CHAPTER 8, Part Four: 1967- 1968 Seminal Years: How the counter culture, the Vietnam war, free speech, and civil rights affected the workplace.

Race riot in Detroit, 1967

The late sixties were seminal years in the US that had an impact on most of the Western world.  Though I was busy working and taking care of my kids, I was quite aware of what was going on.  We didn’t have a TV, but newspaper headlines, the alternative press, and radio news commentators screamed.  It was hard not to be informed.  In the summer of 1967 race riots broke out in Chicago, Brooklyn, Cleveland, Baltimore, Newark and Detroit; over three dozen people were killed.  35,000 anti-war protesters showed up at the Pentagon with over 600 arrests.  That same year, the Summer of Love launched in San Francisco. (See photo below, taken in Golden Gate Park.) Independent media encouraged people to come here and enjoy absolute freedom.  And thousands did, singing the Mamas & The Papas song ( a group from LA).“When You Come to San Francisco, Wear Flowers in Your Hair.” 

Summer of Love

One day, a friend and I were sitting on the wall bordering Crocker Plaza eating lunch when a flat bed truck pulled up and parked.  On it, long haired and bearded people in colorful clothes: tie-dye, bell bottoms, fringed leather and beaded headbands- sang and danced, playing guitars and whacking tambourines, stunning passing office-workers into jaw-dropping disbelief.   I heard people  say, “Oh, God, who let the freaks loose?!”  “I can’t believe this is happening in San Francisco- here [the financial district], especially!” and  “What is the world coming to?”  A sign on the truck bore the words “The San Francisco Mime Troupe."  

 A Mime Troupe early poster, 1967

A grinning Bill Graham, who managed the troupe at the time, stood in the center. (It was founded by mime/actor/writer R. G. Davis).  Above the music, he shouted and handed out flyers, exhorting people to come to their shows in the Geary Temple.   (The Geary Temple gained notoriety in the 1970s when it became Jim Jones' Peoples' Temple.  It was damaged in the 1989 earthquake and rebuilt into a post office.)    My friend and I were ecstatic, watching them and the reaction of dumb-founded workers.   Not too many years later, I would see Bill Graham at the Fillmore Auditorium, on the corner of Fillmore and Geary where to this day people flock to rock concerts.  As a producer of rock groups there and at the Avalon, he'd  be handing out apples from a barrel, on the stairs leading up to the ballroom.    
The people in my office rarely went out for lunch.  I asked the few who did if they saw the Mime Troupe on their flat-bed truck.  “No, but I heard all this noise.  I thought mimes didn’t talk.”  "What was going on?" some asked. When I told them, they shuddered and said they were glad they missed it.   Timothy Leary had it all backward, I thought-  with his mantra: “Tune in, turn on, drop out."  He felt people should drop out into what was called the counter-culture.  But to me, the people who dropped out seemed to be office workers.  The clueless- ignorant of major changes occurring in culture, the war in Vietnam, free speech, and civil rights in the late '60s.  These were not popular water cooler topics.

Martin Luther King, Jr.

In December, Dr. Benjamin Spock and Allen Ginsberg were arrested for protesting the war in front of a military recruiting center in New York.   The same day-March 16, 1968-as the horrendous My Lai massacre occurred in Vietnam Robert Kennedy announced he was running for President of the US, and Lyndon Johnson said he wasn’t.  Then on April 4, Martin Luther King was assassinated in a Memphis motel by James Earl Ray.  Here in San Francisco, Blacks rioted in Hunter’s Point in the south eastern part of the City.  Across town, several miles away in Eureka Valley, I was anxious about sending the kids to school, but I trusted officials to handle things peacefully, which they did.  The atmosphere was tense in the Financial District, but by the end of the day, it appeared things had calmed down.  The media ran with the news, interviewing everyone from politicians, religious leaders, and civil rights sympathizers.  Jesse Jackson was everywhere.

Once in a while, I had to go to the understaffed Marine underwriters’ department on the 7^th floor to get coverage information.  I talked to the supervisor, Jack Weinberg, an engaging, stocky, swarthy man who reminded me of the actor Rod Steiger whose films “The Illustrated Man” and “Dr. Zhivago” had just been in theatres. Jack dressed nattily in expensive, three-piece suits and colorful ties, and pastel or striped shirts with white collar and cuffs, setting him apart from the rest of the drones. Often, to relieve the boredom of my department, I would invent an excuse to go to his office where we’d chat and laugh about work, the hoops you were expected to jump through to get anything done, or just dish about co-workers. One Friday night, I met Gene at a bar on Castro (Eureka Valley was rapidly evolving into the gay Mecca it is today) a few blocks from my place.  Jack walked in through the crowd.   I had to look twice; Gene glanced at him, touched my shoulder and winked.  Jack was wearing a moss-colored, one-piece hot-pants outfit.  He looked at me.  His eyes widened and his mouth opened.  Then he grinned and put his finger to his lips.  I responded with the zipped lip gesture.  Like Gene, Jack would not have set off anyone’s “gaydar,” even in gay bars.  Much later, as the crowd got nosier, Gene left with Frankie.  Jack approached me.   He’d had more than a few drinks. 

                “I wanna make you a proposition,” he said, setting his drink on the bar and lighting up a cigarette.

                “A what?”  I laughed.

                “I’m serious,” he said.   

                “Okay, what?”

                “Look , hon, I have to go to the Juneau office for a few days to check out a new client.” 

                “Okay . . .”

    “I need a woman to accompany me as a foil.  I was wondering if you’d like to go.”   I didn’t say anything, but a thought flashed through my mind: what on earth do I have to wear to Alaska?  As though reading my mind, Jack went on, “I’ll have a huge expense account, so I can buy you whatever you need: fur coat, boots, a cocktail dress for the reception, shoes, anything.  So don’t worry.”

                “When?”

                “The date hasn’t been set yet.  You'd be perfect.  I can't think of anyone I'd rather have accompany me.”

                “Good, wonderful, because I’d love to go.  I’ve always wanted to go to Alaska.  It’ll be fun."
                 "I’ll let you know," he added. "You have some time to think about it."   I pictured myself in a gorgeous hooded fur and great-looking boots.  I would have to tell Lynn and make sure he was okay with taking care of the kids.

Robert Kennedy after he was shot. 

                One night few weeks later, on June 5, 1968, I turned on the TV to watch Robert Kennedy give his acceptance speech in the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, after winning the California primary, and saw him assassinated.   I could not believe what I was seeing.  I was devastated as were the people in the US and around the world.  The shooter was Sirhan Sirhan, a stable boy at the Santa Anita racetrack, a Jordanian Christian who had issues with Kennedy's support for Israel.  He is currently in a prison in Coalinga. 

The MUZAK logo.

 I digress:   Several years earlier, some marketing firm and a team of so-called psychologists who studied worker behavior came up with the results: employees churned out more work when they listened to pre-recorded, piped in music.  The firm that nailed the contract for most businesses was MUZAK (which is still at it, by the way).  The “music” is pre-digested pop or a pabulum mix of instrumental scores from Broadway musicals, pop, and easy rock-  no vocals as they proved distracting.   The only place you could get away from it then was in the bathroom (not any more).  Even elevators were wired.
  The morning after Robert Kennedy’s assassination, I stepped into the elevator at work to the strains of “Everything’s Coming Up Roses!” walked to my desk to “Put on a Happy Face!”  I was livid.  I put my purse away, hung up my coat, and marched into the building engineer’s room, which, ironically, was MUZAK free.   The engineer was sitting at his desk with his back to me, reading The Chronicle.  I’d never met the guy.  I said, “Turn that crap off!  Don’t you have any sensitivity about what just happened?  Robert Kennedy was shot dead last night and you’re playing that?  Please, turn it off now!”  I didn’t wait for his response.  Soon as I closed the door behind me, I heard “S’Wonderful” cut off in mid-phrase.   Later, a co-worker looked up from her desk and said, “Gee, it’s quiet in here.  What happened to the music?”  “Thank God,” someone responded.  “I can’t stand that shit.”    The quiet lasted only a couple of days.  (The impact of Kennedy's assassination had more of an effect on the general public than King's as it was shown live on TV.)

 Back to Jack and Alaska:   I had to talk to him about marine coverage a few times, but he never again mentioned the Alaska trip.  I figured he’d had a lot to drink that night and regretted asking me.  Somehow, I knew not to bring it up.  Actually, I was relieved.  The last thing I wanted was to spend time with a bunch of drunk insurance men and their hair-sprayed wives and/or mistresses in a remote place like Juneau where I couldn't just hop on my bike or catch a bus home.  Those business junkets wind-up as drunken orgies, anyway.  And, I’ve never been away from my kids for too long and didn’t feel comfortable leaving them in Lynn’s care.                             

Cops beating protesters at the Convention.

 In late August, at the Democratic Convention in Chicago, about 10,000 anti-war demonstrators clashed with a thousand Chicago police, FBI and CIA agents; a few thousand National Guard, and  US.  Army troops.  Bystanders and the press were also beaten.    In November Nixon and Agnew were elected President and Veep, against Hubert Humphrey and Edward Muskie, who ran on a pro-war platform.  The next day, students struck at SF State University followed in 1969 by college student strikes across the country.

NEXT:  Part Five ends Chapter 8:  Against the backdrop of the conviction and sentencing of the killers of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert Kennedy, the Black Panthers vs. police, and hippies attacked by National Guard; the Branch Manager opens a telegram addressed to me from Time Magazine.  And men on the moon; Woodstock, Altamont, Stonewall riots, the end of segregation; head honchos arrive from the main office in New York and wreak havoc on many of us.  I’m on my way out.   Again.   My choice.   And more.

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.