Chapter 13, Part One: I’m back on Laurel Hill as a systems analyst trainee. I meet my co-workers one of whom happens to be Wes Schultz.

As I start a new chapter in my life, I now ride up Arlington Street in Glen Park to San Jose Ave; left to Valencia to Market. Cross Market cutting diagonally across streetcar tracks to Franklin, up Franklin to McAllister, right on Webster to Sutter, left on Sutter to Fillmore; left at Pine and on up to Presidio (getting off and walking when the hills get too steep); right at California, left into Fireman’s Fund’s parking lot, lock my bike to a post under a cantilever corner of the building.  Bonnie meets me on the second floor, shows me to my desk on the end of the second to the last row of about four rows of 4 or five desks, and leaves.  I rarely see her again. Seems she goes to other offices to oversee setting up their systems analyst departments.   A supply guy shows up with an assortment of desk accessories: In-Out baskets, desk calendar, paper, pens; waste basket.  A mid-western looking blonde with a Farrah Fawett hairstyle, who sits behind me, dumps a couple of thick, heavy, black, 3-ring binders on my desk.

Farrah Fawcett

                “Hi, I’m Barbara (Not her real name),” she introduced herself.  I did the same.  “Just start reading these,” she continued, “and someone will come and tell you about the training.”  Turns out, the someone is the guy at the next desk who happened to be away.  I open a binder which is filled with technical information about the job, and start reading, flipping past the first couple of pages to the contents pages: several of them.  I’m about to fall asleep when I hear and smell the coffee cart trundling down the aisle.  It’s only nine-thirty yet it feels like I’ve been there for hours and wonder if I can last the day.  Unlike the Auto Liability department on Front Street where Pete spouted bad puns, Laura and I enjoyed conversations about abalone fishing, North Coast beaches, and our personal disclosures about our lives outside of the office; there was Ivy’s startled snort as she woke at her desk, and looked around, embarrassed this department was eerily quiet; the silence broken only by the occasional ringing of a phone followed by a muted conversation.  I felt as though all eyes were on me as I noisily turned pages in the binder.

                Slowly, people meandered over to the cart manned by Rosa, a motherly, middle age Latina.  I got a cup and a bear claw pastry and went back to reading.  The coffee was horrible, smelled acrid.  I thought I could mask the taste with the pastry, so took a couple of bites.  That night, I felt sick and vowed I would go on a three-day vegetable juice cleansing ritual that I’d been putting off for months.  I cooked up a bunch of veggies- carrots, beets, celery, etc., and strained them.  The next morning, I poured the reddish, gray-green liquid into a glass bottle, set it in my bag and took off for work.  I disciplined myself to follow through no matter how hungry I got. 

                Jerry Nelson, the someone who was to walk me through my job, had returned.  I felt self-conscious about drinking my concoction so I turned my back so he wouldn’t see me.   He was a handsome guy in his early 50s with riveting blue eyes.  His wavy brown hair receded from a forehead from which an intriguing scar traced a thin line from his hairline diagonally to just above his right eyebrow.  He had a great sense of humor so we were simpatico and ended up friends.  He went on to narrate, live, a short story I adapted for one of my mime pieces and recorded it for future performances.

                “What are you drinkin’ there, kiddo?  It looks vile,” was the first thing he said after we introduced ourselves.   He spoke in a mesmerizing James Mason voice sans accent.  I explained and went on about how the coffee here made me sick, so I wanted to clean my digestive system. 

                “You wanna taste?” I said, smiling as I proffered the jar.  He rolled his chair backwards, held up his hands and laughed,

                “I don’t think so.  I got used to the swill they pass off as coffee here.”  He paused, then said, “I’m supposed to give you some idea of what we do here.  Okay, what we do is test and analyze prototype accounting software to weed out all the bugs before it goes live.”

                “Here?” I asked him, “I don’t’ see any computers.”

                “We have to go to our Lucas Valley branch office up in Marin,” he said.  “I was there all day yesterday.  That’s where all the computers and mainframe are, and the programmers who write code for the software for just about every job in the company.”

                “Wow!” I said, “Do we take a bus?”

                “No, there’s a shuttle.  We check in here first.   Then if we get called to test some software, we go.”

                “Oh, good,” I said, “a chance to get out of this place for a few hours, anyway.”   He didn’t say a word.  I wondered if he was going to report me to our boss, whoever he/she was because I hadn’t met her/him yet, for not being all gung-ho about the job.

                It wasn’t until I attended two days of women’s seminars on assertiveness and career planning that left me depressed that I realized again how unsuited I was for the business world.   A woman named Andrea P.  led the talk.  She was short, stocky, with long wavy black hair, and wore a grey, sharkskin suit.  She climbed up on a stool and crossed her legs; her skirt, slit on one side up to mid-thigh, rode up almost to her hip.  She talked about how to handle sexual harassment.  I could only think, “Yeah, right!” then heard myself blurt out something that made everyone laugh.  A woman, Garilee L., from the in-house media department, video-taped the whole thing.  She told me afterwards that she couldn’t believe I was brave enough to speak out like I did because “I didn’t look the type.” A decade later, she would make a video of three of my mask pieces.

                One day I came to work and found Barbara at her desk, sobbing into a Kleenex.  I asked her what was wrong.

                “It’s my husband.  Bruce.  It’s my husband.”

                “Oh, what happened?  Was he in an accident?  Is he hurt?  Is he okay?”

                “I wish oh, I only wish?”

                “Barbara, what is it?  What happened?”  Maybe he lost his job, I thought.

                “He told me he wants a divorce.  Oh,” she wailed, “He’s gay!  He told me he’s gay and he’s in love with this man he’s been seeing for years.  He was Best Man at our wedding!”  Barbara pushed away from her desk and we watched her stumble down the aisle to the hall, crying.  A woman went after her.  Barbara left the office and never returned.  She had shown me pictures of her and  

Ken & Barbie

Bruce: a perfect Barbie and Ken couple.
 I wondered what happened to her.

                Our department soon moved down to the first floor, very close to the entrance I used coming in.  I was happy to see that Wes and I are again in the same department and he is sitting behind me; Jerry Nelson is across the room at a diagonal, within talking distance.  Here, I would at last meet my boss, Don P: a strange, misshapen, freckle-face man, whose head, with its Trump-like coif, appeared larger than his body, and when he turned, he had a Charlton Heston profile.  Someone must have pointed this out, because he purposely positioned himself so that it was prominent.  The head of our department was a Mr. Sanchez (I think that was his name).  He was  affable, and a head taller than Don P. and handsome, olive-skinned, in his 50s, with a mustache and coal black hair.   He seemed ineffectual and deferred to Don.   Until I left Fireman’s Fund after a few months when the company was going to move to its headquarters to Novato,  I not only met Don P.'s family, I discovered that he. had a beautiful singing voice and was a member of a Marin County Light Opera company.  Still there were some very unpleasant, if not disgusting aspects  to this man.

Next: Chapter 13, Part Two.   Shuttling to Novato; “Air” messages;   I use tactics described in Sun Tzu's  "The Art of War” to confront Don over a disagreement.  I leave Fireman’s Fund permanently to concentrate on theatre.  I had to be very aware of the wording I used when I resigned otherwise I would have lost my payout which would finance my so-called career until it afforded me a living.  If not, I'd have years of job experience to fall back on.  At my going-away luncheon, I acknowledge Don's mastery of "lifemanship" (look it up) which he took as a compliment.  

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.