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.

CHAPTER 12, Part Two.

Helen returns along with Legionnaire’s disease.  I cure Norma’s spying.  Assassinations: attempted and completed.  The move to Front Street (1974), Ford was in; Ford pardons Nixon.

A Bicentennial Parade

I  was still with C, the boat-builder in 1976 when the US celebrated its Bicentennial.  The previous years saw Nixon resign due to Watergate, Saigon fall, and Gates founds Microsoft.  And the Apollo-Soyuz Test Project is a success. While two women- Sara Jane Moore and Lynnette "Squeaky" Fromme- tried to assassinate Ford within a 17 day time period.  Fromme had been a member of the Manson Family. We got a new president: Jimmy Carter, a peanut farmer from Georgia.

Levar Burton as Kunta Kinte

One day at work, someone came up to me and said, “Wasn’t that the best!?  Lifting that baby up to the sun?”  I asked her what she was talking about “’Roots’.  Oh, my God!  You mean you don’t watch ‘Roots’?”
“Is it on TV, because I don’t watch TV.”
“Oh, you should.  This show is the greatest.”  I got to know everything about it just from overhearing conversations-  Kunta Kinte and all that.  Seemed everyone in the office was talking about it, except me.

.
During Helen’s absence, Norma stepped up her surveillance.  She would call us up to her desk and ask: " Where were you between 2:22 and 3:05?  She threatened to dock us for the times we weren't at our desks.  I had a way of disappearing under her radar when I had to go to another floor to check some detail on an account.  It was none of her business where we went, especially when we had to use the bathroom, as long as we got our work done and were at our desk by the end of the day.  Since the underwriters were across the room, she could see us.  One day, I had to go to the claims department on another floor to get a name spelled correctly on a claims slip.  When I got back, I walked behind Norma’s desk and happened to glance down at her calendar to see my name written on it in pencil and the time: 1:40 – 2:18 when I’d been down in claims.  I expected her to call me to her desk and berate me, so I stood in front of everyone, in the middle of the floor, and said,
    “Norma”- She looked up, perplexed.  I went on- “I know you keep track of everyone’s time." She glared at me.  "I saw my name and some times written on your calendar, so I’ll tell you where I was.  I was in the bathroom, but I had to go number 2 which takes longer than number 1.  So by the time I finished, washed and dried my hands and came back, I was probably gone at least fifteen minutes.”
 Absolute silence.  Some gasps.  I looked at no one, just returned to my desk and continued with the account with the claim.  Of course I hadn’t gone to the bathroom.  I just wanted to make a point.  Norma did nothing, said nothing for the rest of the day.  The next morning, she caught my eye and gave me a half-smile.  A few days passed and I noticed that she no longer detailed our times away from our desks and never bothered me again, in fact, she would snicker whenever our paths crossed.  Good sport, I thought.  Wes spoke of my “bravery. “  Some co-workers looked at me with big eyes and open mouths, but said nothing.  Others thanked me.  Verna said, “Huh!  I never expected you to do something like that!”  She didn’t know me like she thought she did.

Helen returned on crutches in a lemon-yellow outfit: top and slacks.  She actually looked better than she had before the accident-- well-rested and glowing.  Norma went back to being her lackey.  Helen instituted changes; one being that we were to move to where the property department was; they were relocating to another floor.  Goodbye Verna.  A slightly built, timid woman in her forties all but panicked about the move.  She ended up sitting right behind me and kept complaining about it, saying that she hated change.  It made her feel insecure.  She then recounted to me in a whispery, weak, trembling voice all the moves she’s made in her life.  I asked her how she coped.
    “Well, I had to get used to it,” she said.
    “You’ll get used to this, too,” I said, “There’ll be many more changes for you.”
    “Don’t say that!”
    “It’s true, you’ll just have to accept it.”   She started to cry, then went off to the bathroom.  Eventually, she recovered and took the move in stride- until the next one.

Since Helen came back, Fireman’s Fund had an American Red Cross mobile clinic come to immunize its employees against Legionnaires’ disease.  In Philadelphia, 221 people got the illness and 34 died.   I didn’t want a shot because of the people back East who did, got really sick, and almost died.  Then, a few months later, it was swine flu.  President Ford told EVERYONE to get shots, but again, a few people died from the shots, so, again,  I opted out.  I have never gotten a flu shot, but I actually signed up last year at the local Walgreen’s but when I showed up, they’d run out.  I never went back.

 About this time, women’s “elephant” pants (slacks with extra wide legs) were the rage.  I made myself a pair of blue and white, windowpane plaid pants that I wore with a calf-length, red cardigan over Mickey Mouse T-shirt, and boots. The T-shirt was my not so subtle statement about the company's "Micky Mouse" procedures and unnecessary regulations.  Why can’t “they” just leave us alone and let us do our work?  Lots of co-workers complimented me on my pants, but none said "Boo" about my shirt.
 
Linda, a  petite, curvy, curly-haired,blonde secretary worked on our floor, sashaying around with her hands on her hips in tight skirts, 6-inch heels, and low necked angora sweaters.  One day she complained that her 18 inch waist had gained a quarter inch!  A good-looking Latino dude- I'll call him "Rodrigo"  who had great hair- was the assistant to the dorky guy who ran the supply department.  Soon it became apparent that Rodrigo and Linda were seeing each other despite that she was married.  They flaunted their relationship, walking around holding hands at lunch break.  She was let go and rumor had it that she was pregnant with his baby.  He quit.  Less than a year later Linda came in to show off her baby.  Helen, Norma, and the older women co-worker were appalled at her audacity.  Others gathered around oohing and ahhhing over the beautiful olive-skinned infant with curly, light brown hair.  Turns out, she’d gotten a divorce; she and Rodrigo were making marriage plains.  And, despite her pregnancy, Linda bragged that after the baby was born her waist had gone back to eighteen inches in just a week.

 As for me, after my year without a man and music, living in the A-frame cottage up the hill from my previous digs, I decided to focus on exactly who I wanted in my life so made a list of attributes.  One really hot day, wearing a tank top and shorts, I rode my bike to an art festival in Civic Center Plaza. After locking it up, I walked around, checking out the booths.  As I passed one, I heard a deep voice sprech-singing, “Little girl, you’re so small, ain’t you got no clothes at all?”  I stopped, turned and saw a muscular older guy in a black leather vest, selling wrot-iron candelabras, wall sconces, sculptures, and other gee-gaws.  A sign on the table indicated that he was the craftsman.  He told me his name. “Is that ‘Bo’,” I asked, “as in Bo Diddley, or Beauregard.”  Turned out the latter. I got to know him and found that he fit everything on my list.  But I’d left off one really important attribute (for me, anyway): dance.  I wanted someone who could dance.  He didn’t, couldn’t and wasn’t happy when I signed us up for a ballroom class.  He housed his horses in a makeshift stable in an industrial park on the San Mateo county border.  Beau performed horse-shows, and believed himself to be Buffalo Bill’s reincarnation.  He auditioned women for his assistant and wanted me to be his Rodeo clown.  I said thanks, but no.

Beau Hickory and Temmigen

 
On my vacation, I went on a week-long mime seminar taught by Maximillien Decroux, in Boulder, CO.   I had packed my bike on Amtrak to Denver where I got off, and pedaled on to Boulder, camping out in the foothills and riding each morning to class in town.   Before I left, Beau  had helped me and my sons move to a flat in Glen Park where I ended up living for twenty-five years.  We were evicted in 2003 under an owner-move-in law.  Then he left me for his newly-hired assistant.  No one had ever dumped me.  I was always the dumper.  Took me a while to recover.

One morning Helen called a meeting- her idea of a meeting.  She stood in front of our desks and asked for our undivided attention.  “We,” she began, “are relocating to a new building on Front Street, on the Embarcadero over the weekend.  So, on Friday, pack up all the things in and on your desk.  You can pick up boxes in the supply room.  Mark your name on them with black Magic Markers, which will be available in the supply department.  These must be returned.  You will report to 700 Front Street (Now the KGO TV building) on Monday by 8, so you can unpack and be ready to work by 8:30.  We are fortunate," she added, "because we will have access to the cafeteria off the atrium which opens at 6 for breakfast.” 
“How cool is that!” someone said.  The timid woman who panicked at the idea of moves quit.

Around that same time, November 28, 1978,  San Francisco Mayor Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk were shot to death by disgruntled ex-supervisor Dan White in their City Hall offices.  The City was in chaos.  Supervisor Diane Feinstein made the tearful announcement.  She took over as mayor. No one had a very happy holiday season that year.   Dan White was convicted, sentenced, served a few months, then committed suicide in his garage.

Assassin Dan White

Headline from The San Francisco Chronicle.

Chapter 12, Part Three:  700 Front Street, proximity to North Beach.  I'm appointed assistant supervisor to a woman who made Helen and Norma look like sweetie-pies, until an alcoholic Lauren Bacall look-alike signed on..  Air-conditioning hell.  I make a career change to systems analyst with the Fund and I'm back on Laurel Heights.