them, put them in folders to deliver to us, and generally ran errands. They seemed always to be cheerful. I'd had noticed a stocky, heavy-set woman underwriter in Inland Marin who looked like a girls’ PE instructor, following- stalking, in today's parlance- and teasing a petite, gamin-faced Filipina I’ll call Perla. She had short, wiry brown hair, always wore white and spoke with a German accent. One day, I was in a stall in the bathroom and heard giggling and a voice that sounded like Perla's saying, “Stop, stop, that tickles, stop,” and more giggling and more pleas to stop. I heard a noise I knew came from an obese person sitting down hard on a toilet (which literally makes the commode in the adjoining stalls jump, which is weird); a door banged open, then the bathroom door opened and closed. I left the stall and went to the sink to wash my hands. In the mirror, I could see looming up behind me Perla's tormentor; her face was flushed. I got out of there fast. I was appalled at what I felt sure was going on. In those days, you didn't report what is now known as "sexual harassment."
So, a little more than a month after the “Robe” warning, my boss again called me to his desk. What th’ hell? I asked myself. My work was caught up, I’d been getting to work on time, abiding by the limits set for lunch and coffee breaks, I was dressing appropriately, was clean and neat; no hippie clothes, psychedelic colors, or jewelry; beads, leathers, feathers and fringe. What now?
In the late sixties, I had begun
meditating and practicing yoga which I kept up pretty
regularly. Redwood Park is a beautiful little park right next to the
Pyramid building; the landscaping includes a small
grove of towering redwoods over sculpted lawns and fountains; little niches where you could be alone.
Sometimes, during lunch break, like on that particular day, I’d sit on the grass in a half-lotus and meditate. I hung up the phone , ambled over to his desk, and sat down. He leaned forward and whispered,
 |
| Redwood Park |
Sometimes, during lunch break, like on that particular day, I’d sit on the grass in a half-lotus and meditate. I hung up the phone , ambled over to his desk, and sat down. He leaned forward and whispered,
“What were you doing out there?”
“When?" I looked around, "Out
where?” Again, flummoxed.
“In the park.
Yesterday.”
I tried to think. Could it be?- “Oh, you mean meditating?”
“If that’s what you call it.”
“Uh, I'm sorry, but that's what it is" you jerk, I wanted to add,- "My understanding is, Mr._____, lunch break is our own time. Not the company’s.”
“Well, what you were doing”-
-“Meditating”-
-“doesn’t reflect well on the company.” (Oh, f- - - , I didn't want to discuss it any further.)
“How would anyone know I worked for Transamerica?”
“That’s not the point.
One of our employees saw you from the window and complained. Others saw you too. It was disruptive. They were, uh, laughing.”
“I’m sorry, my time’s my own during lunch and
I can do with it what I please.”
“Listen, dear, you’re one of our best underwriters, I wouldn’t want to lose you,” he subtly warned me. He looked
sad. I found another area in the park out of range of the 11th floor windows. Later, Perla told me she’d seen me at my boss’s desk, guessed what it was about and said that it was her stalker who'd ratted on me. "She bothers my friends, too," she said. So, the spy turned out to be this warped woman. I figured she had to get something on me
because I'd heard what went on in the bathroom and had seen her. She wants me gone. "Try to stay away from her, Perla."
Of
the many rules in the handbook was no fraternizing. I rarely make friends with co-workers, but Linda, in the casualty department, and I had similar likes and dislikes. She was tall, willowy, with
jet-black hair worn in a chignon. She reminded me of Geraldine Chaplin: a thin face with great
cheekbones. She wore glasses with thick
black rims which only added to her mystique; fitted jackets and pencil-thin skirts, and medium, high-heels. I had planned a party for Hallowe’en
and to introduce my friends to CH, my new man
(Seems every time I changed jobs, I changed men), and invited Linda. She surprised me by showing up with a guy from work. I knew nothing about this though I saw
them every day. They were totally
discreet. No one knew. I don’t recall his name. I didn’t like him much. I could see him in profile over a bank of waist-high file cabinets. He looked like a thin Drew Cary, chewed gum
constantly with his mouth hanging open, and seemed always to be on the phone.
I never asked Linda what she saw in him. That night she asked me not to tell a soul
about their relationship. I told
her I felt bad that she didn’t trust
me. She said, “You can’t be too
careful.” In any case, they appeared to have a great
time and I liked him more when I saw him in a new light- dancing in his
hippie denim outfit with Linda in her spot-on
Pocahontas costume.
It started pouring rain one morning just as I reached the building. Not wanting to lock my bike outside, I wheeled it into the spacious lobby and secured it to a brass railing in an area no one used.
When I left work that night, it was gone.
I’d had several bikes stolen over the years, so I wasn’t as angry and upset
as I had been in the past. Still, my heart sank. I’d just
have to save up to buy another. I was a
regular customer at Paul’s Valencia Cyclery shop and whenever I’d walk in sans
a bike, he’d say, “What? Not another one
ripped off.” The next morning, an older, balding man with a Poirot mustache, wearing a suit and tie and carrying a clipboard, approached me
in the lobby as I entered the building.
“Miss, I know where your bike is,” he said, “It’s in the utility room in the basement.”
“Miss, I know where your bike is,” he said, “It’s in the utility room in the basement.”
“What? How did it get there?
Who?-“
-“The security guard cut the lock and took it down there-“
-“The security guard cut the lock and took it down there-“
-“He stole my bike!
This is bizarre.” I was
pissed. “Why?”
“Look,” he said, “I know you’re angry. I’m the building manager, here’s my
card.” I looked at it, he had a Spanish
or Latin American name.
“The guard,” he went on, “removed it because it was a
safety hazard.”
“But it wasn’t in anyone’s way," I protested. "How the hell was I supposed to know where it
was if you hadn’t told me! He could have
talked to me, told me not to ever lock it up inside again.” The more I thought about the audacity of that
guy to just take my bike, the madder I got.
It was just too much.
“Meet me by the service elevator when you get off work. What time?”
“Four forty-five.”
“Four forty-five.”
“Okay. Meet me and I’ll take you down there and you can get it.”
That
evening, he was waiting for me by the service elevator. I’d
never been in the lower depths of the Pyramid. We got off the elevator at the
lowest basement level and he lead me down a labyrinth of corridors bordered by windowless,
unmarked steel doors. He stopped at one, took a ring of about a thousand keys from his belt, unlocked, and opened the door on mops, buckets, containers, and drums marked with the
Hazardous sign. There was my precious bike, leaning against a pile of ropes. One wall was snaked with wires, and lights blinked on steel cabinets, He carefully wheeled
out my bike and we rode up to main floor. He said a few words to the guard at the podium, then held the heavy
glass door for me as I pushed my bike through. I thanked him again, and pedaled off, not before he asked me if he could take me to dinner sometime.
Brokers and agents walked in with new and old business, talked to the bosses about clients, and problems. One broker in particular would pass my desk a couple of times a month, say hello and
smile. He was a small, wiry
man, not much taller than me, with wavy
grey/blond hair. Sometimes he’d stop
and chat; we’d end up laughing. He had an appealing, witty, black sense of humor; One day he asked me if I’d
ever worked in an agency. I told
him I had. His name was D. E. He was the E in the S&E
agency, a small firm that handled mostly personal insurance and a few small
commercial risks, in a building up the street from TA. The next time D_______ came in, he asked if I’d
like to work for them and he’d pay me a hundred bucks more than I made at TA. I did a swift, mental calculation.
"Look, I'm on food stamps. If I take your offer, I’d make too much to qualify, but not enough to cover our monthly food bill." Without missing a beat, he quickly named a figure a couple hundred dollars more than his original offer.
"Look, I'm on food stamps. If I take your offer, I’d make too much to qualify, but not enough to cover our monthly food bill." Without missing a beat, he quickly named a figure a couple hundred dollars more than his original offer.
“Will
that take care of it?” he said.
“Yes.”
“When
can you start?”
Chapter 11, Part 3:
I ponder giving two weeks’ notice. I'd been with TA less than a year. S &
E, was a very small, four person office- 5, counting me if I decide to take the job.
