CHAPTER 8, PART THREE: HANGING ON; POT IN THE “DISH”" . . .

. . . . AN ANTI-VIETNAM RALLY; UGLY SCENE IN LOBBY; RED-LINING; CAREER ADVICE.

April 1967 anti-Vietnam march on McAllister Street to the Polo Grounds in Golden Gate Park, City Hall is in the background.

As I locked up my bike across the street from the office, late, as usual, I saw Tom, my boss, waiting for me; he was sitting on the rim of the "dish." I crossed the street and sat next to him. (The “dish” was lost when the building’s façade was remodeled.)

“You’re such a good employee,” he said, “Don’t jeopardize your job. I can’t give you a raise this time because of your tardiness.”

“What about all the people who come in on time but don’t do anything all day? I’ve actually seen them literally sleeping at their desks, like Henry, with his head thrown back, practically snoring! ” (Henry, a soft-spoken, affable man, was near retirement age; wore thick glasses pushed up on his forehead.)

“That’s not the point. Rules are rules. They want to see a body behind that desk at 8:30, period. Asleep or not.” I looked at him. He smiled. We laughed and went inside.

Employees meeting people for lunch or after work always said, “I’ll meet you at the dish.” Gene, a senior property underwriter from the seventh floor, and I passed the dish one Monday after a weekend of unusually warm, late summer weather; he started laughing, pointing at some really tall plants in the center. “Oh, man,” he said, “those are pot plants! That’s wild!” They were gone the next day. An investigation went nowhere; it could’ve been a passerby.

A warning against going to an anti-Vietnam war demonstration. A creepy lobby attendant gets physical.

Old Stock Exchange Building (now a sports club) at 301 Pine Street.

One day, November 15, 1969, anti-war mobilizers in San Francisco joined Washington D. C., New York, and other major cities and staged a protest of the Vietnam War on the steps of the old Stock Exchange building a block or so away from Continental. Gene and I decided to go. About 11:45 the PA crackled and the Branch Manager's voice came on:

“We strongly forbid any of our personnel from attending the noon demonstration at the Stock Exchange.”

The PA buzzed and went silent. Nothing was said about what consequences we’d face by going. A couple of minutes before noon, I met Gene in the lobby. Continental’s former uniformed elevator operator- now relegated to lobby attendant- still wore a black leather glove on the hand that used to work the extinct door lever. He was a strange little man who looked like the noir actor Peter Lorre. Now that elevators were computerized, his job was to screen people coming in and going out of the building, announce when an elevator was available, and herd people into them. I guess this made him feel important. We walked past him along with others on their way to lunch. He put out his arm, barring our way.

“You are not to go to the rally!” he barked.

“We’re on our own time. We can do whatever we want.” Gene moved the attendant's arm aside and we pushed through the doors to the street.

“How does he know where we’re going?” I said.

“I don’t know; the guy gives me the creeps. He’s always watching me.”

After the excitement of the rally, we walked into the building jabbering away with the crush of people returning from lunch (we saw no one else from the company at the demonstration). Gene stepped into a waiting elevator. The attendant followed him, grabbed Gene's sleeve, and tried to pull him out, then threw a punch. Gene struck back, but missed; the elevator doors closed on a shocked crowd and a stunned Gene. Dazed, I went to my desk. I estimated the time it took him to get to his and called him. He told me he was so upset he was going home. He didn’t show up the next day, so I phoned him. He told me that personnel had called that morning and fired him for being physically violent on the job.

“It was self-defense! What about that jerk of a lobby attendant? He hit you!"

“It doesn’t matter. I’m out of there.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked him. The whole incident baffled me.

“I’m going to try the Post Office.” Within a few days he was hired and stayed with the PO until he was laid off for disability.*

The Chronicle Building on the corner of 5th and Mission.

Gene lived with his partner, Frankie, in a ground floor apartment on Minna Street, an alley behind the Chronicle Building on Mission at 5^th Street, a “red-lined” area, meaning property owners and renters either couldn’t get insurance or if they did, paid twice as much premium. He once told me that he’d been lectured by his boss, the manager of the Property Department, for living in an “undesirable” neighborhood. He warned Gene that if he didn’t move to a better area, his career would be jeopardized. (In the past few years, red-lining has become illegal. And today, condos on Minna Street are selling in the hundreds of thousands.) His boss went on to say that, furthermore, Gene was single, so he’d better find a girl and get married if he wanted to get somewhere in the business. They had no idea he was gay

Next up: Chapter 8, Part Four: A chance to go to Alaska on company business. The Branch Manager opens a telegram addressed to me from Time Magazine. Head honchos arrive from New York. Everything changes. I’m on my way out again.

* Gene had inherited a rare form of arthritis from his father who had died from the disease a few months after I had met him. He and I remained close for decades. The last few times I saw him, he appeared to be calcifying right before my eyes. Then he stopped answering his phone. I went to the last place he lived on Bernal Heights and found it vacant. I neither heard from nor saw him again.

CHAPTER 8, Part Two: The Test, A Groovy Boss; Big Fish . . . .

. . . Swallows New Employer; Cool Closet Gays; The Bear, the Weasel, and His Brother; Pot in the “Dish”; The Warning.

Pine St. looking toward Montgomery and Bush Sts. (Photo by Ingrid Taylor).

Springfield Fire and Marine

I applied for the position of property underwriter at Springfield Fire and Marine and was given a test based on syllogisms. I had never been asked to take such a test when applying for a job. It was hard to concentrate what with all the other edgy applicants lining up, typewriters clacking away, phones jangling and people going in and out. Plus the test was difficult; I couldn’t answer all the questions in time; I wouldn’t get the job. I handed the test back to the woman in personnel explaining that I didn’t finish it. She smiled and said, “Take it home and bring it in in the morning.” This struck me as very unusual. I wondered if they let all applicants do this or if she’d tuned in to my frustration and felt I could pass it under a less stressful atmosphere. Or: maybe she just liked me. I nailed the test and was hired.

Medical insurance turned out to be an elective which I couldn’t afford, so went without. A month or so later, Terrence, my middle son, age 9, had an appendicitis attack. I took him to Emergency at General Hospital and told the clerk I had no insurance; they admitted him, anyway, said they’d send me a bill. If I could pay it, fine; if not, let them know. He received excellent care and recovered swiftly, running around the flat soon as he got home. Months later, I got a statement from General for almost a thousand dollars. I wrote back saying I couldn’t pay it and why. I never heard from them again and no collection agency hounded me, either.

My supervisor at Springfield was lanky Tom Morgan, a Jimmy Stewart type, the closest thing to Ken Tilles for a boss I would have for decades. One of my co-workers was Bruce Justis. He was tall, dressed elegantly, and reminded me of Rex Harrison. Born and raised in Bulls Gap, Tennessee, he spoke with a slight southern drawl which made him sound like a native of upper class London. The Navy got him out of that "hick" (his word) town, he said, and shipped him to European ports where he discovered opera, classical music, art and literature. He rode the ferry in from Sausalito and often came to work later than I did. One day, when Bruce hadn't yet shown up, Tom said, “All Bruce needs is a good woman to get him out of bed in the morning.” To which I replied, “If he had a good woman, he wouldn’t want to get out of bed.” He laughed. After work one night, Bruce introduced me to his hunky partner who’d come to meet him. So, the “good woman” reference wasn’t a factor in the equation.

The Sausalito Ferry docks behind the Ferry Building.

Springfield is swallowed by Continental Insurance.

Soon after I was hired, the company was bought by Continental Insurance. Bruce resigned and got a job with another company; we kept in touch for years. Springfield moved from the second floor of a narrow building on Pine into Continental’s seven-story building on the corner of Pine and Sansome, whose facade has changed radically since, but retained its seven stories. Fortunately, Tom ended up as my boss at Continental, as well. He had an office at Springfield; at Continental he was relegated to a metal desk in a row of others, like mine, on the first floor. When I told him I felt bad for him,

"Hey!" "Least they gave me these," he said, jangling a couple of keys," to the executive bathroom and dining room!"

Corporate ethics; the bear, the weasel, and his brother.

I noticed a different ethic at Continental. Underwriters- both male and female- were notorious drinkers who spent their lunch- and after hours at Harrington’s and Dante’s, a couple of Financial District bars. Also: not-so-secret affairs. A married, middle-age, graying underwriter was involved with a new hire: a young, perky, brown-eyed blond, who wore business suits and flouncy, white blouses. On her first day, she asked me what “premiums” and “policies” were. She and this guy would leave for lunch separately and return by different routes. If they thought no one knew, they were dead wrong. After lunch, his face would be red, his suit rumpled, and her hair and clothes somehow didn’t seem as crisp as they did in the morning. One day, I passed Gateway Plaza on my way to lunch and saw them leave a town-house together. I couldn't care less that they engaged in “nooners” because one thing I swore I would never do was get involved with a guy I worked with. Few attracted me, anyway. Exceptions being Lynn; and at Continental, Gene Kaphammer, a rangy, dark, gypsy-type.

Harrington's Bar & Grill on Front Street.

Tom reported to a bear of a Bruce, Bruce M-, who was as tall as a bear standing on its hind legs, as hairy, and moved like one. His assistant, Bob, (or Bill), N-, was a small, wimpy, weaselly, balding redhead, who wore over sized glasses with clear plastic rims. They made quite a twosome. I was talking to him one day when his twin brother showed up with a painting under his arm. He was wearing all black- his long, stringy, reddish hair stuck out from a black leather gaucho hat. He lived in an artists' loft at Project Artaud on the Northwest side of Potrero Hill, on Alabama Street. Bob, or- tried to hide his embarrassment whenever he dropped by and acted extremely uncomfortable when he introduced us. His brother seemed not the least bothered by the fact that he looked totally out of place among the suits. He held up his painting- a sad attempt at Pollack, in black, overlaid with squiggly lines and splotches- for everyone to see. After he left, Bob, or- started making excuses for him, telling me that his brother imagined himself a great artist but was really a mental case with delusions of grandeur. “He looks really happy,” I said, wanting to add, “compared to you who seems worried, and frowns all the time from being browbeaten by Bruce.”

Project Artaud 1971. A boat in the parking lot; the Koret Building in the background.

All Bruce and Bob, or- seemed to care about was whether you came to work on time. Morgan pleaded with me, explaining that the Bs got on his case when I was late. So I did try. At the time, Lynn, the kids and I lived in a four-story, re-modeled Victorian painted a light yellow ochre, next door to my old flat on 20^th Street in Eureka Valley. The kids went to Douglass Elementary a block away, now Harvey Milk Academy. I had started riding a 10-speed bike to work down Castro to Market, Market to Sansome, down Sansome to Pine. One morning, as I locked my bike to a pole across the street from work, I saw Tom waiting for me, sitting outside on the “dish”- a round concrete planter encircled by a wide rim just high enough to sit on comfortably- in front of the double glass doors. A few scraggly shrubs grew in its center. He patted the rim, inviting me to sit and proceeded to give me one last warning.

Our house at 4328 20th St., in Eureka Valley. Pictured are myself, my sons and some neighbor kids, sitting on the front steps in the sun. (See the door to our old flat at 4330 on the left.)

Next up: Chapter 8, Part Three: Hanging on; Pot in the "Dish"; Anti-Vietnam Rally; Lobby Attendant gets Physical; Red-lining; A Manager's Career Advice.

CHAPTER 8, Part One: Nancy and Sanguinetti Bail, "Little Dickie Duncan;" I Am Axed By a Friend.

The Mills Building at 220 Montgomery.

St. Paul Insurance was on the second floor. Rather than take an elevator, we would walk through the incredibly gorgeous lobby and up the curving staircase, seen below.

Pacific Indemnity (later, Chubb Insurance ) was in the Adam Grant Building.

Nancy did not come in the next day, but swept in the following morning, all aglow as she elaborated on her date - and something else: After more than a decade at Pacific Indemnity, she was quitting. She’d signed on with IBM in LA as a business systems analyst. The news brought Evelyn to tears. Marilyn sat at her desk with her mouth open. Who would replace her?

The Mills Building lobby and curving marble staircase.

I had gotten to like Nancy, loved her librarian look, her brashness, her bad mouth, and her openness about sex; impressed that she could get away with elaborating about her lovers and one-night stands in probably the most conservative of the corporate industries: commercial insurance. Yet were I to mention that I was living with a man (Lynn) - "shacking up" was the slang for that arrangement back then - I'd be fired. Any action, dress or lifestyle not in keeping with the corporate "look" could cost you. For example: I wore my hair up in a quasi-beehive, or in a French knot (see photo in Chapter 7); wearing it loose could put me on notice; another: the company hired a young, blonde Monroe look-alike right out of high-school. One day, she came in wearing black, thigh-high, lace-up boots and a mini-skirt. She got the ax that afternoon.

Nancy took me to lunch, secretly, and told me that over Mr. Zinn’s objections she’d chosen me to succeed her. She would break the news later to Evelyn and Marilyn. I collected money for her going away gift. After work, I went to The Emporium and had them gift-wrap a one-piece, sleeveless, colorful pants outfit with flared bottoms (it was the late ‘60s). I could see her in LA, swanning around in it at pool parties she’d throw for all her new boyfriends. Everyone signed the prerequisite card which I gave her and the gift at her going away luncheon. Nancy thanked everyone, opened the box, lifted the outfit from the tissue paper and ooohhhed- and ahhhed; then beaming, held it up to her shoulders and swooped up and down the aisles.

Above right bears a close resemblance to her gift. Imagine it sans sleeves and hat.

Nancy’s recommendation that I replace her fell through. A week after she left, Mr. Zinn transferred a young, pear-shaped, and balding Casualty expert Ron Beam, into our department. He apologized, telling me Zinn only wanted him to assist me, which was fine. Though I finally mastered various liability coverages and the rating system, it didn’t hurt to have someone around with more experience. But a week later, Zinn hired twenty-year old Dick Duncan and created a position for him as a supervisor over me and Ron. Still, he had to report to Sanguinetti.

Duncan wore his slick black receding hair combed straight back. Big, clear-plastic framed glasses perched on a snub nose in the middle of his yellowish-grey face. His Robert Hall (rhymes with “cheap”) suits hung on his slight, round-shouldered, 5 foot physique. He did not look well and was either very shy or just plain weird. He would creep up noiselessly to my desk; I’d look up and there he’d be, as sudden as a heart attack. Instead of telling me directly what he wanted done, he’d hand me a memo. Ron and I called him “Little Dickie Duncan.” Soon, we started planning to quit. (Planning to quit involved checking the want-ads, going on interviews during your lunch hour and lining up a job before giving notice.) Decades later, after having once caught a glimpse of Duncan looking in worse shape as he stood on a street corner, I learned he’d died of cancer.

The Adam Grant Building at 114 Sansome at Bush, and lobby.

TWO RESIGNATIONS* PHYLLIS REAPPEARS* A SCANDAL* I QUIT * MY FIRST AXING.

Ron Beam gave two week’s notice, then left to become a VP for a small insurance agency. I struggled on, dealing with “LDD.” Then Dick Sanguinetti resigned; he'd been hired by Wells Fargo as head of their insurance department. I was left with no backers in my corner. Strangely, another Dick, Dick M___*, replaced Sanguinetti. Zinn had moved him from Casualty. For the year or two I was with Pacific Indemnity, I had worked for three Dicks; only one of whom was a true dick ^_ albeit a sick dick. M_____ introduced himself to Marilyn, Evelyn and me, hunching his shoulders, combing his fingers through his dandruffy, thinning hair, a sheepish grin spreading over his Cherubic, apple-cheek face. One morning, just after I arrived, I got a call from Personnel: “Someone you used to work with is here. Her name’s Phyllis. Please come up and show her around. She’s replacing Ron Beam in Casualty.”

Phyllis looked the same: willowy, blond and beautiful; her child was now two; she and Bob had moved to San Francisco. Bob, she told me, couldn’t find a job in LA, so he figured he’s do better here. I had not heard from her since I left LA. She wasn’t the least surprised to see me. Personnel had told her of someone else who’d worked for St. Paul and was now at Pacific Indemnity. I walked her down to the main floor and over to Casualty. Before long, she was spending more time at M______’s desk than her own. M_____, I knew, was married and had a couple of kids.

Ron called and offered me a job at his agency for lots more money. One of his staff was taking a pregnancy leave. He interviewed me in his small office in a narrow, brick building, with windows overlooking Market Street. As he explained my job - small accounts manager, I watched men in shorts, tank tops, and Converse running around and around on the gravel and tar roof of a building across the way that housed a sports facility. It struck me as funny and I laughed. Ron stopped talking and said, “I hope you’re not laughing at me!” I told him to turn around and look. “Oh, those. I know. Guys on lunch break. Very distracting at first, but I got used to it. I’m just getting used to this title of V.P,” he confessed, “I’m still a little insecure, so any, you know . . . ” He offered me the job: I would talk to clients who called about changes to their policies; fill out forms and send them to the company they had coverage with, or simply give the underwriter a buzz. Ron said that most of his clients had personal lines coverage, but a few had both commercial and personal. Commercial was across the hall. He showed me my "office" a cubicle, really, right next to another of his account managers, a woman, he explained, who always came in late. I gave two week’s notice at Pacific Indemnity and on a Monday morning, started at Ron’s agency.

In those two weeks, Phyllis continued working her magic on M_____. She came over to my desk one day and told me Dick was leaving his wife of ten years,

"Bob and I separated. We never got married," she explained, "Y'know, honey, he never had a job. I'm tired of supporting that deadbeat."

"Who else knows?"

"Well, just you, hon, please don't tell anyone. We could get fired!"

Watching Phyllis and Dick together, it was pretty obvious. The word got out, but not by me. Women were in an uproar about it. First, me, the Jezebel, breaking up Lynn's marriage and now my friend, Phyllis. Phyllis was axed; I figured she'd have no trouble getting another job; but M_____ was too important to the company to lose. Now, I was certain that Nancy and Sanguinetti had spoken up for me: I'd been with the company more than a year; Lynn, a few months.

Things seemed simple working for Ron, the name of whose agency I can’t remember; and happy to get away from the soap operas at PI. My next door neighbor, Rose, turned out to be a huge, Beatniky red-head. She would blow into the office about ten, munching on a croissant or a messy cheeseburger, juggling it, her oversize purse, and files she’d taken home. Meanwhile, I answered her phone - which rang constantly, and mine, and took her messages, as well. I wasn’t pleased. Ron had told me time and again that he was going to talk to her about coming in late and eating at her desk. He was tired of finding mustard and ketchup on the files. “I really like her,” he said, “she helped me a lot when I got here. She knows more about the agency than I do right now.”

Ron called me into his office a few days later saying that a client complained that I didn’t transfer him to Commercial, but had hung up on him. “He has a huge commercial account with us. He’s in the construction business. God, I hope we don’t lose him.”

“How am I supposed to know who has both personal and commercial accounts? He didn't say-”

-“You have to read their files!”

I’d been doing fine till then: I get a call, go over to the personal accounts files, pull the file, process the request, and that- as they say- was that. It never occurred to me to cross the hall to see if the clients had commercial accounts. I apologized to Ron. He did damage control and things went along smoothly. Rose kept coming in late or not at all and I had to cover for her. One day, she bustled in at noon, juggling a dripping hamburger, her bag, and files, told Ron she could stay only till three. I could hear her talking and laughing on her phone through the partition and it didn’t sound like work. A few days later, and things with Rose unchanged, Ron stopped by my cubicle first thing in the morning and said, “Come into my office.” I sat in front of his desk, watching the men jogging around on the roof: they looked so earnest, so silly.

“You know,” he began, tenuously, “it’s really hard having to let someone go who you really like and feel is a friend.”

“ I know,” I said, thinking of Rose, “Yeah, that’s got to be hard.”

“So, hon, sorry, I told personnel to have your check ready -” he looked at his watch, “You can pick it up when you leave. Good luck, let me know if you need a recommendation letter . . .” I heard his voice trail off as I closed his door behind me. In the hall, I bumped into Rose on her way in with her half-eaten chili dog.

Next Up: CHAPTER 8, Part Two: Another job; another buyout; "secret" affairs; the Bear and the Weasel; closet gays in management; marijuana in the “Dish;” a war protest warning turns ugly . . . read on.

* Name omitted as he may still be among the living.