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

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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.