FoundSF

"I was there..."

"Foundsf.org is republishing a series of "Tales of Toil" that appeared in Processed World magazine between 1981 and 2004. As first-hand accounts of what it was like working at various jobs during those years, these accounts provide a unique view into an aspect of labor history rarely archived, or shared.

by Nomda Plume

—from Processed World #3, published in Winter 1982.

I hadn't really ever intended to work for the phone company, really I hadn't. The Employment Development Department sent me on an interview and when I got there I found out it was the phone company. Having spent a great deal of time and energy getting to the interview, I decided to go through with it, and take the battery of tests being given. There were spelling and grammar tests, matching and logic tests, and arithmetic tests, and of course the obligatory typing test. After the typing test the first funny thing happened. They wouldn't tell me how fast I typed, or for that matter, how I scored on any of the other tests. That's classified information, I was informed. Right, I'm sure that the FBI is dying to know how fast I type.

Two months passed, and I forgot about the phone company. I found a nice little off-the-books job which allowed me to collect unemployment. One gray June morning the phone rang at 8:00 a.m. sharp. It was the phone company calling me. A job was available if I wanted it. I considered. My unemployment was about to run out, and I couldn't live off the income from my part-time, off-the-books job. So I accepted the offer and told them I would start in two weeks.

I decided to start off right by calling in sick the very first day (I actually had a very good reason). They weren't real pleased about that, and I almost got myself fired before even starting. They wanted to know why I couldn't come in. This was to become a recurrent theme, supervisors always wanting to know why.

The next day, a Thursday, I arrived at least twenty minutes early, and went to look for Wilma, my snooper­visor. She impressed upon me the importance of being on time for work, every day, and never being absent, ever, ever, ever. I was amazed but not impressed. I would later find out just how serious this issue of attendance and tardiness was for phone company employees.

She took me over to my desk, noting that Jane, one of the other secretaries on the floor, arrived about six minutes after 8:00. She wrote it down on a piece of paper to be filed somewhere with nasty red pen marks all over it. She introduced me to Bill, a temporary worker who would be training me to replace him. Then she introduced me to about fifty people, all whose names I forgot instantly. I noticed that almost every clerical worker to whom I was introduced was either temporary or had just been hired yesterday or last week. Nobody knew what they were doing. Some so-called temporary workers had been there eight months or more. Then she left with Bill. Bill had long hair and a scroungy beard and raggedy blue jeans. I was a little surprised to see him in this attire. In fact, dress style fluctuated wildly, from jeans, sweatpants and T-shirts to three-piece suits and thigh-slit skirts and plunging necklines; from punk haircuts (but not colors—no blue or green hair here) to crewcuts and shags and John Travolta cuts.

Bill offered to buy me a cup of coffee and I learned that employees were expected to pay twenty five cents per cup of lukewarm, weak instant coffee with powdered non­ dairy creamer. This on the honor system, of course. There were signs everywhere urging people to join the Caffeine Club—seven dollars per month for unlimited coffee drinking privileges. I remarked to Bill that I was surprised that a company the size of AT&T was unable to provide free coffee for employees, but he pointed out that they did not get that way by providing employees with the little niceties of life.

We went downstairs to the employees' cafeteria—chillingly air conditioned on a damp, foggy, summer day—and talked for two hours about who to trust (no one) and how to break while working. Bill told me the best way to avoid being harassed by Wilma was to stay out of the office; no one would ever ask where I was and I would never be missed.

Back upstairs, Wilma gave me a key to the supply cabinet. It was sort of like carte blanche to steal—a veritable gold mine of pens, papers, staplers, scissors, stamp pads, file folders, stacking baskets, graph paper, tracing paper, bond paper, etc. I lost no time in taking six pens and two note pads and continued to take a little something as a reward to myself for getting through each working day. There actually was no work for me to do, so Bill suggested I just look busy when Wilma came around, which she did about every half hour.

She always asked if I was learning "everything" and if l liked the job. She asked me at least three times the first day, and several times each day thereafter. At first I tried to say that I loved the job, I adored filing, and couldn't wait to answer the phone, but I finally decided this was just another subtle form of harassment. I eventually told her that I was a creative person, and there were very few outlets for creativity in this type of work, but it did keep the rent paid. She wrote this all down in her ever­present book of nasty notes about workers but left me alone after that, at least on the issue of employee happiness.

Bill was absent the next day, Friday. I didn't feel comfortable enough with Wilma to ask her what I was supposed to be doing, so I passed a most pleasant day writing letters, making phone calls, compiling a list of office supplies that could be removed from the supply cabinet, and playing with the typewriter. Wilma interrupted me twice via the telephone, insisting that I meet with her immediately to answer very important questions. The first question was what was my middle initial. The second question involved the office Christmas party (this was July). Should we have it the 23rd or the 24th, should it be catered, should it be all day, or just in the afternoon—yes my input into these important decisions was needed immediately. I answered her questions with the careful consideration I thought they deserved and raced back to my desk where I could sit blissfully staring out the permaseal windows at other permaseal windows across the street.

The following Thursday I was to report to Oakland for induction and, indeed, it was a lot like being drafted. It was an intensive eight-hour orientation process for twelve new recruits. We were shown numerous films on such diverse subjects as how stealing even one pen or paper clip could lead to the downfall of AT&T and how the Bell System got to be the way it is. We filled out a dozen forms for health insurance, life insurance, holiday pay, employee rules and regulations, credit unions savings plans, on and on and on. During the discussion of benefits and vacation/sick days I learned that there are in fact no sick days at AT&T ever, ever. Not after six months or ten years. I would eventually hear much more about this subject than I cared to know, but for now I understood that if I was absent I wasn't going to be paid for it. We were told that our attendance wasn't expected to be perfect, just very good. "Very good attendance" was not elaborated on. Later, I learned that it meant never being absent during the first twelve months of employment, and not more than two days during any subsequent years, should one remain with the company that long. These rules applied only to non-management. Supervisors, managers, and executives could be absent as often as they wished. Unfortunately for non­management, they seemed to be in all the time.

After induction, I decided I did not want to go in on the next day, Friday, because it was my birthday. I suspected it was foolhardy to take a day off so soon into my employment at the phone company, but I felt very strongly about not working on what should be a day of pleasure and good times. So I called in "sick" from my friend's house at about eight in the morning. Wilma wanted to know what was wrong with me. I told her that I had had a rough night and hung up. Around two hours later, I went back to my own apartment, and as I walked in the door the phone was ringing. It was, of course, Wilma. She wanted to read me the rules and regulations about being absent. "Sure, go ahead" I said, and she proceeded to read a long involved document which said I had better not plan on being absent again in the near future (the next twelve months). "Fine, can I go back to sleep now?" She apologized for waking me up, and I took a shower and went to play.

The next Monday I learned that I was going to be working for a new set of people. But first, would I do some xeroxing for Mr. Smith? It turned out to be something like a thousand pages of xeroxing, obviously more than I could churn out myself in the course of a working day—not to mention the danger of exposing oneself to a xerox machine all day. I did some and sent the rest to the multiple copying service downstairs.

Then I was sent over to my new desk. In the middle of the day, Wilma called me over to tell me the rules and regulations regarding employee absence again. Actually, I still remembered them from Friday, but I didn't say anything.

On Tuesday, Wilma came over to me in the morning, and asked why I was out on Friday. I told her that I was sick. What, she wanted to know, exactly was wrong with me. I told her that I was too sick to come to work. She said she needed to know exactly what was wrong with me. I told her again I had simply been too ill to come in. She said she needed to know what illness I had. I asked her why. She said it was because the company was concerned about my health and well­being. I told her that while I found that really hard to believe, she could tell them I was feeling fine now, and probably wouldn't experience a re­lapse. She asked me if I was going to tell her what was wrong with me, and I said no, I wasn't going to tell her, and I didn't see why I needed to describe my illness. She wrote all this down. Later that day, she called me over to her again. Mr. Smith had told her that I refused to do some work for him. That, I said, is an out and out lie, and why didn't he say something to me about it? Well, she said, Mr. Smith says you refused, and that is insubordination and grounds for dismissal. I told her then and there that if she wanted to fire me, that was fine, but she had better find a legitimate reason and not some trumped up excuse, or I would bring them to court. She wrote it all down, and slipped it, I'm sure, into my ever-growing file.

Wednesday she came over to me with some papers she wanted me to sign. They said in effect that I refused to tell her why I was ill and that I knew it was a naughty thing to do. This was my first insubordination report, and there would be many more. "I'm not signing this," I told her. "You're refusing to sign it?" "I really wish you'd stop using that word," I answered and launched into a five-minute monologue on corporate politics, forced subjugation and employee alienation. I don't think she understood a word I said, but she wrote it all down, and marked in red on my insubordination report that I had refused to sign it. As revenge, I stole a dozen boxes of pens, a typewriter element, and a stapler.

On Thursday, she came over to me and started in about being absent and tardy again. I told her point-blank that I was tired of her harassing me about this—that I understood it the first five times, and it wasn't necessary to explain it to me every day. I later found out that she harangued other employees in an identical fashion. She continued to do it despite my insistence that I really did understand.

Later that day, she came over to me with a sealed envelope with my name written on it. I was certain they were my dismissal papers. I was rather surprised to find it was my paycheck. I had become so thoroughly caught up in the drama of it that I had actually forgotten they were going to pay me. I noticed that the payroll office had me down for the wrong number of exemptions, so I asked Wilma for payroll's telephone number so I could straighten it out. She asked me what the problem was, and told me that she would take care of it for me. I said I thought I could handle it. I was informed that I would not be allowed to do so, because what would happen if everybody wanted to call payroll? I couldn't possibly imagine, I told her. She assured me it would be utter chaos, and I told her I was tired of being treated like a kindergarten child. She told me she was only there to help me, and to always bring all my problems to her.

Graphic by Louis Michaelson

On Friday, I saw Wilma heading my way again, with what seemed at first to be good news—she was taking a two week vacation. At first I was delighted to hear this, but her replacement was so horrible, that I actually began to miss her!

I was even relieved when Wilma came back in the middle of August. The first thing I did was ask her, over three weeks in advance, if I would be able to take off Tuesday afternoons to attend a college course. I was willing to make up the time. She said she would have to consult her supervisor.

I told her I needed to know the next dav.

Near the end of the following day, I asked her if she had spoken to her supervisor about my Tuesday afternoons. “What Tuesday afternoons?” she asked.

“For school.”

“School?”

“My college course.”

“College course?”

“Wilma, I talked to you about this for twenty minutes yesterday.”

She said she didn't remember it at all. I patiently explained it to her again, wrote it down, and told her I really needed to know the next day.

The next day, as closing time drew near, she still hadn't spoken to me about it, so I went to talk to her. I asked if she had spoken to her supervisor about my class. Yes, she said. And? She said she'd tell me Monday. I told her a simple yes or no would do. Yes or no, she answered. Wilma! That is not a sufficient answer. I will discuss it with you Monday. I have to know today, I told her. Finally she said she'd talk to me at 4 p.m. At 4 p.m. she came over to my desk, clutching a file. Your attitude has not been good, she said. Wilma, all I want to know is whether I will be able to take the time off to attend my class. Special privileges, she said, are only to be granted to people with perfect records. Your attendance has not been good. Wilma I was absent once! I do all my work quickly and efficiently. Are you saying I can't take my class? We don't like your attitude, she said. What you don't like, I said, is that I'm really efficient but I don't love the company, and don't pretend to, and there's no legitimate way you can fire me. She wrote all this down.

I called her supervisor, and said I wanted to speak to her about my class, since I assumed it was she who had denied me permission. Fine, she said. Shall we invite Wilma too? Well, I said, if you're giving me a choice, I'd just as soon not have her there. I really think we should invite her, Barbara said. I'd really rather not. I'd rather just talk to you. Well, Barbara said, let's invite her, and then if you still want to talk to me alone, we can arrange it. Some choice!

As it turned out, I needed to take Monday off. I knew that I couldn't take it off without getting myself fired, and that I probably wouldn't be able to get unemployment due to my 'excessive absences.' So I called in and quit. Fine, said Wilma. We'll be holding your paycheck for two weeks. Send it to me right away, I said, or I will come down there and get it. I'll call you back, she said. She called back and said I could have my paycheck as soon as it came out. I thanked her and hung up. A half hour later she called back. Why are you quitting, she wanted to know. Why do you want to know? I asked, knowing full well why she wanted to know. I have to fill out a form. Well, I said, why don't you write down that I hated the fucking place? I could hear her wince over the phone and I hung up on her. Fifteen minutes later she called me back again. Now what, Wilma? We need your ID card. I told her I lost it. She didn't believe it but couldn't argue. I later learned, in a final stroke of irony, that I had been banned from entering the building, that my name had been given to the security guards downstairs, and that, if caught entering the building I was to be escorted out bodily.