Jobs, Jobs, Jobs - Part One

Apparently, I’ve had more jobs in my life than most. Care to hear about one of those jobs?

It was Fall of 1968. I was studying for a Master’s Degree at The New School for Social Research in New York City, when my friend Joanie invited me to visit her in San Francisco. Joanie was a student at McGill University when she decided to go to San Francisco to study non-violence under Joan Baez & Ira Sandperl at the Institute for the Study of Non-Violence.  (It was the sixties, remember.)

I decided to spend my Christmas break with Joanie; so off I went to San Francisco.

Instead of staying in San Francisco the planned two and a half weeks, I ended up staying two and a half years. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I spent the first three weeks crashing on Joanie’s couch (do people still use the verb ‘to crash’?). Looking back, I realize I was pretty depressed. I didn’t want to go back to NYC to continue school, and SF really had its appeal.

I moved out of Joanie’s place into wonderful quarters - Douglass Street, large house at the top of a steep hill. (Of course, in SF everything is at the top of a steep hill.) The owner of the house lived in the basement and he rented all the rooms in the house.  Mine was the room at the front with a lovely bay window.

Now all I needed was a job.

I decided that there were two criteria for a job — it had to be really easy and it had to be walking distance from the house. So one morning I got up very early and started walking to have a look around. At just about at the right distance from home (a 20 minute walk) I came upon a large hospital. I went in and applied for a job.

The job title was, “Mail Delivery Clerk”. Perfect. I filled out the application form, carefully leaving out any mention of having attended university, or having a degree with a major in psychology and a minor in sociology.  I made no mention of the three months I spent pursuing a Master’s Degree in Psychology in NYC. They asked me what I've been doing since high school. Since I was 25 years old at the time, I expected that question and had prepared for it.

I lied. "My aunt died and I went to live on the farm to help my uncle out with his five kids.”

I got the job.

Every morning, I woke up very early and walked to the hospital. I was very happy. Along the way, I’d smile and nod at the local letter carrier – mailman, as he was then called – and watched the street lights turn themselves off, and passed the newspaper vendor as he opened his kiosk.

Work was fun, really fun. There was a designated route that I very quickly learned - pick up outgoing mail, drop off incoming mail, and move on.  It was easy, it was pleasant and I was enjoying myself. Very soon I was able to greet everyone by name as I quickly made my way through the hospital, pushing my stainless steel cart brimming with mail. I was expected to make two rounds per day, and I did so, without a problem.

Then one day I realized that the route set out for me was not the most efficient. I began making changes to it. Before long, to everyone’s delight, I had established a way of showing up at each office three times a day. Everyone was impressed, but to me, it was just simple logic.

Then something unexpected happened. At the end of one of my new, three-circuit days, I was told to report to the Personnel Office. Were they angry with me for making changes without approval? Was I about to be fired?

“It’s come to our attention that you are over-qualified for the job! We have a new job for you”, said the Director of Personnel. He went on to tell me that they had an opening as a Ward Secretary and thought I’d be excellent for the job. Is there a word for feeling flattered and devastated at the same time? Did I have to take the new job? The extra money was tempting, but the job description for Ward Secretary made it sound stressful and complex. Nonetheless, I accepted the new position.

Being Ward Secretary was interesting, and challenging, I must admit. But I no longer felt carefree. I wanted a ‘job’, and now they were giving me a ‘career’. I think they call that bait and switch. I was not happy. After four weeks, I quit.