My Redacted Life: Chapter 19

Come Wednesday afternoon I wasn’t in a good mood. Things seemed to be a mini-second off two-four time, a typical “hump-day.”

At work, the engineer was showing his ass, to put it bluntly. He was insisting that we move our printing and supply trade to a company where a friend of his worked. This meant leaving the company where Bob French and Bob Wilson worked. If one remembers, these two had guided me through the trying days of multiple deadlines when I had only the scantest idea of what I was doing.

My protests escalated until my original bosses reminded me that the company had changed its name to that of the four owners. In fact, those names were now on the front door. They invited me to check, whereupon I would confirm that my name wasn’t included.

Message and smirk delivered simultaneously.

I walked over to see the two Bobs during the lunch hour. They understood. I was grateful but still aggravated at the thought that it might take me up to a month of careful deceit and treachery to straighten the mess out so we could return to normal. In actuality, it took only a week and a half. I was getting to be that good.

I saved two friendships and escaped any blame whatsoever.

But back to the Wednesday. I drove home with the intention of enjoying the last “two-fingers” of the single-malt my neighbor had given me. I carried a briefcase with me that my Sainted Mother had given me for Christmas. I didn’t plan to do any work, but a successful businessman carried a briefcase everywhere back in those days, even if one had to put a book in it to make it appear loaded.

Before leaving my parking spot at work, I had removed and stored the top of the car, expecting to tool around town later, the epitome of cool. When I arrived home, I parked facing away from the apartment building. Before I could move, the radio began to play the old Johnny Cash hit, written by Kris Kristofferson, “Sunday Morning Coming Down.” I sat and listened to it.

When it finished, I backed out of the Porsche like a crawdad, straightened up, did an “about face” and looked. There, standing like they were guarding the sacred fire in the shrine of Vesta, stood my neighbor, her sister, and the Redhead. They were lined up in formation, staring past me at the car.

All three were wearing jeans, but my neighbor had neglected to zip hers and a flash of pink underwear fought its way through. She spoke first, “Get us a new car, did we?”

“Nice,” her sister said.

“What in the world is that?” the Redhead said.

“It’s a mini-Porsche,” I said. “A 914.”

None of the three spoke. I suppose I became emboldened out of shear boredom. I looked at the three standing there like celestial judges and said, “Anyone want to take a ride?”

“Can’t,” my neighbor said. “Just had my hair done.” True, it looked like she had been hooked up to an electrical current.”

“Maybe next time,” her sister said. Then, as an afterthought, she flashed a grin. “Why don’t you take Brenda?”

Was I going to impress her,
or what?

I looked at the Redhead. She pursed her lips. “Maybe later.”

It was “in for a penny, in for a pound” time. “How much later?” I asked, startled inwardly at my spunk.

She looked at the horizon and thought. “Give me 20 minutes,” she said. “Just knock on the door.”

Oh … my … God.

My Redacted Life: Chapter Nine (Cont._2)

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. 

             

My Redacted Life: Chapter Five

With the rancor subdued, we went to work on the remaining projects due inside two months. There was still some cleanup waiting. The guys at the blueprint shop still weren’t speaking to us. It was over their being blamed for the big screw-up. Of course they would do our work but the effort would lack any enthusiasm.

Here, I was stuck in a sea of ignorance. My folks in the office weren’t going to teach me the printing business. They were to busy or too obstinate; take your pick. I knew “jack-diddly” about it, and figured one couldn’t learn it from a book.

As my Sainted Mother would say, I “backed my ears,” and called the print shop, when no one was listening, and asked to speak to the printer. He came on and I introduced myself. He responded with such chill that I felt cold air coming through the phone’s receiver. I took a deep breath and said, “Look, can I just come over and talk?”

Sure, why not?

The shop wasn’t far from the office, so I walked over. Once there, a pleasant man—I found out later that he was the owner’s son-in-law—showed me the way to the print shop. I opened the door and a familiar smell overwhelmed me.

I knew the smell from having worked my last year of college drafting for the U of A Editorial Service. We prepared graphics and did printing for research papers and dissertations. The job was a huge step-up from being janitor at the Chi Omega house, but I had missed the sorority girls, some of whom liked to run into the hallway wearing bras and panties when I yelled up, “Man on the floor.”

 But, I digress. Back to the printing business and the smell of the presses.

It was a smell I would come to love. In the room stood a rotund man with swept-back gray hair along with a sour-faced man, balding and wearing dirty spectacles. The heavy-set man was Bob French, the printer. The other was Bob Wilson, the photographer.

Before the dialogue had a chance to deteriorate, I said, “First, may I apologize for any misunderstanding that our two companies have had?”

It caught the two by surprise. In fact, one of the cruelest lies that I’ve seen foisted on young people is from a character on television who tells his underlings, “Never apologize. It’s a sign of weakness,” That’s the crassest piece of bull hockey I’ve ever heard. There is, when you have been wrong, nothing more disarming and effective than a sincere apology. Trust me.

Anyway. After a moment, Bob Wilson said, “So you are in charge of printing at your company now?”

“I’m in charge of trying to get it all done.”

“What’s your experience?”

“Absolutely none. That’s why I wanted to ask a favor of the two of you.”

“What’s that?” Bob asked. His demeanor had softened but still displayed suspicion.

“I want to ask you to help me learn how to do things. I know you have better things to do than teach beginners, but we have lots of work to do and, if we can work together and get it done, I’ll be your friend forever. No more confusion. No more blame. No more bullshit of any kind. I’m asking for your help, and your friendship.”

They gave it. It started that day, particularly with Bob French. He was my pal and mentor from that moment until his untimely death from cancer 30 years later.

On that day, we agreed that I would come over each time a new printing job came up that required close coordination. They would help me to understand the processes involved, and I would give them both due credit and respect. Those are tactical maneuvers that have gotten me over many a hump throughout the years, and I recommend them without reservation.

I never heard him, but it’s told that Bob French was a talented singer and quite popular in small venues after working all day as a printer. He looked a bit, and evidently sounded a lot, like the singer Charlie Rich. I wish I had taken the time to hear him, but regrets are the songs that teach us to be better people, if we only listen.

After I promised to bring the next job in and go over it with them before any step was taken, they showed me out. I started walking back. Knowing that I had steered around a dangerous shoal, I began to hum to myself, mindlessly and with some degree of satisfaction. Then I started singing, so no one else could hear, an odd tune.

Of all things, it was The Marine Corp Hymn.

“Never apologize.” What a crock of shit.

My Redacted Life: Chapter Four (Cont._5)

I guessed right. My promotion at the new job failed to scour in the back room. My two co-workers returned from their briefing and said nothing. There was a silence so stony it could have been used to fashion arrowheads. I ignored them, choosing instead to spend the rest of the day amending my list of projects into a more detailed plan of attack.

That night, I listened to Chet Atkins playing Spanish guitar, finished off the bottle of Ripple I had started the night before, and contemplated strategy and tactics. From my naval experience I knew that critical elements for a successful mission included buoyancy, propulsion, and maneuverability, along with firepower, of course. From a book called Vom Kriege (On War) by Carl von Clausewitz, one that I had found in our ship’s library, I remembered other principles. It was critical, in a campaign, not to let friction slow progress. That implied a need for tactical analysis. I thought and planned.

I slept the sleep of the chosen and arose early. After a calorie-laden “Bear Claw” and coffee at the Lion’s World snack bar, I headed for the office and was deeply involved in scribbling when the rest of the staff arrived.

The drafting crew went to work without looking my way. After an hour or so, I stopped what I was doing and asked where they kept some supply or other. “Don’t you know?” came the reply from the once head of the drafting room. I sensed, rather than heard, a suppressed giggle from the woman across the room.

I ignored it and searched for myself. One must avoid war at all costs, and they should be initiated only for irrefutable justification. Just ask the families of those tens of thousands who were still coming home then in coffins or wheelchairs. One shot, supposedly fired at a small naval vessel, isn’t worth 58,220 American and over three and a half million Vietnamese lives.

No, I waited for a more positive opportunity, one that could be a learning experience for us all. It wasn’t long in coming.

Jim Vines stuck his head in the drafting room and asked me to bring a print of the notes we had taken at the city of Dierks a couple of weeks before. I rose and walked to the map file. Stopping, I chose the calmest voice I could muster and asked the head drafter where the maps of that city were kept.

He completed the line he was drawing, set his pen aside carefully, turned to me, and said, “You’re the head man who’s in charge now. Ain’t you supposed to know things like that?” He turned and reached for his pen.

Here was the test. As a petty officer in the proudest branch of military service, I had profited from months on end of high-level management training, some of the best, I imagine, in the world. I mentally ran through scenario after scenario of dealing with insubordination, applied practical knowledge to empirical analysis, formed a mental “decision-tree,” and walked closer to him, calling him by name.

“What say we review that last exchange?” I said.

He laid his pen aside and looked at me as if I had just interrupted a complicated surgery. “What?”

“Let’s ask ourselves,” I said, “whether I politely asked you a question, the answer to which was simple and would help us move progress along?” I stopped, guessing correctly that information needed to be provided in small bites. When he turned to look at me, I said, “Or did I by some chance ask you for a cheap ration of shit?”

That confused him. I heard the woman swivel in her seat. I knew she was licking her lips in anticipation.

“Now,” I said, “if that sort of wise-assed response is going to be typical, I can just leave. I'll tell Tom and Jim I quit, and let you and your pal over there start back running things. That was working real well, wasn’t it?”

The air fairly roared with furious silence. He looked at me and I could feel the wheels spinning.

“Make up your mind,” I said. “I don’t have all day to put up with someone’s bullshit attitude and eighth-grade humor.”

Daggers flew from his eyes. I had seen the look hundreds of times from big, strong, men contemplating orders they didn’t particularly like, knowing how easily they could smash the giver of the orders.

He relaxed, forced a half-grin, and said, “Dierks is in the third file from the bottom.”

“Thanks,” I said. I turned to the woman, “Are we okay?”

She nodded and they both returned to their work. We never had any more problems after that. In fact, I found them to be nice people as time passed. It’s funny how well things work out within the structure of sophisticated management techniques.

Contemplating applied
management training

My Redacted Life: Chapter Four (Cont._4)

To this day, I can’t say who caused the snafu that they uncovered at work next day. Almost everyone received some blame. I didn’t, for I had nothing to do with it. As I’ve reported, we had a total of 17 projects due in less than two months, and I had finished two of the smaller ones with no problems.

It seems the staff had assembled a complete plan for one of the cities involved and had taken the first bound copy to Tom for review. I can imagine the head drafter placing the document on the desk of his boss like a second lieutenant placing his first set of battle plans before the commanding general.

He walked back into the drafting room with a slight swagger. He sat astride his drafting stool and took up a Leroy Lettering Pen. This was a small ink pen held in a device that rested comfortably in one’s hand. Two metal inserts fit into a ruler into which letters had been formed. By positioning the front insert, or scribe, one could guide the ink pen into the form of letters, numbers and symbols. The rear insert, or tail piece, kept the lettering horizontal. It was an invention spawned in Hell.

But that is how you added verbiage to ink drawings in that era. Different rulers allowed for different fonts and sizes. And of course, what you saw as you touched the ink to film or paper was what you got. It could be anything from precise lettering to a glob of India ink spreading across your drawing. At this moment, the drafter carefully wiped its nib on a tissue, relaxed his shoulders and leaned forward to place the pen in its guide.

It never reached it.

As his hand descended, there came a volley of oaths from Tom’s office so loud and clear that I imagined those in the building across the street could hear it. They ended with a call for the head drafter to “Get in here.”

There was no problem it seemed, with the drafting. It was clear, fine, and precise. He was one of the best drafters I have ever known. There was nothing wrong with the maps at all as for as the quality and workmanship was concerned. They were works of art.

The problem was, they were for the wrong city.

And some of the printed pages were in backwards.

This presented a high degree of concern. Tom expressed it in clear terms. The drafter blamed his assistant. She blamed the drafter. Then the drafter blamed the printer and the photographer at the blueprint company. Somehow in the melee, word of this got back them and they were swearing that they would never do work for the company again. Tom and Jim even had words.

I tried to make myself as small as possible, a trait I had picked up in the Navy and one at which I excelled.

The furor raged for another day while they took corrective action. The intensity lowered more from exhaustion that from satisfaction, and I completed another of the simpler documents. Three down and 14 to go. After proofing it at least 20 times, I presented copies to Jim and Tom. Tom flipped through his in an abrupt manner, snorted, and said, “Thanks.” I fled as he rose and started toward Jim’s office.

I was sitting at my desk grappling with the fact that I was about to run out of the “easy” reports when Jim appeared in the room asked if they could see me for a moment.

Oh hell, this was it. Somebody’s head had to fall and it would be mine. The money saved from my salary for a month would just about pay for the cost it would take to fix the recent problem. Oh well, easy come, easy go.

We went into Tom’s office and he motioned for me to take a visitor’s chair. Jim took the other. Tom took a deep breath and said, “How long have you been with us now, nearly a month?

I just nodded. He could fire me, but I wasn’t going to help.

“He picked up the three reports I had assembled and waved them at me. “In that time,” he said, “you are the only one who has completed a goddam thing.”

I relaxed a bit. Jim looked out the window.

Tom pointed to a report cover. “And these are the first things produced from scratch that I didn’t end up doing myself.”

Maybe they weren’t going to fire me after all. I relaxed even more as Tom nodded to Jim, who turned to me and said, “What we would like to know is if you would be willing to take over all production in the drafting room and see if by some miracle, we might get these projects done on time and done properly. You would be totally in charge.”

I couldn’t speak, But Tom did. “It will mean a hundred dollar a month raise immediately, more if things work out.

I said yes, of course. I would to anything to help the company.

But, I thought, this wasn’t going to go over well.

Designed by the Dark One, 
manufactured by his minions,
and avoided by the faint of heart.

My Redacted Life: Chapter Three (Cont._2)

My first day of work at my new civilian job began quietly on the morning of January 4, 1971. The bosses hadn’t arrived by eight o’clock. One, the president Tom Hodges, was off on trip somewhere. The vice-president, Jim Vines, did not generally arrive until later. The other employees ignored me.

Except for the receptionist, she got me a cup of coffee and led me to a small office desk that had been squeezed into a corner of the drafting room. Two drafting tables faced opposite walls of the room with a larger layout table and map files between them. The receptionist asked if I wanted to read the morning’s newspaper while I waited for Jim to arrive and provide further guidance. Four years of military regimen caused me to tremble at the thought. Read the paper at work?

I told her I would look at one of the firm’s publications that was lying on the layout table. She nodded and left. I took the document and sat. On its cover I read, “Comprehensive Plan – Hope Arkansas.” It was the first of such documents I had ever seen in my life, all snazzily set in green ink on soft-colored paper. Large colored maps were folded neatly within the pages. I began to read.

I hadn’t moved past the third page when I detected a typographical error. It presented a simple misspelling, not the “mistake of doom.” The latter, I was to discover, was the fatal mistake of typing the name of the wrong city into another city’s document. There was a lot of what they described as “boiler plating,” in planning documents back then. That’s an expression from the printing world, referring to language that is standard enough to need to be repeated constantly and often with no editing. In planning, it offered ample opportunity for the names of cities to be switched, the deadly sin. Simple typos, such as this one, just indicted sloppy work.

At any rate, it presented a dilemma. On my first day at work, should I point out an error that I had detected in less than fifteen minutes on the job? It sounded cheeky. On the other hand, this was my workplace now and I must assume ownership of the bad as well as the good. I had accustomed myself to the military approach of kicking blame for mistakes upward or downward, never simply sitting on them and waiting for them to hatch.

The man beside me interrupted my wonderings as the lifted his drafting pen carefully, swiveled around on his stool and asked, “Did you find a place to park without any trouble?

“Park?”

“Where did you park your car?”

“Oh,” I said, “I walked to work.”

“You what?”

“I walked to work. I just live a little way up toward the Capitol.”

“You walked to work?”

“I did, yes.”

“You don’t own a car?”

“Oh,” I said. “I do. It’s just more fun to walk, and I need the exercise. I gained some weight when I quit …”

He interrupted by swiveling his chair and yelling across the room. “Hey, Paulette, did you hear that? He walked to work.”

She swiveled around in her chair, apparently not having been listening to us. “You walked to work?” she said, knitting her eyebrows.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you own a car?”

“Yes, but I walked.”

“Harrumph,” she observed, and swiveled back to her work.

“I bought me a new car,” the man said, “when they put me in charge back here.” And he swiveled back to his work.

With some difficulty, I swallowed what would have been a perfectly erudite and appropriate response in my previous life, “Why don’t ya’ll just swivel around here and kiss my military ass?”

Instead, I stared ahead, dumbfounded. This entry into the new world wasn’t going to be as seamless as I had thought.

Wonderment never ceases.