California Bound

My unexpected career in the airline industry resulted from a series of mishaps that started in 1964 at the age of twenty-two. Using my hard-earned babysitting and lawn-mowing money, I purchased a black, 1959 MGA convertible. I had graduated from college and secretarial school, and was now looking for adventure.

“I want to drive to San Francisco,” I informed my parents.

As an unconventional student of life, my mother thought a trip from Connecticut to the West Coast was reasonable, but she wanted a few assurances.

My father had a different point of view: “I think your idea is ridiculous. No job and driving by yourself across country? No, you do not have my permission.”

My mother encouraged her children to explore, to question, and to dream big. My father lived in a straitjacket of traditional conformity. Throughout my life, I benefited from dad’s strict boundaries and mom’s eccentric support.

Soon after our California discussion, mom found a secretarial position for me at the Pan Am office in San Francisco. Our neighbors knew a student who needed transportation to Sacramento. Fred Gannon, an undergraduate at Stanford University, agreed to pay half the auto expenses.

My dad relented, although he still objected to my traveling with an unknown man. On the day of departure he roped my suitcase to the MGA’s trunk rack and insisted I call each evening. Mom had confirmed four overnights across the country with friends and relatives.

Photo:

Beginning the California journey in my MGA.

When I picked up Fred in Pennsylvania, he stood a skinny six-feet tall and wore an oversized suit. His black-framed glasses accented his pale, pockmarked face. Not exactly the California beach boy I had expected. When I telephoned my parents that first night from my sister’s home in Chicago, my description of Fred seemed to ease my father’s worries.

The next morning we drove to Des Moines. Because the MGA did not have a heater, air blew from the engine and warmed the car’s interior. In winter, the hot air was a blessing. In other seasons the floorboards sizzled and my feet baked. That summer day the air was stifling. I shed my shoes and drove barefoot.

After stopping for gas, I changed to the passenger seat. Fred shifted to the driver’s position and off we went. About an hour later, I asked him to pass me my shoes.

“Didn’t you see them?” he asked. “I put them next to the gas pumps when we filled up.”

“No, of course I didn’t see them.”

He had left my shoes at a gas station! I was furious. They were brand new loafers, and I had saved a whole month to buy them. The shoe episode initiated my distaste for Fred. Each evening I peppered my parents with travel updates. Dad loved every negative comment about Fred’s behavior.

A massive thunderstorm hit us when we reached Kansas. Strong winds forced a gap between the front window frame and the convertible top. After being splashed by numerous passing vehicles, Fred became upset and I resumed driving.

When we reached Colorado, Fred returned to driving. The rain had ceased and we could see snow-capped mountains in the distance. As we drove past Denver, Fred fiddled with the clutch and grated the gears. After listening to the grinding for the umpteenth time, I snarled, “Move over. I’ll drive.”

With built-up anger, I drove the next sixteen hours on sheer adrenaline to his Sacramento home. After napping in the family’s den, I retraced my route to the freeway and drove in delightful solitude to the City by the Bay, San Francisco.

California’s speed limit on the interstate had been sixty miles per hour. The speed limit dropped to fifty on the Bay Bridge, but I never noticed the change.

A policeman drove up behind me, clocking my excessive speed. As I moved to the passing lane, a powerful gust of wind blew across the bridge. In an instant the convertible top ripped off and flew backwards, blanketing the front window of the patrol car.

I slammed on my brakes and pulled over to the side. In doing so, I cut off the officer who was now blinded by the convertible top. He pounded his brakes and barely missed rear-ending my car.

In the side mirror I saw a red-faced officer charging toward me, my convertible cover in his hands. He raged with anger as he reached for the door handle. But MGAs do not have outside handles, which enraged him even more.

“Open your goddamn door,” he yelled. “Now!”

I released the inside latch and apologized for the flying top. He continued to bellow at me and produced a ticket book. Being extremely tired, I burst into tears.

The patrolman responded with compassion. While I explained my cross-country ordeal, he secured the wayward top. The rivet attachments had broken; my car had now become a nonfunctioning convertible. The officer delivered a strict sermon, but put away his ticket book. He pointed to nearby hotels and I checked into the one he suggested.

The next day I drove to the Pan Am office to begin the secretarial post that had been promised me back in Connecticut. During the past week the position had inadvertently been filled and I was told to wait for a future opening.

“But not to worry,” the personnel director said. “We have a flight attendant position you can fill right now.”

“Thanks,” I said, “I’d rather wait.”

With a college degree and secretarial training, I felt too qualified. My strict father had a poor impression of flight attendants. He assumed they were promiscuous, and I was too immature to fight his prejudices.

I left the Pan Am office and searched for work. The only available jobs were for unskilled workers. Disillusioned, I returned to my hotel room and counted money. I could no longer stay there without additional funds.

The following morning I drove to the YWCA. At the front desk lines of women were checking in and out. When it was my turn, I asked about the rates and requested a room.

The attendant answered, “You’re out of luck. I just rented the last one.”

Finding myself in a strange city with no friends, no job, and no lodging, I was devastated. I returned to my open convertible, leaned on the steering wheel, and began to cry.

Just then, two young women approached. Carole Krohl and Barbara Wysocki, college graduates from Michigan, had just checked out of the “Y” and had overheard my conversation with the receptionist.

Carole introduced herself and said, “Can we help? We have an empty bedroom. A friend of ours won’t be arriving for another three months.”

Not knowing Carole or Barbara but having no other options, I readily agreed and followed them to Twin Peaks. Their furnished unit had two bedrooms and two bathrooms. In less than an hour I had gone from being homeless to living in a beautiful apartment overlooking the skyline of San Francisco.

Now I had a place to stay but still no income. Each day I inquired about available or upcoming secretarial positions. After a week of searching I became frustrated by the lack of quality jobs. I decided to protest.

The next day I drove to City Hall, an imposing building located on two square blocks. On entering I noticed a bulletin board with George Christopher listed as mayor. I intended to complain to him about San Francisco’s job situation.

In my innocence, I didn’t know that big city mayors do not have time for casual walk-ins. Luckily, Mayor Christopher was out of town. His assistant, Mr. Quinn, greeted me.

“Mayor Christopher met my father in New York,” I informed Mr. Quinn. “He told dad that if I ever reached San Francisco, he would help me get a job.”

That was a lie. They had never met, but they could have, and I was desperate.

Mr. Quinn invited me to meet Mrs. Wilkerson, manager of the secretarial pool. She inquired about my typing and shorthand skills and wondered about a possible start date.

“I can begin tomorrow,” I replied.

Being in the secretarial pool provided me with a decent income and a chance to explore San Francisco. A few months later I met and dated Bob Benson, an attorney at a downtown law firm. But soon I craved adventure and no longer wanted to endure the monotony of daily commuting.

Bob suggested I check out World Airways, an international airline company located across the Bay in Oakland. His former girlfriend had worked there, and had enjoyed being paid to travel the Orient and Europe.

“That’s my answer,” I thought and applied that next morning.

Дата добавления: 2015-08-27