Volume II, Chapter15, Part Nine: I go on disability; lose my job. Back to Square One. Yet before long, I land a permanent job, my last: with Marsh & McLennan, Inc. which lasts thirteen years.

It was 1984.   had to get a permanent job!  I was getting stronger now that I no longer stuck to a vegetarian diet.  I bought calves' liver-which I hadn't eaten in decades- for the B-12.  I enhanced the taste with sauteed garlic and onions.  I'd forgotten how delicious it was.  We had a gourmet butcher in our Glen Park little supermarket, Diamond Super, a block and a half away; he'd save me fresh calves liver when it came in. It didn't hurt that he looked like David Bowie.

I searched ads, made calls, and went on interviews.  No luck.  My year's unemployment and temp jobs prejudiced my hiring ability.  I complained to a friend who said I should go back on Unemployment.
              "I just got off and I hadn't worked at my last job long enough," I explained.
              "It doesn't matter-"
              "Besides, I wasn't laid off; I left on disability."
              "You should still try," she insisted.
Before I trekked down to the office, I scanned the want ads again.  Marsh & McLennan was still looking for a file clerk.  I made an appointment with Ms. B, in the Human Resources department.  I donned my business attire -a pin-striped suit, with a fitted jacket and black flats- and rode my bike to  # 3 Embarcadero Center where it was located on three of 41 of its floors.   I  had revised my resume to include information regarding self- promotion of my mime and lecture demos, and performances during the year of having no permanent professional position.  I wasn't just lollygagging around.
      (Embarcadero Center 3 was in the Embarcadero Center Complex.  It was one of five hi-rise office buildings with retail shops and restaurants on lower open air levels, situated between Battery St. and Justin Herman Plaza at the foot of Market Street; Sacramento and Clay Sts.)

Embarcadero 3

I interviewed with Ms. B. a severe-looking woman with short-hair, rimless glasses, business suit and "sensible" shoes.   She took her time perusing my resumé, then said,

      "You're overqualified for this position, you know."
       "At this point, I'll take anything just to get my foot in the door.  Then maybe apply for something more suitable down the line whenever there's an opening-if that's all right."
      "Well, I see you once worked as an underwriter for Fireman's Fund.  Do you know that Wes Schultz from the Fund works here, now?"
        "Yes, but I didn't want to- I felt like I was being desperate so didn't want to call him."
      "That would have been fine. It's networking, a common practice in the business world.  It's expected," she explained.  "Turns out," she went on, "he needs someone in his department, an in-house Fireman's Fund  Insurance Company.  You'd be perfect.  I'll call him, tell him you're here." While waiting for Wes, she gave my resumé another read.  "You know, the fact that you did your own marketing for your art is just what we want here at M & M.  We like creative, entrepreneurial  people- "  Before she could elaborate, Wes knocked on Ms. B's door and peeked in.
         "Come on in, Wes.  Gaetana's here.  She's looking for a job.  Can you use her?"  Wes was enthusiastic and surprised to see me.  We hadn't contacted each other during the year, each of us busy living our own lives:  Wes-working full time and dealing with the sickness and death of his friends and lovers from AIDS- me, promoting my shows, performing at benefits, fairs and schools.
     "Oh, my God!  This is just great!" Wes said,  "You should've called me!"
     "That's what I told her," Ms. B. interjected.  "She's didn't want to seem desperate. . ."  She chuckled and shook her head.
     "She'll have to talk to Wendell, though-" Wes turned to me, "My boss.  He's pretty easygoing.  You'll be fine.  His wife owns a bar in North Beach," he added.
     It was too late to set up an interview with Wendell so I was to return in the morning.  Ms. B. and Wes assured me I had the job. I was to report to Ms. B. She'd escort me to his office and introduce me. But when I interviewed with Wendell, I wasn't so sure.

     The next morning, I again threw together something "business-like" and rode down to #EC3, locked my bike in the convenient bike racks inside at street level, took the elevator to the 11th floor and reported to Maria, the receptionist behind a huge polished oak desk at the end of the hall whose carpeting was a wild bright green, blue, and yellow striped with intermittent narrow red stripes.  Green being the dominant color.  Maria called Ms. B who then showed me to Wendell's office.  He wasn't there.  His secretary told me to sit down and wait.

Wendell Wong was a slender man, in his late 30s, early 40s, with a shock of thick coal-black hair.   He wore a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. He sat down, introduced himself and barely glanced at me as he paged through a folder containing my file which Ms. B had left on his desk.  The interview with Mr. Wong was going well, I thought.  He asked me how long I'd known Wes Schultz, when had I worked with him.  He asked about my years at Fireman's Fund, why I had left (I didn't leave, I explained, they had moved their offices to Lucas Valley. I didn't want to relocate, still I wasn't going to quit, but considered commuting a hardship, so they let me go.)  He then looked at me and kept looking at me, staring, which made me uncomfortable.  Then he said:
      "You know, we are a young company."
      "How do you mean?" I dared ask.
      "Well, we have a young personnel."
       "Fine," I said, "I'm okay with that.  I get along with people of  all ages."
He thanked me, ended the interview with,
     "Well, we'll be in touch."
     In my naiveté, I forgot that I was in my mid-forties, that my hair was almost completely white by this time.
     Wes met me by the elevators.
     "How'd it go?"
     "Okay, I think."
     "What do you mean?  Did he tell you you got the job?"
     "No," I said, "He told me he'd let me know."
     "I'll talk to him.  I'll have Ms. B. call you at home."
I'd just gotten home when my phone rang.  It was she.
     "I'm happy to tell you that Mr. Wong has approved you for the position of Assistant Underwriter to Wes Schultz in his in-house Fireman's Fund Insurance Company.  Can you start on Monday?"
     "Yes, thank you, of course."
     "Come to my office at 8, then, on Monday."

      It was 1984 another auspicious year:  Reagan deals with the Soviet Union; orders to "redeploy" US Marines  to US Navy ships offshore in Lebanon, saying that the bombing of the Marine barracks that killed over 200 Marines,"Syrian sponsored."and US warships attack pro-Syrian militia positions for nine hours in Lebanon;

Reagan and Gorbachev

 Iran accuses Iraq of using chemical weapons;
China plans to spend one billion on technology from the US in order to reduce "bureaucratic delays and to encourage foreign companies to do do business with and to invest in China; benefitting from an improved economy;
Reagan begins re-election bid in October, against Mondale; debates him later that month focussing on the Soviets Union's Gromyko.  That same month, Patrick Magee of Ireland's PIRA bombs Brighton Hotel where Britain's Conservative Party is holding a conference, killing five and injuring more. The bomb destroys PM Thatcher's bathroom two minutes after she had left.  She soldiers on with her conference speech a few hour later.
 Poland's secret police arrest Catholic priest, and supporter of the Solidarity movement, Jerzy Popieluszko.  Weeks later, his body is found in a reservoir. The perpetrators are convicted of the crime, yet Poland's Communist Party still near collapse.
Sandwiched between Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi's shocking assassination by two Sikh security guards and Bhopal, India's Union Carbide pesticide plant leaking methyl isocyanate killing more than 2,000 and injuring anywhere from 150,00 to 600,00 others (some 6,000 would die later ), Reagan wins all but Mondale's home state and 59 percent of the popular vote;
Mikhail Gorbachev, whom Thatcher tells Reagan, "is less constrained, more charming and more open to discussions and debate" is Russia's No. 2 man.

Book Cover illustration 

Finally:   It is decided that 1984 did not stand up to Orwell's novel Nineteen Eighty-Four, as a satire on Stalinism.  Stalin was long gone and denounced by Nikita Khrushchev.  Since 1979, its politburo had Maxrist-Leninist Mikhail Gorbachev as a member.  He would become General Secretary of the Communist Party in March, and, some said, would try to make the Soviet Union more liberal.

 On Monday I would begin my years at Marsh and McLennan, Inc. International Insurance Company.  I vowed to stay there until I retired.  At my age, it would be difficult to get a job if I left M & M.

It took me a few months on the job before I realized what Mr. Wong was trying to tell me-  I was too old for his unit.  I felt if it hadn't been for Wes and Ms. B, he wouldn't have hired me.

Next Up:  Orienting myself to a new routine, meeting people, (Mutt & Jeff, and others);  and learning to use the Fund's dedicated computer software to process insurance policies, under Wes's- my boss- tutelage.  Sticky situation: how administration deals with a former employee and Wes's friend, who suffers from AIDS dementia, yet  keeps showing up at the office.  Still a loner, I leave the office on breaks, rather than hang out with Wes and friends at expensive lunches; no doubt, hampering my chances for advancement.



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TRANSITION

 VOLUME II, Chapter 15, Part Eight.

Transition between Fireman’s Fund and Marsh & McLennan

Ronald Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev

1984 was fast approaching.  None of Orwell’s fictions appeared on the horizon; neither Ronald Reagan nor Nikita Khruschev were Big Brother.  Another guy, Marxist/Leninist Mikhail Gorbachev would become General Secretary of the Communist Party in early spring.  I couldn’t be concerned about nuclear war or the “evils” of Communism.  I was worried about money.  I was spending it too fast.  I'd have to start job hunting soon.  Something I wasn't looking forward to.

When I wasn’t performing mime shows or working with Annette Lust on her lecture demonstrations, I took temporary receptionist jobs, proving my ineptness when it came to pushing the right buttons when transferring calls.  The best job I got was as a “floater”- administrative assistant, a fancy name for secretary- with a software company RAND, not to be confused with the Rand Corporation.  RAND designed computer programs for small businesses. The partners were two youngish guys whose first names were Chip and Dale, but woe to anyone who referred to them in that order when speaking of them to others or clients.  We had to say: Dale and Chip.  (Chip and Dale were chipmunk animation character detectives on TV in the early ‘80s before the show became syndicated.) They couldn't have been more different: Chip was voluble, tended to hysterics over minor issues.  And he was over six feet tall with close-cropped black hair.  He dressed in jeans and T-shirts.  Dale- little over five feet, light brown hair, slight build, calm demeanor, usually wore suits,

Chip & Dale

The atmosphere was casual, including dress.  I was to work for programmers who needed letters, documents, or anything typed, even though I really couldn’t type.  I had an IBM Selectric and depended a lot on correction tape and white out. I filed, distributed mail, and whatever.  When I mentioned that I was an artist, they had me do illustrations for their flow charts, too.   I was with RAND for about six months.  Two of the most charismatic employees, Chet and Marie, kept trying to talk me into joining LifeSpring, an EST type consciousness raising organization.  They were tall, slim, dark haired and funny.  Marie bribed me with a dinner-Greek pizza-on Polk Street.  From there, we walked to the Holiday Inn Hotel on Van Ness to attend a free LifeSpring introductory seminar. I stayed for an hour listening to a guilt-inducing lecture; then, lying flat on my back on the floor with the other attendees with my eyes closed, listened to a woman “guide” me through an active imagination exercise. Afterwards, we were asked up to talk about our experience. I found it eye-opening and magical, still not enough to cough up a few hundred dollars for a six-week course, then be guilt-tripped into an “advanced” session, so I left.  Marie chased after me through the lobby of the hotel and caught up to me,

“Why are you leaving?” she asked.

 “I’m just not interested, Marie.”

“Hon, I think you’re psychologically blocked.  You need the program to become unblocked and find your true self.”

“Sorry,” I said, and walked away.  The next day at work, she was friendly and never again pressured me to join the organization.

Attendees at consciousness raising  seminar

I couldn’t take dictation; and not only did I not know shorthand, I had absolutely no secretarial skills. My handwriting was and is terrible. I was happy I could type a decent letter, had a good vocabulary, and knew how to spell.  A result of my horrible handwriting ended up in a misunderstanding with one of the designers I’ll call Glenn.  He was a newly married, short, cute, stocky, curly-headed guy who wore rimless glasses.  I'd heard talk of him looking like an Ewok from Star Wars.  He’d just bought a motorcycle, a little Honda 250.  One day his wife called when he was out, so I wrote on a message slip, “Your wife,” and left it on his desk.  Later that day he came up to me and said,

“You really think so?”

“What?  Think what?” I asked.

            “Your note.”

            “Your wife called.”

            “Oh, oh, God.  I’m so embarrassed,” he said, “It looks like you wrote, ‘You’re cute.’ ”  He showed me the message slip.  Sure enough.  Even though “Your” was decipherable, the word “wife” somehow looked like I had written “cute”.  How? I don’t know. He must be really needy, I thought.  Still he was cute. I was miffed that he didn’t catch that I would never have written “Your” for the contraction: “You are.”

 Glenn called me at home early New Year’s Eve 1984: I had left RAND and by then had landed a permanent job.  Glenn said he was “Riding my motorcycle around” and “found himself in my neighborhood.”  (He lived way across town.)  He’d bought a couple bottles of champagne and wanted to celebrate with me.  We sat opposite each other in my living room in wing-back chairs and drank both bottles.  He never came on to me and I deflected any conversation that would’ve led to anything physical.  The second bottle drained, I told him to go home to his wife and celebrate with her.  He had no business being at my place on New Year’s Eve.  Sheepishly, he left.   I hoped he’d make it without getting into an accident.  I never heard from him again.

RAND wanted someone full time.  I liked the job and the people, so I applied.  A RAND secretary got the job.  So I went back to being on call for temp jobs.

All were pretty awful.  It should have been obvious to the recruiters at the agency that I had no secretarial skills and could not operate phones with multi-button key pads.  My experience was in commercial insurance, and yes, I could answer phones for clients wanting information about claims and coverages.  For one, a stockbroker wanted “a girl” to answer phones.  I was warned never to give any information nor answer questions from newspaper reporters calling about stocks and or prices.  Why then was I entrusted to even answer phones?  What did I know about the arcane practice of researching stock prices and entering their ups and downs into computers lightning fast?  Yet these were the jobs I got.  I made supervisors and co-workers livid because I caused “important “calls to be dropped.  The act of transferring calls -in-house to outside; in-house to in-house, outside to in-house- baffled me. People on the other end screamed at me, called me names despite my profuse  apologies.

Telephone key-pad

   Still, I dressed the part- professional, was cheerful and willing to learn and people liked me.  But except for RAND, no job lasted more than a day.  And law firms- three or four names of partners that I read off a sheet when a call came in.  I was coached on the rhythm of the delivery and where to breathe and where to pause briefly between names:

(Ring-pick up receiver, inhale, exhale slowly, steadily) “StaufferJonesMitchell (Pause) SiefriedHeffenbergerandRankle (Inhale, exhale slowly).  May I ask who’s calling please and your party?” (Inhale, hold breath while listening.  Exhale)  I’ll transfer you.”  Ha ha, if you’re lucky.

I got so few part-time jobs, I started to worry how I was going to pay my rent.  My unemployment checks were ending, I had only a few dollars left from my severance pay.  Time to look for full-time work.  I searched the Classifieds (In those days, at least two pages of Classified ads-everything from home rentals to farm equipment to Personals (people looking for lost people) appeared daily in the SF Chronicle and Examiner newspapers.  One day, I came across an ad for Home Insurance.  It was looking for a personal lines property “rater,” a position I’d held twenty years back.  It was a starter job, a bottom rung that could one day lead to Underwriter, which I’d been for at least fifteen years.   My boss would be an underwriter I had known from Fireman’s Fund.  I applied but wasn’t hired. I was “over-qualified.”  I kept looking, even applying for data entry jobs.  I blew one interview at a small shoe distribution company.  They wanted someone who could maintain a database of their products.  My interviewer, a man, asked me to describe my closet.  I started out okay, explaining the order in which I hung my clothes.

“How about your shoes?” he asked.

“What?”

“Your shoes.”

“My shoes?”

“Yes.  Where do you keep your shoes?”  An image of my shoes leapt into my mind and I started laughing. 

            “Well, they’re- they’re,- Oh, well, they’re in my closet . . “

“Okay, in what order?”

“Order?”

“Yes, go on.”

 “They’re not in any particular order.  They’re just sort of jumbled on the floor,” I blurted.

“I see.  Well, thank you for coming in.  It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Smith.  We’ll be in touch.” I thought not.

I kept looking, buying a paper every day.  Besides perusing the ads, I read short articles hidden in the back pages about a strange, undiagnosed, deadly disease that affected mainly gays.  It was said to be transmitted through the exchange of bodily fluids, especially during sex.    One day, my twenty-something downstairs neighbor, Ann, a nurse at SF General, told me that the hospital had set up a special ward to handle the increasing number of patients, mostly young males.  She said the yet unnamed disease had to with the depletion of the white blood cells to fight off infections, rendering immune systems drastically compromised.  Deaths were mounting daily.  She went on to say that one sure symptom was the appearance of purplish blotches on the face, soon to be labeled Kaposi’s sarcoma.  No one I knew had it- yet.  I felt that a solution would be found soon, so refocused my attention to finding a job.

  The Home Insurance ad was still running so I wrote a letter to the former Fund Underwriter whose name I don’t remember, so I’ll call him “Bill,” who was now manager of the underwriting department.  I said that since Home was still looking for a rater and I was still looking for a job- Hire me.  Which he did. The Branch Office occupied the main floor of an high-rise on Kearney, catty-corner from the B of A on California. Creepy, weird, Gothic-like sculptures hovered on ledge near the roof. 

The rating department staff consisted of Filipinas, though my boss, Marilyn Fuqua, was a hip white woman, married to a black dude. (They went every year to the Monterey Jazz Festival.)  She was tall and slim with long light brown hair.  We were the only two Caucasians in the mix.   Around this time, I had been a vegetarian for almost two years.  I’d read articles on the damage cows and pigs do to the environment and how much land they destroy with their waste and hoofprints, land that could be used to grow crops.

A cattle factory farm

Most everyone smoked so the air in the break room was unbreathable. I brought unshelled peanuts, bananas, and oranges to work to eat at my desk.  For lunch, I would walk up the hill to St. Mary’s park.  I came back after lunch one day and found my department bereft of the staff.  Even Marilyn was gone.  I felt strange sitting at my desk alone.  I wondered if I’d missed a memo about a meeting I was supposed to go to.  Bill was in his office but I avoided asking him what’s up, feeling stupid.  I concentrated on rating and coding the risks I’d been working on.  Soon, my co-workers filed back to their desks; some smirking, darting their eyes at me.  At the end of the day, Marilyn asked me to stay and talk.  Is she firing me?  The gist of it was that there had been complaints of favoritism, feeling Marilyn did not assign me as much work as she did them.  She had called the meeting while I was at lunch, she said, because she didn’t want me feeling left out. Airing their grievances settled the issue, she said.  Lighting a cigarette and blowing smoke to the side, she added, “They don’t think you like them because you never use the break room.”  I sensed it was more- having to do with Marilyn favoring me because we were “white”.

  On one of my first days on the job, I got up from my desk.   I sensed eyes on me, but went on with my mission.  I stood beside underwriter’s desk; he ignored me until I said, “I have a question on this account.” 

            “What?” He barely looked up.  I explained the problem, shoving the file under his nose; he responded; satisfied, I went back to my desk.  Amy, who sat next to me, whispered,

            “We don’t talk to them (meaning underwriters).  We tell Marilyn if we have a problem and she’ll go to them.  So don’t bother them.  They get mad.”  Oh, I thought, so that’s how it works around here. Marilyn told me that to the underwriters raters are “Untouchables.”  The underwriters-all men-came off to me as being as dense as stone.  I overheard one of them on the phone say, “Oh, don’t worry, he has a snowball’s chance in hell'   So we'll get this to fly.” 

People began leaving me alone.    A file landed on my desk.  Seems one of our insureds had a boat.  No one knew how to rate boats except me.  Marilyn gave me the okay, so I went ahead and put it through.  From then on, I rated all the personal marine insurance risks. The distinct chill from my co-workers increased.  At least I wasn’t hassled and underwriters relaxed their macho stance towards me.

            Day by day, I felt myself getting tired by mid-morning.  I could barely stay awake in the afternoon, despite many cups of coffee.  I felt weak; my hair and nails were splitting and breaking.  I went to a clinic for tests and found that I had a B-12 deficiency.  Back in the day, it was called pernicious (deadly) anemia.

            “Are you a vegetarian?” my doctor asked,

            “Yes.”

            “You need to get B-12 shots, eat liver or red meat.  You don’t have the enzymes, the physiognomy to sustain a vegetarian diet. If you stick to it, you risk organ failure and death.”  He suggested I go on disability until I get back my strength, then shot me up with B-12.

            “Eat red meat!  Your body needs those amino acids,” he exhorted.

(Continued) 

Volume II, Chapter15, Part Nine:  I go on disability; lose my job.  Back to Square One. Yet before long, I land a permanent job, my last: with Marsh & McLennan, Inc. which lasts thirteen years.

VOLUME II, Part Seven, Chapter 14:: Post Fireman's Fund, Odd Jobs, and Performances

I leave Fireman’s Fund and begin a year of self-promotion, performances, and odd jobs.

It felt weird waking up and not feeling I had to go to work.  It was a freedom I hadn’t experienced in decades.  Using my dinosaur IBM Selectric, I got busy right away writing proposals and resumés about my movement theatre work.  Thanks to Annette Lust and our lecture demonstrations, I had made connections with schools and other educational institutions in the Bay Area. 

Me as Wilma and Wilma's neighbor Martha in opening scene of Wilson's Rimers of Eldritch

    I had a promotional brochure with pictures printed which I included with my proposal.  Once I combined,  signed, and sealed them in an envelope, I rode my bike to the Post Office and sent them off.  I got a couple replies within as many weeks:  One was from a grammar school in Novato, another: Roseville High in Roseville, CA, a few miles outside of Sacramento.  I could take Golden Gate Transit to Novato, no problem.  Roseville?  My parents lived in Orangevale near Sacramento. I could stay with them the night before the Roseville gig.

My promotional brochure Photos by J.Hendrickson and  D. McGarragh

After leaving my job at the Fund, I started going with a recently divorced G-, I’d known G- for years through mutual friends.  He’d worked as a gardener for the City and had cashed in his retirement.  He and his then wife relocated to some federal land north of Willits to start a pot farm- a dangerous enterprise in the early ‘80s.  He volunteered to drive me to Roseville where we'd stay at my folks'.

At Roseville High, a faculty member showed me and G- who acted as my techie- to the library where I’d perform.  The librarian, Julie Estridge, introduced me to a reporter, Val Bowman, from The Press-Tribune, who would do a review of my lecture-demo, and the photographer, Jim Denman, a bonus which I wasn’t expecting.  Chairs for the students were arranged in rows.  After I unpacked and laid out my costumes and masks, I realized I’d forgotten my Mad Sal (or Laughing Sal) fat-lady costume.  Still, I had the mask and sound track, which would get me by.  

 Mad Sal was an installation in San Francisco’s Playland at the Beach attraction at Ocean Beach.  She was a dummy at the Fun House, set high up in a window overlooking the entire arcade.  Mad Sal (who resembled a stereotype of a freckle-faced Irish washerwoman, or a fat, slovenly Eliza Doolittle) was stationary, but programmed to undulate from her wide hips to her battered hat, her arms flailing wildly, to a loud, raucous  laughing sound-track, which I replicated.  All alone in my flat one day, I had set up my tape recorder, started a blank tape, and just started laughing.  I laughed louder and louder, escalating to hysteria for about three minutes.  A photographer friend, Dennis O’Rorke (who has shot- and also collects-  iconic photos of San Francisco) had taken countless photos of Playland at the Beach.  I used his picture of Mad Sal as a reference to create a plaster-cast mask, painted her image on it and glued on a messy wig. Using foam, I made myself a fat-dress from an outfit I’d picked up at Goodwill, over which I wore a baggy, tweed blazer and stuck a battered hat on my head.  I pulled candy-striped knee stockings on my feet which I shoved into pair of navy-blue and red wingtip shoes (Goodwill!) The first time I performed this piece – always as the finale of my shows- I could hear the audience snickering at first, then the laughing caught on and grew robust, loud and unrestrained.

The students filed in and took their seats.   (My step-father had driven my mother to the school,   I spotted her in the back row.) Julie introduced me and gave a short overview- which I’d written for her- of what to expect.  G- started my cue and I stepped into my first piece.  The following short works went well.   But I never got to perform Mad Sal.  At the end of a piece, the principal walked in front of me and announced that the performance was over and ordered the students back to class.   True to most school administrations, someone had forgotten to tell Julie that my time had been cut to only one period rather than the allotted two- lunch and 5^th period.  As everyone was leaving, I thanked the students, faculty, and my mother for coming.  Julie gave me my check, and apologized for the abrupt ending. 

 "A Man by the Name of Ziegler" from a short story by Hermann Hesse
narrated by Gerald Nelson.  Photo by Jim Denman

 "We loved your demonstration and performances," she said, "The students seemed really engaged.  I had no idea how mime evolved through the centuries to Marcel Marceau and beyond," she added enthusiastically, "We’d love to have you back to see the rest of your show.”  Back in San Francisco a few days later, I opened my mailbox to find in it a copy of The Press-Tribune,  Ms. Bowman had written, "Gaetana the Mime captivated an audience . .  .without saying a word." Photographer Denman's pictures generously illustrated her article.

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That year- 1983- I also took a couple of acting ròles: “The Rimers of Eldritch” and “Where has Tommy Flowers Gone,” by Lanford Wilson, while continuing mime and movement work with Leonard Pitt and Ron Leeson, both Decroux-trained mimes.  I was hired by community organizers to do walk-arounds at city functions, and got a gig for the Oakland Museum’s Floral Show, where I moved among the visitors through the floral displays, wearing green leotards and tights (like a flower stem), a straw hat and makeup like daisy petals around my eyes.  I had gotten a ride over there with a man I’d just met who appeared interested in my work.  As I got out of his car with my change of clothes and make-up case, he said, "Sorry I can't stay.  Good luck!  I'll call you," reached over and slammed the door.  I never heard from him again.  Thankfully, an enthusiastic friend showed up and gave me a ride home.

   

"Rimers of Eldritch". Me, 3rd from left; Anne Galjour to my left

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My cousin, Dan Caldwell*, was teaching Theatre Arts at Tamalpais High in Mill Valley, CA.  I had lost contact with him over the years. In truth, he intimidated me as he once was the artistic director of The Marin Shakespeare Festival for a few years.    I wanted to do an educational lecture performance at his school, but hesitated.  Then, I thought, "All he could do was say, 'No'".  So I drafted a letter which I  lamely began: "Hi Dan, do you remember me?" . . .  I stuffed it in an envelope along with a proposal and a brochure and sent it off.  After several days of anxiety, I got a phone call from him.  I was so flustered, I almost couldn't speak.  But after a while, because of his tone and familiarity, I relaxed. Turned out, he apologized for not getting back to me sooner, he explained.  "I'm the program director for Tam's  Ensemble Theatre. I had to run your proposal by the board of directors for their approval," he said, "And?" I asked.

The Program

"We've got a show!"  I was ecstatic.  It was happening. We talked about a date in May and other matters regarding tech, publicity, etc.  My middle son, Terrence, drove me to Marin with my props, set, costumes, and Ron Leeson who assisted with tech, in his pickup.  The show went well, attended by drama students and the public.  I had displayed on a table my mime book collection, which included the complete script of  Marcel Carné's "Les Enfante du Paradis," and Jean-Louis Barrault's autobiography, which I'd bought at a used book store with my last six dollars,  After the show, an older woman picked up my Carné book.  She seemed rapturously obessesed by it.  I watched her put back on the table.   A friend from Fireman's Fund, Garilee Leary, who had videod some of my pieces, had planned a reception for me at a friend's Mill Valley home.  There, the older woman  told me, in a heavy German accent, that she loved my lecture on mime history and performance illustrating it.  "I want that book," she then teased, "You don't know how close I came to walking off with it.   Where on earth did you get it?"    "Oh,"I said, "it was another great find in the film section of a used book store."  She flipped through it again, then reluctantly set it down with the rest of my books, shaking her head.  "Aren't those  the greatest places? I can easily spend hours there."

 Terrence had to leave immediately after the show so a generous, supportive friend arranged to give Ron and me a ride back to the city though she lived in Marin.  Dan said we could leave the props and set at the theatre as long as we picked them up on Sunday, the day after the show.  We weren't too happy when, that day, we ran into Bay to Breakers traffic on the way to the Golden Gate Bridge, which we'd forgotten about,

Next: Chapter 15: I was spending money too fast.  I'd have to start job hunting soon.  Something I wasn't looking forward to. I take temp receptionist jobs, proving my ineptness when it came to pushing the right buttons when transferring calls.

*Dan, who merited a new theatre arts building on the Tam High campus which bears his name-the Daniel Caldwell Performing Arts Center- died of Alzheimer's in March 2015.  He had been the head of that department where he taught for 35 years.  In May of that year, a huge reception was held for him in the eponymous new building, attended by his family, current, and former students, faculty, and all who had had the pleasure if working with him over the decades.

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