Curriculum Vitae, 1968? – 1972

 In Tampa

I have a very poor memory of most of this time, so no exact dates are possible. I was living at my mother’s house, then later in a North Tampa concrete block duplex. Steve and I were living together for some of this.

I assembled sandwiches at a place called Stand N Snack. We were required to use precise quantities of meat and cheese (2 ounces, pre-packaged), making for a thin sandwich. Customers stood at the counter around the kiosk to eat their food.

I worked full-time as a unit clerk (ward clerk) at Tampa General Hospital, in the pediatrics unit. The work wasn’t difficult – mostly filing and answering the phone – but it was emotionally challenging. The head nurse was Miss Pennypacker. I was inadvertently called into an isolation room for a patient who had tuberculosis. Miss P was furious, and I had to get an extra TB titer test.

Our former next-door neighbor, Dottie Driggers, hired me to work at Tampa’s General Telephone & Electric (GTE) as a receiving clerk. My job was to open the envelopes that payments came in and verify the accuracy of the payment. I was one of several doing this task. The envelopes were pressed on edge into an 9x12 wooden stationery tray, so I believe there were 100 or more per tray. We were expected to complete several trays a day. If the check was made out to something other than GTE (“Mickey Mouse Telephone Company” for example) we were to change it, stamp it as received and put the checks in another basket for deposit. If the checks were incorrect in some way (e.g. not signed, or partial payment) they were put in a separate place. It was a tedious, drab and thankless job.

·    I was introduced to a wonderful piece of equipment: the telegraph machine. I was mostly tasked with receiving messages and sending back “ack” for “acknowledged.” I don’t remember what information was in those messages. It was probably something dull and ordinary, such as numbers of payments received. But I was gobsmacked by the technology!
·    One day I was late for work by nearly an hour; Daylight Savings Time had required us to “spring forward,” and I had missed it. Mrs. Driggers was incredulous. “Didn’t you go to church? Read the paper? Hear it on TV? On the radio?” No, no, no and no. We went nowhere; only listened to the new and wonderful “album rock” station on FM radio; didn’t take the paper or own a TV. The idea that we lived such a cloistered life was appalling (and unbelievable) to her.
• Steve came to pick me up after work one day. We were walking to the motorcycle when a young Black boy, maybe 10 years old, came alongside us and said something so quickly I couldn’t understand him. “What did you say?” I asked. Enunciating this time, he repeated “Suck a dick, lady?” I grabbed him by the hair on top of his head and slapped his face. How would you feel, I shouted, if somebody said that to your sister? Or your mother? He struggled to get away, crying and yelling, “You’ll be sorry! I’ll get my brothers!” “You do that,” I yelled back. “Get your mama, too, and tell her what you said to me!” He ran away, and Steve was eager to leave too, convinced that we were minutes away from a race riot. It was that time; riots were happening everywhere. I was filled with righteous indignation, and ready to do my part if fighting was called for, but I yielded and we drove home without incident. I never saw the child again.
• During this time, I was diagnosed with a stomach ulcer and prescribed Valium. I was to take it 4 times a day. I would take the morning pill, go to work, sit at my desk and fall fast asleep. Someone would wake me, and I would work – badly and slowly – until lunch. I would take my second pill after lunch, return to my desk and fall asleep within an hour. Mrs. Driggers would wake me, and I’d work until quitting time. It was awful.
• I left the job without notice, leaving a note in red ink on my desk: I quit. I’m ashamed I did that to Mrs. Driggers, a woman who did her best to advance me and help me be successful.

Moving to Miami

I stayed with my sister and her family in Kendall, then moved to another concrete block apartment in Naranja, a suburb of Miami. Some of these jobs I worked at the same time. The job at The Flick, for instance, was in the evenings, so during the day I worked at the local Honda shop and at The Flick afterward. After I quit there, I worked at U of M, and worked at The Flick before I went to my full-time job.

Steve and I didn’t live together in Miami. We were experimenting with being apart and seeing other people. He was drafted and went to Vietnam; I was lonely and depressed, and daily expected to hear of his death. I did see other men, but it was not a happy time. He sent me an allotment. I was supposed to save it; instead I used it to buy my bother-in-law Edgar’s CS450 Honda. I don’t think Steve has trusted me with money since. (But I loved that Honda!)

I was aunt and nanny to my sister’s boys, Martin and Jason. I love them dearly still! Martin was the first baby that I loved; he made me feel it was possible for me to be a mother. I had told Steve that I wanted a baby, but we both knew that was just hormones talking. Cheryle’s boys filled me with love and joy. I also acquired a pair of cats: a black and white female named Squeak, and an orange tabby named Charlie. They moved to Naranja with me.

I was hired as a receptionist at the Honda shop (Coral Gables Honda, maybe). It was boring, but I got a lot of fun from the job, mostly because of the guys and the bikes!

I worked at The Flick Coffeehouse as a waitress. It was a standard Beatnik-type coffeehouse: no talking during performances, the waitresses wore head-to-toe black, and everybody was desperately poor – except the customers. I had been a customer there many times before I took the job. It was amazing being around the near-famous. Steve Goodman, a Chicago bluesman, appeared there, as did Gamble Rogers (Florida has a state park named for him). I loved the music, and the tips were amazing.

• While working there, the gas tank was stolen off my motorcycle. I was furious – and had to call my sister for a ride home. (It occurs to me that maybe Steve’s brother or sister gave me a ride; I really can’t remember now!)
• I dumped a milkshake in the lap of a man who patted my ass. I apologized hypocritically, profusely. “You startled me! I’m so sorry!”

Steve drove me to apply for a job at the University of Miami, a private 4-year uni known for its beach, beer and babes focus. The job was as a receptionist in the men’s dorm from midnight until 7:30am. I was 20. I was hired. It was hard to stay awake, but it was very entertaining. I dated a guy, Bob Rhynearson (Rhino), who told me he had a motorcycle back home in Connecticut. He invited me to go see “Gawn Widda Win.” He had to repeat it several times, and explain it was the famous movie about the Civil War, before I interpreted his offer. I accepted. We had a couple more dates, but the attraction fizzled. On Halloween, an apparition came down the stairs: a red-haired young man, dressed only in a white T-shirt which was pulled over his face and head. He was making a ghostly “woooo” noise. This had to be a dare. I started giggling, and soon I was laughing uncontrollably. His skin flushed red from his neck down over his chest, and he fled upstairs. Other than that, the young men were mostly respectful of me.

• When Steve came to pick me up after my interview, I didn’t recognize him. He had gotten a shave and haircut, in preparation for reporting to the Selective Service. I had never seen his chin.
• Steve Goodman, from The Flick, came to see me there. He tried to cajole me into sex by telling me he had leukemia and would be dead soon. I was cynical and contemptuous, and refused when I might have agreed. But he did; and he was, dying more than a decade later in 1984.

Retracing my steps

After 6 months in Naranja, I moved back to my sister’s apartment. I was desperately lonely, and disliked Miami. I no longer had a job, and I was more burden than help.

Steve’s brother Charlie and his friend Frank Carrier were riding north, so I decided I would ride with them as far as Yeehaw Junction, then turn west to Tampa and my mother’s house. The trip was a mistake from the start. I didn’t sleep well, or at all, really. We started half a day – almost a whole day - late, because the guys had gotten stoned and slept really well. On the turnpike, I ran out of gas between gas stations, and the solution was found, that one of the guys would take my gas tank back to the nearest station and fill it. They did. But when I re-mounted it on the Honda, I pinched that throttle cable wide open. When I started the bike, it screamed! It took me a while to figure the problem out and find a solution. I told Charlie and Frank to go ahead – they were supposed to meet up with someone and I didn’t want to delay them any more than I had.

I finally got back on the road, but by this time I was stressed and sleepy; I had been awake about 30 hours. Highway 60 seemed to go on forever, and I couldn’t stay awake. I dozed off and woke up in a gravel patch just east of Lake Wales, with my front wheel against a telephone pole. I wasn’t hurt, but I couldn’t go on. I found a phone and called Mom. She sent her husband Eddie to retrieve me. We put the Honda in the trunk, and I slept all the way home. It felt like defeat.