TriStar Pictures/Courtesy Everett Collection
Desperation inspired me to answer a generic calling-all-college-grads type of ad, for a “junior management position in retail.” Since I’d worked for two years at a record store while obtaining my useless social science degree, for the first time in my post-college job quest I felt fully qualified.
This “unique opportunity” turned out to be a training program for branch managers at the newly christened and franchised American Savings Bank. Visualizing myself behind a desk, I imagined eight-hour days spent filling out forms while wearing the drab navy blue Brooks Brothers suit that my dad predicted I’d need to own. Pondering further, I decided that my proud status as a bohemian who didn’t care about money might just work in my favor. I could be trusted around large amounts of cash. And on a purely pragmatic level, I realized (or rationalized) working at a bank would be a steady job if nothing else. I was determined to gain a foothold in New York City.
The initial interview transpired in the back office of a mint-condition Midtown branch; the Grand Opening was weeks away. Thin carpets, brittle furniture and the thick scent of disinfectant filled the empty rooms. A stone-faced female interviewer, possibly not long out of college herself, questioned me by rote across an uncluttered desk. Perusing my resume, she expressed deep skepticism non-verbally, never directly asking why in the world I was applying for a banking position. I stressed my “extensive” retail experience and (mostly untested) people-management skills. Declaring my willingness to accept a spot at any branch that was reachable by subway cracked her stern demeanor. Hey, I meant what I said. Even if it meant commuting an hour each way to Jamaica, Queens where my great aunt lived during the Sixties. It was still New York City.
The bank called back on the same day as my interview. Turned out there was a slight catch; a preliminary step was required before I could meet with the program director for branch managers. Every potential employee of the American Savings Bank, unsurprisingly when I thought about it, was required by law to undergo a polygraph examination. Conveniently, I was able to schedule a lie detector test for the next day.
Nervously, I managed to board a train headed downtown. Surfacing near City Hall, I proceeded away from the Brooklyn Bridge and toward the monumental court buildings. Immediately I was lost, wandering on an anonymous side street. Just before panic set in, I spotted the Chambers Street sign at the other end of the block.
Walking the gauntlet of men (and women) in near-identical suits, I edged my way into the lobby of an aged office building. A noisy elevator ejected me into the waiting room of (let’s call it) Wall Street Security Inc. A paunchy middle-aged man with the Irish-American complexion familiar from my father’s side of the family – freckles and blondish red hair – stood up from behind a desk and abruptly stated my name as a question. “Mark Coleman?” Before I replied “yes” he turned away and started walking down the hall, assuming I’d tag along.
We wound up in a windowless room: unadorned brown walls, off-white acoustic tiles barely clinging to the ceiling. A deep silver metal suitcase lay open on a battered wooden desk. Without speaking, my nameless escort curtly nodded toward the two chairs facing the suitcase. My seat was the one that resembled the electric chair in a low-budget prison movie.
A cushion shaped like a toilet seat rested where I was meant to deposit my butt. White straps that resembled bandages with wires attached dangled from the chair’s arms and back. Settling in, I flashed back to an underground newspaper article from ten years before, when I was 13 and a wannabe hippie. The title was How To Scam The Man’s Lie Detector or something similar, anyway the specific tactic that came to mind here in 1981 was “tighten the muscles in your ass.” Sadly, the slack little pillow under me rendered this impossible – yes, I tried. Meanwhile my escort had settled into his chair and revved up the polygraph. Inside the silver suitcase was a worn console with dials, buttons and switches. On one side of the console sat a series of jacks with rubber tubing and wires attached; on top were needles poised to hop and skip across a looped roll of paper. He strapped a sort of straight-jacket across my midriff, and then fastened thin sensors the size of band-aids around the ring and index fingers of my right hand. An armband-sensor gripped my left bicep.
In ten minutes we covered a mix of neutral queries culled from my resume, alternated with more pointed inquiries relating to theft and deceit. Replying was a breeze: aside from the rare five-dollar discrepancy in the cash register balance back at Discount Records, my record in regards to handling money was spotless. No, it was the inevitable questions about illegal drug use that put me on edge. Thinking fast on my feet, well on my seat to be literal about it, I decided to come clean on marijuana, guessing that a) weed was viewed as relatively benign (though illegal at this point in history) and b) if the polygraph worked at all any equivocation on my part would set the damn thing off like a smoke alarm. Since my limbs were so tightly bound, I mentally crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.
Remaining expressionless the entire time, my interrogator didn’t mention results when we finished. “The readout goes back to the bank and they’ll be in touch.” Unsure about how to conclude our encounter, on the way out I said “thanks” which seemed to catch him off guard as, for the first time that morning, he displayed a reaction approaching human emotion: his raised eyebrows said c’mon pal ya gotta be kidding me.
Either inhaling occasionally didn’t matter, or the American Savings Bank was desperate for warm bodies. I was offered the job two days later.
*
Women with the most exotic New York accents imaginable staffed the receptionist’s desk at every place of business I entered during my virgin job search. Or so it seemed to my Midwestern ears. Right after accepting the training position at American Savings Bank, maybe a week into my odyssey, I belatedly checked in at the editorial offices of Sugar y Azucar magazine. Or in the words of the elaborately coiffed and manicured young woman who greeted me, “Shuga Ezookuh.” This was not a nutritional handbook, but a trade journal for manufacturers of refined sugar and suppliers such as my father’s employer, Western States Machine Company. In fact, my dad enjoyed a warm long-distance friendship with Sugar y Azucar publisher Richard Slimermeyer; they often met up at industry events, and with their wives, visited each other’s homes in Cincinnati and New Jersey.
Ushering me into his midtown Manhattan office, Dick emitted flushed-face warmth and aromatic joviality. The aftermath of a two-martini lunch, I presumed. After apologizing for not having an entry-level position to offer, he launched a rambling monologue about trade-magazine publishing and how the best thing about it was “doing business with a stand-up guy like your dad.” It almost felt like he was trying to get me to buy an ad.
The meeting was over in twenty minutes, short and ahem, sweet. Hanging around the office after we were finished, I was flummoxed by the minimalist layout: three adjacent cubicles where the editors labored, a separate room for the two-person art department, a tiny library in a converted closet, and Dick’s corner office. The atmosphere was quiet, almost hushed: not exactly a hectic newsroom. An attempt at conversing with the frosted-blonde receptionist quickly declined from polite to pointless. Rescue came when Barbara, the svelte middle-aged woman who’d been introduced as Senior Editor of Sugar y Azucar, called me over to her executive cubbyhole. She spoke in a mild English accent and her subdued sense of style stood in stark contrast to the receptionist. Barbara exuded a breath of worldliness decidedly at odds with our surroundings.
“Mark, hold on a minute before you leave. Let me put you in touch with Luther Miller, my old boss at Railway Age. When I heard you talking to Dick just now, I remembered that Luther recently mentioned that Railway Age needs an associate editor. Reporting on the railroad business might not be what you’ve set out to do but you won’t find a better editor than Luther – he’s an old newspaper man, a real pro, better known these days as the Dean of Railroad Journalists. He taught me everything I know.”
At this point her current employer broadcast a suggestive chuckle, only to be silenced by a sharp glance.
“Simmons and Boardman, the company that owns Railway Age, has been around forever,” she continued. “Railway Age is the oldest trade magazine in the country – since 1876! Honestly, the company needs some new blood. Almost everybody who works there is pushing retirement age. If you don’t mind, I’ll also put in a call to Bob Lewis, the publisher. In the meantime you can drop off your resume for Luther. Here’s the address.”
If I didn’t mind! As I prostrated myself in thanks, Barbara waved me away while Dick fixed me with an inscrutable look and laughed. “We certainly can’t have YOU working in a bank.” I took it as a compliment.
From my self-serving perspective, if Western States Machine Company wound up springing for an extra ad page as a quid pro quo for Dick’s effortless intervention on my behalf, it would be money well spent.
Barbara’s recommendation was all that Railway Age required. Or else Simmons-Boardman Publishing Co. was desperate for warm bodies too. Anyway, two days later, my interview with the brusque and obviously preoccupied editor-in-chief Luther Miller shot by in a perfunctory blur. I accepted the job on the spot, for $13,500 annually, in a dream of disbelief or perhaps a mild state of shock. My follow-up phone call to the American Savings Bank was awkward, though mercifully brief. With a few days left at the Chemist Club, I found a job in something resembling journalism! Now all I needed to find was a roof over my head.
City Slang 