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.