Chapter 12, Part 4. I leave Fireman’s Fund’s on Front Street for my new systems analyst job at the Home Office on Laurel Hill. I moonlight as a "Mime-Clown"

 After a year of being a rating supervisor, and a total of two and a half years in automobile insurance department.  I leave for my new job as a systems analyst trainee on Laurel Hill.  My staff gives me gifts.  Thirty co-workers surprise me with a luncheon, and a cake during the afternoon coffee break.

Me, on the left, Willie Wong, Pete, Lavonne (Laura), and unk persons..

Lavonne, whom I'd previously called "Laura,"  because she reminded me of Lauren Bacall, resumed her position as supervisor.


While at Fireman’s Fund, I occasionally worked for an agency that handled “singing telegram” gigs. (I had hoped to one day have a career in the performing arts.)  I was asked to perform at children's birthday parties which I hated though I liked the kids.  But their parents expected me to do magic tricks and/or make balloon animals (spare me).   I usually wore a pork-pie hat over a black curly wig, a flower print shirt, plaid pants, red striped knee socks, and red and blue wing-tip shoes, white gloves and white-face.

I hold the Birthday Girl on my knee at her party in Novato.

I made a distinct, important discovery on one gig.   I was hired for a children’s party thrown by members of a private golf club high in the hills above San Anselmo, in wealthy Marin County.   I didn’t drive so would rent a car if the job was in the East- or South- Bay, or north of San Rafael.  Otherwise, I took public transportation, arriving  early enough to make up.  (I wore my costume under my coat.)  For this job, I took a Golden Gate Transit bus to “downtown” San Anselmo.  Once there, I asked  a man where the clubhouse was.    I told him I wasn't driving, that I planned to walk.  He explained that it was really, really far, up miles of winding roads, to the crest of the hill.  He pointed, craning his neck.  I had a half-hour.  I thanked him and started walking, carrying my little red suitcase containing my makeup and props.  About 2/3 of the way up, a Mercedes Benz slowed; there was a man behind the wheel and a couple of very well-dressed preadolescents in the back seat   Turned out, they were heading for the party.  He dropped me at the front door while he went to park.  I greeted the host, she showed me to a bathroom where I could make up.  I had 15 minutes.  I was to entertain for an hour.

Fully costumed, I walked into the main room.  Adults were gathered around the buffet lunch offerings and the bar, loading their plates, filling their glasses, and chatting.  The overly-perfumed women wore cocktail dresses and lots of jewelry; their hair coiffed and lots of makeup- young women showed much cleavage; heavily cologned (Brut?) men wore the uniform: grey or beige slacks, white shirt, regimental striped or red tie, and navy blue blazer.

The "Look."

     Usually, when I’m in another room making up for a kid’s party, I would hear them laughing and  running about.  Now, I heard only adults chatting and women laughing.  I walked into a room of kids that seemed zombified clones of their parents, down to their clothes; they clung to their parents, self-consciously smoothing their dresses or pants, and patting their hair.   The hostess introduced me.  Mimes don’t speak, so I smiled, grinned, bowed and waved exaggeratedly.  I shook hands with game adults and bent over to shake hands with the kids.  ( I had explained to the agent that I did not do “clown.”  I did skits.  Children were not to expect balloon animals or magic tricks.)  Some hid behind their parents, others gingerly offered their little hands.  One basic bit seen hundreds of times, but still gets laughs, is to keep holding someone’s hand while shaking it, and pretend that it’s the other person who’s not letting go.   The performer jumps up and down when their hand is pumped.   Some kids catch on and jump up and down.  They began to loosen up when I did the bit with one of their parents.  Still, most looked as if they were afraid to laugh, looking anxiously at their parents to get permission.

Family at the party

 I opened my little red suitcase and began setting up for my skits.  Some kids started whining and nagging; some sobbed and hiccuped.  A woman came up to me and said, “Are you going to make balloon animals?  My daughter wants a unicorn.”  I looked at her, shook my head slowly, shrugged, and made a sad face.  I glanced at the hostess who was busy being hostess.    I went through my bits for a handful of kids who sat on the floor in a semi-circle.  They seemed to enjoy them, laughing when they weren’t whispering snide remarks to each other.  Others hung around their parents or slumped around the room, bored.  Some gathered into their boy and girl cliques; the outcasts clung to their parents, or sat glumly against the wall.  Few parents bothered to detach themselves from the buffet and drinks bar.  The volume of their laughter and conversation rose steadily in relation to the alcohol consumed.  The hour was up; I caught the hostess’s eye and looked at my pretend watch, jabbing it repeatedly with a gloved finger.  She came over to me, grinned widely, thanked me, reached into her purse and handed me a check which I didn’t look at until I was on my way home.  She had tipped me fifty bucks.  I made one-fifty for an hour’s work that seemed like five.   I realized that the time goes so much faster performing for kids of modest, working class families, even if there’s no tip or pay.  (Often, outside of the agency, I accepted gigs gratis for benefits, street fairs, and other events for the experience and exposure.)  In the bathroom, I removed my make up and wig, and put on my coat.  Some women came in and told me how much their kids “LOOOVED!" me.

It was getting dark as I trekked down the hill.  A scruffy man with a scraggly beard, in a pickup, stopped and gave me a ride.  He asked why I was walking.  I briefly told him where I’d been and what I did.  He went on a wild rant on the injustices wreaked by the rich on the poor and middle-class.  I was tired, in no mood.  At the first stop downtown, I thanked him and jumped out.  “Hey,” he yelled out his window, “don’t ya want a ride to the city?”  I waved, shook my head.   “Come on!” he screamed.  He started to pull over and get out.  The bus came; I got on, looked out my window.  He watched it pull away.

A cafe on Telegraph Avenue, Berkeley, CA

My most strange and interesting job involved a proxy resignation for a University of California professor at Berkeley.  He asked me to meet him a few days prior in a Telegraph Ave. cafe and he would give me the scenario.  I got to the cafe early.  A dark-haired, good-looking guy in a wheelchair entered.  I had described myself over the phone.  He wheeled straight for me and introduced himself.  Over coffee he explained what he wanted me to do.  On that day, I wore a black, pinstriped suit, white shirt and big, floral tie, white-face and wig.  I found the building, took an elevator and got out on the floor where his people were holding a meeting.  I went down a deserted hallway, found the room, opened the door to a bunch of people seated at a conference table.  All turned to me with stunned and quizzical looks.  I mimed that I was Professor So-and-So and unrolled a scroll, mimed reading it, looked up and shrugged, making a sad face.  I waved and bowed.  Some members laughed, others said, "Ohhhh, okay, I get it.  You're resigning!"  As I left, I heard comments like, "I knew he'd pull something like that!" and  "What a unique way to announce a resignation. I love it!"   The professor had given me a check at the restaurant because I'd not see him again.  He had said, "The fee, I know, is a hundred dollars."  I looked at his check later; he had doubled it.  He did call me the next day to tell me I went over big.  It was exactly what he wanted.

My costume sans red-striped knee socks. Photo: D. O'Rorke

My work with the “singing telegram” agency almost came to an end when I was hired to appear at a woman's 40^th birthday party thrown by her husband.  He had reserved the glass-walled restaurant next to the TransAmerica Pyramid  building in Redwood Park (I don't recall its name.) I was told to wear a dressy costume and heels.  So I wore a black sleeveless, scoop-neck dress with a long-stemmed red rose appliqued on the front, and silver sandals with red and white striped knee socks, topped off with my curly black wig. (See photo.)

I stood next to the host at the front door, greeting guests as they arrived.  He’d hired a band that covered popular disco tunes; there was an open bar.  The room was fairly large with a dance floor and plenty of space for me to move among the tables where I played off the party-goers.  Everyone was dressed to the nines; the wine flowed and later, cocktails.  I flirted with the men, giggled and mimed compliments to the women, and danced.  I cut in on couples, often just pushed my way between them, and danced the man away.  They loved it.  The women- not so much.  Thing was, I never danced disco, ever, so I just "mimed" what everyone else was doing.  It was fun – for a while.

No matter how large the room, you can only work it so many times; plus, people were getting really smashed.  Some men wouldn’t let me go after a dance, others pulled me on to their lap and tried to run their hand under my dress. I’d jump away and they’d grab me and try to pull me down. Laughing, I danced off, pretending I was having a blast.  The women ended up sitting at a couple of tables, or standing in groups, laughing, stumbling around, spilling drinks, and/or trying to drag their husbands, boyfriends- whoever on to the dance floor.  My time was almost up.  I had only a few minutes to go.  The head of the agency had told me she was going to try to come by in person with my check, if not, she’d mail it to me.  I made one last round.  By this time, everyone was so wasted, no one paid any attention to me.  Most had already left the party.  I got my coat and was putting it on when a stern-faced older woman approached me.  She was wearing a coat, so I guessed she was my boss, whom I'd never met, only talked to her on the phone.

     "Leaving a little early, aren't you?"  Before I could answer, she shoved an envelope in my hand.  "Don't let this happen again," she warned.  The host stumbled over, drink in hand and said, "Hey, sweetheart, you leaving?  You were were great!  You made the party!  My wife was absolutely blown away.  I'll remember to ask for you next time!"  He thanked me, gave me a hug, shoving a crisp bill into my hand, then kissed me on the cheek.  My boss said a few words to him while throwing me a confused look.  He took her arm; they walked away as he hollered for his wife.  I opened my hand- it was a fifty.

Next up: CHAPTER 13, Part One. Back in the Home Office. Systems analyst training. My bike route from Glen Park to California and Presidio.

 

Chapter 12, Part Three. My bike route to 700 Front Street; Supervisor: Nth degree of Helen, replaced by a Lauren Bacall (More)

(Continued)

look-alike, who designates me co-supe; over the hill to North Beach; non-functioning air-conditioning; and a “career” change which sends me back up to the  Fund on Laurel Heights.

 

I’m happy that there are literally no steep hills from Glen Park to 700 Front St.  My route goes from Arlington Street, north to Randall, cut over to San Jose Ave. Mission to 14^th St., down 14^th to Folsom,  East on Folsom to Spear, left on Spear, X Market to Davis & Washington, cut through Golden Gateway Towers, then  on to Front past Golden Gateway Park and a vast parking lot.  The garage attendant at 700 said I could leave my bike there, but the fumes were so bad I opted to lock up my bike to a pole outside.

Indoor Atrium

It's a three story building.  Our office was up one flight; the view was to the south overlooking the parking lot. This was way before the buildup of this area.  The stairs overlooked the center atrium and the cafeteria.  The smell of pancakes, eggs, maple syrup, fresh muffins and bagels; and coffee made me want another breakfast (I eat something at home), as it was, I never got to work early enough to linger over breakfast in the atrium, anyway, beneath salon palms, ficus trees, and giant ferns.

 Our automobile liability coverage department was on the south side of the building where, in the winter, the sun blazed from sunrise to sunset.  Transparent, sun-blocking window coverings were no help.  We suffered and sweated as co-workers on the North side shivered.  We complained.  Building engineers, wearing woven canvas belts hung with gauges, flashlights, screwdrivers, wrenches, etc., ran tests, and made some adjustments to the thermostat, all to no avail.  The head engineer said that no one ever complained before (I wondered what sort of business used occupy that floor. )  So, we sat at our desks with our backs to the windows and sweated.  We’d invent reasons to go to the North side, or to the bathroom, or sneak down to the atrium for an iced tea or a soda, taking care that none of the bosses saw us.  We had 45 minutes for lunch, enough time for me to walk across the street to what looked like a dead end which actually turned right, past a light-manufacturing business, then emptied on to Bay.  But I continued straight ahead, up and over the hills, and a set of stairs, ending up on Vallejo and Montgomery.  Then I’d walk down to Café Trieste for a latte, take it to Washington Square Park, sit on a bench and people watch. I’d make it back to work in time, refreshed and invigorated.

CafeTrieste, North Beach

 

My first immediate supervisor was like Helen.  (Helen and Norma stayed on the hill, transferring to other departments.  They lived in Marin and did not want to commute across the city to the waterfront. ) She was a heavily-made up Filipina in her mid-forties, with jet black hair; and critiqued everything I did, finding errors where I was certain there were none.  She looked over my work, shook her head and said, “It’s still wrong.  Do it again.”  So I would- two or three times -coming up with the same results, until she finally said, “Okay, fine.”  I chalked up these trials to those undergone by novice Zen monks whom I’d been reading about who wish to practice under a master.  The master has them wait outside the monastery gates in the Himalayan snow for a year or longer before letting them in, and once inside, make them move by hand a pile of heavy stones from one side of a compound to the other, then order the stones moved back; repeating this directive several times, sometimes for days on end until they just gave up, died, or were accepted.  Me?  I just zoned out until she approved my work.   I sat directly in front of her.  One day she startled me by rattling some papers, again saying, “This needs to be done over!”  Not too Zen-like, my anger had built up internally so that when I turned to confront her, I twisted my back and heard a snap.  So for the rest of the day.  I walked around painfully catty-wumpus.  Co-workers gave me weird looks.  I called a chiropractor friend that evening; he came by, grabbed hold of my ankles, lifted my feet and literally snapped my spine like a flag.  I heard a “pop” and the crick was gone.  He took me to dinner so I could walk around and see that whatever he did worked.

A few days later, my  boss  left the company, mysteriously, and Ken, our department head- a handsome, young, sweet-tempered guy- introduced us to her replacement.  When I saw her, I did a double take. She looked like an older, weathered, Lauren Bacall; her face bore evidence of hard-living.  She was ash blonde, tall, and willowy, calm, and soft spoken.  When I think of her as I write this, she looked more like today’s Charlotte Rampling.  I don’t remember her name, so I’ll call her Laura.  She wore muted greys and browns: calf-length, straight skirts with long-sleeve cashmere sweaters, and dressy black flats.  (One could never imagine her in heels.)   Laura and I resonated.  Turned out, she had a Ph. D. in literature, lived up on the Marin coast, near Bodega Bay.  Her husband was an automobile mechanic who owned his own garage.  They dove for abalone on weekends.

Bodega Bay

Abalone divers and their kids.

  She confessed that her East Coast parents were dead set against her marrying “down” and moving to California.  She drank.  We all knew it- vodka on her breath first thing in the morning.  Still, she made it to work every day, on time (unlike me); never took a sick day as long as I was there; and oversaw our work.  Compliments outnumbered complaints.  When she went on vacation, she had me take over.  Not officially, she never got permission from anyone (which I did not know).


My staff consisted of Peter, a 6 foot, 300 pound, dark-haired guy who sat in the front row.   He brought a ham radio to work, only played it on breaks, and spoke fluent Japanese, or so he claimed.  He told me that “okey-dokey” in Japanese translated to “big clock."  Was he putting me on?  What did I know?  The others were Ivy,  a tall, spindly, young pregnant mother who kept falling asleep at her desk, and Bob, a sharp blonde guy- fast, accurate and funny; and a sweet girl  (I don’t recall her name), who bragged that she drove a yellow, black-striped Chevy Impala.  Heads of other departments advised me to talk to Ken about Ivy.  People couldn’t help but notice her as she sat in the front row, two desks away from Peter.  I did, but Ken asked me if she did her work and was she accurate, and did she show up in time.  He laughed when I said, “Well, she’s at her desk working when I come in.”  Still he did not like Peter bringing his ham radio in, so I told him him to leave it home.  He picked it up and stormed out, objecting loudly.  But he was back at his desk in the morning, sans radio.  Ken left on disability one day, and not too long after, he died of pneumonia.  This was the late 1970s.  Looking back, I wondered: could his death have been a harbinger of AIDS?  It was so sudden.

A friend at work, Bonnie, was a computer systems analyst, testing software programs to do routine jobs.  “Accountants and raters will be out of work,” she prophesied.  Bonnie was creative and artistic.  She had revamped a black leather jacket by replacing the sleeves with faux-fur.  She touched up boring, dress-for-success suits and dresses with arty yet tasteful appliques, and added unique collars, cuffs and plackets.  Turns out, she performed as a stilt walker with a group from Oakland  women who donned long, colorful, winged gowns.  She invited me to a fair on the Lake Merritt grounds in which she performed with her group.

Bonnie stilt dancing at Lake Merritt in Oakland

 One day she told me that there was an opening for a systems analyst trainee in the Laurel Hill office (from where I’d left about a year ago).  The job was analyzing and testing  accounting and rating software programs.  She encouraged me to apply because, she said, “In five years, you’ll be out of a job.  Systems analyst can work anywhere, not just in insurance companies.”  It turned out that Wes hadn’t quit the Fund to work for an insurance broker, but also had changed careers to become a systems analyst trainee as well.  He and I would be in the same department- again.

Next up: Chapter 12, Part Four: Out of the frying pan, into the fire.   A full-of-himself, despicable- yet paradoxical- boss, paired with an ineffectual superior.  I find a soul-mate.  We test software at our satellite office at Lucas Green, in Marin.  The Laurel Hill office relocates to Marin and I leave the Fund for good.  I see through Mr. Despicable and Mr. Ineffectual's dissembling when discussing the terms of my severance pay.  Besides that money I've saved enough so that- along with unemployment insurance- allowed me to promote my mask and movement shows- while I looked for work.