As 1971progressed at the consulting firms, life became somewhat
normal. I recall some interesting vignettes, but the telling of them wouldn’t past
the Political Correctness Police today.
For example, the assistant drafter was a quite attractive woman
with a knockout figure and a bit of a strange sense of humor. She was the kind
of woman who, when she walked past a man on the sidewalk, would cause him to seem
to remember something he had forgotten, swivel about, and stare at her until
she moved out of sight, just imagining things. She knew it too, and wasn’t
above adding a little extra “sway and strut” at such times to spice up the torment.
Pantsuits were then a popular attire for women in the marketplace,
having only recently been approved by a hegemonic male power structure. The
drafter had a beautiful black one suitable for both the workplace and a funeral
parlor visitation. She wore it periodically and looked sharp in it.
Sometimes, though, the head drafter would take an opportunity
to give her a hard time over some detail or other. You could then set your
watch.
Next day, the assistant would waltz into the drafting room
wearing the top of the pantsuit as a mini-skirt. That day would not be one suitable
for precise work demanding a steady hand at the drafting pen, or whatever. The
head drafter would spend the day babbling and trying to stop his hand from
shaking. And the outfit lost its appropriateness for the funeral parlor. One look
and the deceased, if male, would surely arise from the dead.
As I say, she had a strange sense of humor. Other times, she
appeared on the verge of tears. When I asked her one such day if something was
the matter, her eyes filled and she informed me that her husband had left the
day before for his two-week summer outing with the state’s national guard.
When I, apparently, failed to show the proper degree of commiseration,
she informed me that I had no idea what it was like to have a loved one away in
the military.
I nodded understanding and we never broached the subject again.
In fact, we got on very well. Once, she even accompanied me to a “Happy Hour”
movie: McCabe and Mrs. Miller. It
turned out that Warren Beatty, even though just on screen, had the power to
give her a real case of the vapors. Since Julie Christie caused a concomitant male
effect on me, we were well-suited for the outing.
As the movie progressed, and some horrific scenes (by the
standards of that time) began to flash, she would grab my hand and hold it.
As Sainted Mother would have put it, that just scared the “pure-dee”
hell out of me. We both forgot it, I suppose, as the ending credits began to
roll, but I never invited her to the movies again.
When I related the experience to my friend Jackie, from down
the street, she snorted, laughed, and winked. Then she said, “You’re a goddam naïve
fool, but I’ll be your friend anyway.” Then she began to sing in her
wonderfully melodic voice, “I feel the earth move under my feet.”
I was beginning to discover that life was more complicated
out in the free world.
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