CHAPTER 10, Part Three: Post-party depression, Werner’s girlfriend, I fly to LA for training, a not-so secret scandal.

I could smell it as soon as I got off the elevator Friday morning:  rotting fish.  It was nauseating.  Despite Werner’s assurance, no one had cleaned up.  The B of A janitors only emptied ashtrays and vacuumed; they couldn’t be bothered with wastebaskets filled with food encrusted paper plates.    I dumped everything into huge plastic bags, went to the bathroom  for paper towels, pumped the soap dispenser on them,  and started cleaning.  Candy wandered in and got busy, too, scrubbing down desks, cabinets and  the executive offices. An after-hours maintenance man had shown me once, when I was working late, the secret of opening a window in the hi-rise by using  a key kept in Jim and Teddy’s desk, which was never locked.  I found it and swung the window open a crack to air the place out.  Then Candy and I dragged the full plastic bags into the hall and left them in front of the service elevator.   Werner showed up.  We complained about having to clean up the mess, but he wasn’t hearing us.
         Riding my bike home from the party last night, I had thought about what Werner had said.  He didn’t think I looked  "dressy” or “feminine" enough.   I’d worn a two-piece black and white crepe dress:  The top was white, scoop-neck, ¾ length sleeves; the bottom was black flared culottes that hit me just below the knees.  I’d added a string of pearls and pearl earrings.  What was not “dressy” about it?  It was one of my favorites because I could wear it to special occasions yet ride my bike.  Candy had worn a rose-colored, very low-cut, tight, sparkly nylon dress with a sarong skirt and black flats.

               Now, he paced the office, scratching his butt.   “Girls, I’ve got to go check in at our Sacramento branch and I’m stopping off to see my girlfriend."  He sweated and strode from his office into our area and back, mopping his forehead and bald head with his hanky.  “I need to get her a present.  Candy, go out and buy a hairdryer.  Have it gift wrapped.  And make it fast.   I’m leaving soon as you get back.”  Candy and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes.  Werner gave her a 20; she took off.  I started going through my inbox and calling agents.  Werner stomped out of his office,

“It’s too Goddamn hot in there.  How do I turn the damn heat down?  Come and take a look, will yah?”  It seemed he couldn’t figure out which way to turn the knob to “Cold” though arrows plainly showed the direction.   I explained, then demonstrated.  My phone rang. “Go answer that!”  he barked, fiddling with the knob, sweating and swearing. 

 

                A few minutes later, he came out of his office musing about his girlfriend.  He told me she was a waitress at the Nut Tree Café where he stopped for coffee before going on to the Rodeway Inn where he stayed when he had business in the Capitol.   He went on about how he hadn’t got up the nerve to sleep with her yet.  I really didn’t want to know.   Candy came back, saving me from having to hear any more.  She handed him the gift in a Woolworth shopping bag; he grabbed his jacket and left.  I told her what he’d said.  She sneered,

                “Yeah, I heard it all before.  Man, the guy’s been married for a hundred years.  He’s got twenty-thirty-year-old kids, for fuck’s sake.  He’s such a creep.” 

           Werner reminded me of Willie Loman in Death of a Salesman.  He was "running scared,"  always pacing and sweating.   He'd leave sweaty hand prints on my desk.  I felt he was afraid he'd do something wrong and Teddy and Jim would get rid of him.  He couldn't stay behind his desk for more than a few minutes, unless he was on the phone with agents or friends.  He never shut his door.   I almost felt sorry for him until I overheard his side of the conversation which was lewd with four letter words and totally disrespectful of women  He used the "c" word when referring to them.   Once, when I closed his door, he stormed out.

     "Leave my fuckin' door open, will yah?  It's too Goddamn hot in there!" he'd hollered.

        

          Candy typed up a few letters, then left.  It was two o’clock.   It was quiet.  I liked being alone.  I caught up on a lot of work, and made some calls.   I took my break in the guys’ offices, closed and locked the window, and gazed down at traffic on Pine St going east and west; teensy people hustling along.  Peaceful wasn’t to last when Candy finally quit and they hired Shirley, the inept secretary.  She didn’t last either, and the next one was Linda, I think, a willowy girl in her mid-twenties.

Linda grew up in San Francisco, but when she married, her husband didn’t want to raise their kids in the city, so they moved to the Peninsula.    She missed the city terribly, she told me.  One quiet Friday afternoon before a holiday on Monday, Werner was out and Teddy and Jim were in LA, so about two o’clock, I forwarded the phones to the answering service, closed the office, and took her for a cable car ride to Fisherman’s Wharf.  From there, we walked to Aquatic Park and back.  She told me she missed Golden Gate Park and recalled playing there as a kid and strolling through it with friends.  She said she was sad her kids wouldn’t be able to do that.  Her husband didn’t even want to visit.  He hated the idea of her working in the City, but he did, too.  He picked her up after work every day and they drove home together.  After we got back, she thanked me and said she’d remember our outing forever.

                 The following Tuesday morning, Werner called me into his office.  He was furious.

                “How could you just close the office for a whole afternoon without authorization?” he yelled.

                “It was a Friday before a holiday,” I explained, “Nothing was going on.  It was just for a couple of hours anyway.”  And I told him why.
 

                “Well, you’re going to miss ‘Frisco [I winced] for a couple of days.   Jim and Teddy want you in LA at the home office Thursday and Friday for training."

A 1970s "stewardess"

                I had to be in the LA office by 9AM.  I got up at five, took Sam Trans to the airport, and caught the commuter flight to LAX.  As I boarded and found my seat in the business class, I was surprised to find that I was only one of two women out of a plane-load of men.    The “stewardesses (now flight attendants)” all but ignored us as they fawned over the suits, bringing them coffee, pastries and drinks.    I finally got some attention and ordered a glass of orange juice and a bearclaw, which she took her time getting.  I watched her pander to the men, stepping from seat by seat, leaning over them-  a hand on a shoulder, and a huge smile.

                Al, a man from LAM, with hair the color of paste with a face to match, wearing thick, rimless glasses picked me up.  He was wearing a short-sleeve, white, nylon shirt and grey slacks.  He asked me about the weather in SF and went on and on about the smog and heat in LA.  He drove me to the two-story stucco motel I’d be staying in that night   It had an exterior glass elevator looking out on bungalows, withered palm trees, and garbage bins.  The company had booked me a room on the second floor.

      "It's s a nice, comfortable little place," he said.  "You’ll like it.  It’s only a block away  from the office, across the street from the Ambassador Hotel, just around a corner on a side street.”

a bungalow court

 

Taking the elevator up one flight seemed dumb, so Al lugged my suitcase up the stairs to my room, which smelled like bubble gum and Lysol.  He waited while I freshened up.  I felt strange being in LA again, a decade later.  St. Paul was in the same area.  I had neither the time nor the inclination to find it or visit my old place on Alvarado.  I couldn't wait to get back home.

Once in the office, Al introduced me to the branch manager, Mr. D (Jim and Teddy were nowhere in sight), who turned me over to Carla, a sweet, older Latina with long, thick, brown hair.  She wore a spiffy tailored suit with a skirt and Cuban heels.  She gestured to an unoccupied desk, handed me an employee handbook the size of a phone book, told me to read it, and left me alone.   I couldn’t keep my eyes open.   I surreptitiously observed the others and noticed that Al spent a lot of time at Carla’s desk.  At noon, she came and got me and we all went to lunch at a nearby café.  They sat very close, touched hands, and murmured.  I concentrated on my turkey sandwich and the entertainment section of the LA Times someone had left.   Al picked up the tab.  I spent the rest of the day flipping pages in the handbook.  One of the rules was that employees were not to fraternize.  Still, during the afternoon break, I saw Carla and Al (not their real names) holding hands as they walked out of the office.  I turned to Blanche, a woman sitting at a nearby desk,

             “I thought employees weren’t supposed to fraternize.  It says right here.”

“Oh, you mean Carla and Al?  Oh, that’s been going on for a long time.    He’s married but his wife won’t give him a divorce.  We all know about it, but just look the other way!”  She laughed.

Blanche was tasked with showing me the routine of handling new and renewal business.  Not any different from other companies I'd worked for.  I read lists of agents LAM did business with, in and around LA, from San Bernardino to Pomona, and almost as far south as San Diego.  Mainly, she just wanted me to watch her write up policies and endorsements, and take notes as she got on the phone with agents; she then talked to me about procedures:  We weren’t allowed to leave the building except for lunch, so I had to drink the awful coffee in the break room. 

                At the end of the day, Mr. D, approached me, grinning, and asked me how I liked working at Los Angeles Mutual, and how everything was going.

“Fine, fine,” I said, “everyone is so helpful and friendly.”

“Well, we’re all just one happy family here,” he paused, “I understand you’re staying at a nearby motel.  Do you want Al to escort you there?” 

“No, no.  I know where it is.  Thanks, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?  I mean . . ."

“I’ll be fine.  Thanks.”    I picked up my stuff and left.

 It was dusk.  The sky was a smoky, yellowish grey with pink and red-hi-lights.    The humid, fetid air smelled of flowers and garbage.  I took the glass elevator to my room.  It creaked, rumbled and shook.   It had gotten dark.  I couldn’t see anything because the lights were on in it.  I called the kids.  RK was roasting a chicken (he was a great cook) while they hung out with their friends outside.  I’d be flying home the next afternoon, so I’d be back that night.  Al was driving me to the airport.

The Ambassador Hotel

I went to the same café for dinner, saving my receipt.  I fell asleep immediately and woke at 6.  I packed my suitcase and left, leaving a couple of dollars on the dresser.  I laughed to myself at the thought of taking the elevator down, but I did, to see the view it afforded.   I treated myself on LAM’s dime to a good breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast and coffee at the Ambassador Hotel, feeling like a celebrity, sitting in a leather upholstered booth, surrounded by photographs of movie stars.  I peeked in at the Coconut Grove.  At the office, I resumed reading the handbook; Blanche let me take a few calls, work up some endorsements on a couple of policies, and underwrite new business, subject to her approval.  At noon, Mr. D stopped by my desk to tell me that he was glad to have met me and that I was a good fit for the company.  I said goodbye to Blanche and Carla and thanked them.  Al drove me to the airport.  He surprised me by saying,

“About me and Carla-"

“-Look, it’s none of my business, Al,” I said.  ”Really, okay?  Everyone knows anyway, so . . . big deal.”  He was quiet the rest of the drive except to say goodbye.  I would see them again during the Christmas holidays when I flew down for the office party. 

Next up:  Chapter 10, Part Four:  Werner flips out-  again.  The office Christmas party.  Teddy and Jim give us measly bonus checks.  Werner shows off a lewd Christmas card.  Big surprise.  I tell Werner off.

                 

              

Chapter 10, Part Two: Los Angeles Mutual's Open House

The Monday after the Friday we got our new furnishings, Werner announced that we were going to have an Grand Opening party to celebrate LAM’s San Francisco branch office on the following Thursday after business hours, at 5:00.  Jim and Angie told us they were having it catered; they danced up and down in anticipation of showing off the office and décor.  We were ordered to dress our best for the account managers and officers from the agencies who bring us business.   

“Why Thursday?”  I asked Werner.

“Jim says so.  Most agencies close early or are short-staffed on Fridays,” he explained, “So . . .”

“So, it’s after hours.  Will we get overtime?”  Werner looked at me, huffed, turned his back and walked away.  I guessed NO.

But on Wednesday, disaster struck.   I opened a drawer in my new desk and the front came off.  Evidently the office supplies and insurance forms were too heavy for the cheap, pine construction.  Werner told me I pulled it out wrong; if I’d done it right, he said, this wouldn’t have happened.  How many ways, I asked him, are there to open a drawer?

  “It has to be fixed fast, before open house!” he whined, mopping his sweaty red face with a fistful of Kleenex he’d snatched from a box Candy kept on her desk, and throwing them back on it when he finished.

Candy sneered, “Ewww, ugh.”  Using a clean tissue, she swept them into a waste paper basket.  She left the office and returned with paper towels and soap, and scrubbed the top of her desk.  Werner called the furniture company and they sent someone out.  The guy told him he couldn’t fix the drawer in the office but had to take the desk back to the factory.  There was no guarantee  it’d be fixed by Friday.  Werner  almost had a heart attack,

“The whole friggin’ desk?” His jowels shook.

“ ‘Fraid so, sir.”

He stomped around and flapping his arms like Ralph Kramden. Candy and I sniggered.  But, he calmed down when the guy said,

“We will replace it with a new one.  We can deliver it by the end of the day.”

 So I ended up with a new, new desk. I filled the drawer with the same stuff and gingerly opened it. It held.

Thursday morning, Candy and I cleaned off every surface in the file room, moving files and supplies.  The caterers showed up with snack trays loaded with shrimp canapés, cubes of ham and cheese speared with colored tooth picks, chips and dip; crackers; small, bacon-wrapped wienies; and celery and carrot sticks with dip.  Werner saw that the hutch was filled with scotch and vodka to supplement the Bailey's.  Besides finger-food, the caterers set out buckets of ice and champagne.   At 4:45, Werner siad we could quit working and to fix the phones so all the calls would go to an off-site, message taking service.  (The era before message machines, voice mail, etc.)  Angie wore a frilled, low-cut white blouse, a pencil-slim, black skirt,  and 6 inch steel-tipped heels; her hair up in a loose chignon. We stood in a “receiving line” with Teddy, Jim, and Angie at the open office door.  Guests trickled in at first, then descended in bunches.  The women and some of the men complimented the LA contingent on the new office, running their hands over the furniture and stroking our gold, crushed velvet typing chairs. 

North West view

            “And the view!   Come look at the view!”  someone shrieked.

“Look at it from Werner’s office, then from Teddy’s!”   The view at night was spectacular, I had to admit.  The dark night sky, the streets from East to West lit up from the Bay to the Ocean; the lights on the Bay Bridge; the head- and taillights from traffic moving in all directions.  And practically every window in nearby hi-rises glowed.  

Bay Bridge looking East

"You girls don't know how lucky you are to be working in such a lovely office with such a lovely
view!"

             

View looking West

Jim held court, going into great detail about how he and Angie had driven to the Mission District where they found the desks, tables, chairs and hutch at a discount office furniture store .   I could tell by the looks and inflections that the comments were insincere, even sarcastic.  An account rep I knew looked at me sideways, half-laughing.  “Are they serious?” she said.  I told her to be nice.  I had to work here. 

Candy and I ended up like hired help (we were, anyway).   People asked us to fill their paper plates with this or that and pour drinks.  We had no time to eat but when the guests thinned out, we dove in.  Finally, we saw the last of them out the door.   Jim suggested to Werner that we propose a toast to our successful open house.  The good stuff was gone, all that was left was Bailey’s Irish Cream so we filled paper cups with it and raised them:  "Cheers!"  Then Jim, Teddy and Angie left to fly back to LA. 

            “Who’s going to clean up this mess?” Candy asked.

            “Oh, the janitors,” Werner assured us as he drew on his suit jacket and bustled out the door.

            “Okay, then, let’s split from this banana stand!" Candy shouted.”   It was almost seven o’clock.

Next up:  Chapter 10, Part Three: Post-party depression.  Werner talks about his girlfriend: TMI!  I refuse an archaic forms processing method, Werner threatens to fire me.

CHAPTER 10, Part one: A surreal experience at LAM (Los Angeles Mutual Insurance Company), in the brand new Bank America building.

My kids were in junior high (middle school); RK had decided to ship out once more (he had seaman’s papers as well as a being a longshoreman), so was on a ship sailing along South America’s west coast, due home in a month or so.  We now lived in a Victorian up the hill from my sons’ middle school, in Noe Valley, which the owners had tried to modernize with asbestos siding, fake ceilings, and a partially finished rear deck overlooking the garden.   It seemed like it rained constantly that year.

The imposing Bank of America building.

At eight o’clock one morning, on my way to an underwriting interview for the Los Angeles Mutual Insurance company, I found myself on the 23rd floor of the three-year-old Bank America building.   Walking down a labyrinth of deserted, urine-yellow, carpeted halls, I felt as though I were trapped inside a Kafka novel, or worse, Witold Gombrowitz.   The dark wood doors bore no company names, not even gender distinctions to indicate bathrooms.  I knocked on a door- no answer.  I opened it; angry office-workers glared at me from their IBM Selectrics.

“Is this Los Angeles Mutual-"

“-No!”

On I walked.  I reached a right angle in the hall and ended up in front of yet another unmarked door.  I knocked.  A high-pitched voice said, “Come in!”  I let myself in and crossed a wide expanse of an unfurnished beige-carpeted room and approached a glassed-in, corner office.  A curly-haired blond man about 30 sat behind an old metal desk with his back to the awe-inspiring view of the west side of the City.  He wore a blue, windowpane plaid suit with wide lapels and a floral tie.  In his lap was a white toy poodle.

I had to be in the wrong place.  “Is this Los Angeles Mutual Insurance Company?” I heard myself ask tentatively.

“Yes, it is, honey.  I’m Teddy.”   Teddy stood up and shook my hand, holding his wriggling poodle to his stomach.  “Are you here for the interview for underwriter?”

“Yes,” I said, glancing around.  He gestured me to a chair.  I gave him my resume, and we talked.  Or rather I sat there while he was on the phone making arrangements with kennels to board his poodle when he is in San Francisco, getting the branch office off the ground.  After he hung up, he went on to tell me that they had an office in San Jose, but were closing it once this branch opened.  Some of the people down there would come to SF to work, he explained.   I heard footsteps behind me.  I turned to see a tall, willowy, sandy-haired man wearing aviator glasses and a lime-green stretch-knit, bell-bottom, zip up front leisure suit, leaning against the door frame.

“Oh, dear, meet Jim, my partner,” Teddy said, then added, “Actually, he’s the president, I’m the vice.”  He giggled.  “Well,” he went on, “from what you’ve told me and looking at your resume, we need look no further, do we, Jim? For our property-casualty underwriter?” 

 

“If you say so, I’ll take your word for it.  I’m still new at this,” Jim said, extending a hand; Teddy introduced us.  “Hello dear,”   Jim drawled. 

“So, just show up tomorrow and your boss Werner Gross will be here,” Teddy explained.   “He’s driving up from San Jose.  Oh, and Candy, the secretary, too.  Jim and I have to skedaddle back to LA.  First, let me explain about this dreadful furniture:  It’s rented.”

“My wife and I just got back from Mexico,” Jim put in.  “I have some wonderful ideas for the décor.  Our office will be the envy of everyone on the street in no time!   My hot, little tamale of a secretary, Angie, will help.  She’s has a degree in interior decorating.   So, honey, report to Werner tomorrow and we’ll see you in about a week with brand new office furniture.”

“And bric-a-brac accents!” Teddy added.  “ ‘Bye, dear, I’m sure you’ll love it here.”

My rented, metal desk was in place the next morning, along with one for Werner Gross’s office which was next to Teddy’s and Jim’s.   Werner had a high-backed, black Naugahyde, executive chair.    Across from me was the secretary’s desk.  To my left, and her right, was the file/utility room. Its shear-curtained glass wall and door faced us.  When I got there, a gum-cracking Candy and a sweaty Werner were in this room already unloading boxes and boxes of files and sliding them onto metal shelves the length of the room.

“Get in here, honey, and give us a hand,” Werner growled, leaning over a box.  From where I stood, I could see his huge behind straining the seams of his cheap, polyester brown slacks.  He straightened up and mopped his sweaty, red face, and bald head with a white hanky.  Candy kept on shelving files while snapping her gum.  She was petite with short blond hair and wore very short shorts, a tank top, and sandals.  She was gone within a week.  Couldn’t handle the commute or the weather.  The non-identical twins, Jim and Teddy, hired Patsy, a friend of Jim’s mother’s daughter, just out of typing school-not secretarial school, but typing school.  She was a baby-faced, plump eighteen who wore ‘50s style full-skirted cotton dresses  and cat’s eye glasses with translucent pink rims.   Her face seemed always red from embarrassment.  It took her forever to type one letter, sighing and swearing under her breath as she back-spaced to utilize the “correct-tape” function.   Huge sweat stains grew under her armpits.

Before Candy left, Werner called us into his office .  He was standing at his window looking West and motioned us to his side.  He put his arms around our shoulders, and said, “Look out there, gals.  From here, we can see way past those islands almost to Hawaii.   We’re going to write every piece of property down there.  Los Angeles Mutual will take 'Frisco by storm!”

View looking North. Transamerica Pyramid in foreground.

Insurance agents came by with files of risks they wanted Werner and me to look at, approve, and write insurance policies for.  They’d walk around, inspecting everything, commenting on the gorgeous view.  I assured them that we were getting new furniture in keeping with occupying a huge corner space on the 23^rd floor. 

A week later, Teddy and Jim dropped in with Angie.  She was a petite, feisty Latina who reminded me of Rita Moreno.  She wore a low-cut, sheer white blouse tucked into a pencil-thin black skirt, and glasses with heavy black frames.  Her thick black hair was piled on her head.  She swept around the main room, the offices, and file room on Jim’s arm, leaving holes in the carpet from her three inch spike heels, talking so fast in heavily accented English, I could hardly understand her.   Jim, Teddy, and Werner smiled and nodded,  “Yes, doll,”  and “You’re absolutely right, doll.” 

 “Jes, jes, the furniture we order,"  Angie said, turning to Patsy and me, "eess goink to look beyoootiful in here with these jello carpets, hah?”

“Yes, girls, Werner,” Jim agreed, “It’s being delivered tomorrow and they’ll take these awful metal contraptions and chairs away.  Poof!  Never see them again.”

As promised, our new desks, chairs, side tables, and utility table for the entry way, were delivered the next day.   Teddy, Jim, Angie and Werner oversaw its installation.  The desks were of cheap pine stained dark and designed to look like Mexican refectory furniture.
  Our typing chairs were upholstered with gold, crushed velvet. A huge, black leather, executive recliner replaced Werner’s rental chair.   The rectangular utility table for the entry way was of the same construction and design, as were the occasional tables, and credenza and hutch which would serve as a liquor cabinet.   How on earth could Angie, a Latina with a degree in interior decorating (if Jim was to be believed), be proud of having selected this furniture meant for an office?  She had to be kidding, right?  I couldn’t tell.  She swanned around, cooing, running her hands over everything.  Jim placed a cardboard box on the refectory table, opened it  and pulled out ceramic sculptures of Mexican village churches, and stereotype peons- sombreros, cacti, donkeys, and wrought- iron sconces. 


 He and Angie placed them on the tables and hung the sconces on the walls.  Then they stood in the middle of the floor and beamed.   Werner opened the door of the credenza, and pulled out a bottle of Bristol Irish Cream, poured it in paper cups, and handed them to us  Patsy and I, following their lead, raised our cups in a toast.  Everything about the place felt wrong.

Next up:  Chapter 10, Part Two:  Desks fall apart; open House; Werner talks about his girlfriend: TMI!  I refuse an archaic forms processing method.