Of Work, Boredom and Demons

When my GI Bill money finally came through, I had already gotten my undergraduate degree. I took the money and enrolled in night classes at the University of Missouri at Kansas City Law School. I was a married man now. I had a day job as well, in the promotion department of Hallmark Cards. I edited a weekly in-house newsletter and contributed to a monthly magazine, Cards, which was distributed to all Hallmark Card dealers in the US and Canada. I wrote how-to articles on laying out display windows, attracting new customers to stores, displaying merchandise in the store to maximize sales and I did occasional features on Hallmark Card artists and new products like paper dresses, pop-up greeting cards and paper designs. The job was more boring than watching paint dry. But it paid the then princely sum of $12,000 a year. My wife was a designer in their art department.

I should have had a clue about the place, when in my second week there a crew of five white-suited storm troopers carried out one of the design artists in a strait jacket after he’d gone berserk in his cubicle, had ripped all his clothes off and had set about to trash the joint, tossing ink wells and paint pots against the walls. He also tried to crash through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls surrounding the ninth floor, but had only succeeded in bouncing off the reinforced glass and knocking himself out. Everyone just stood by silently and watched. No one lifted a finger. No one discussed the incident afterwards. It was as if it had never happened.

My boss, a fellow named Gus Johnson and in his late forties, showed up one day after I had suffered through several months of tedium, wearing a flashy, double-breasted navy-blue zoot-suit with wide white vertical stripes over a light blue silk shirt with French cuffs and a flowery Ascot. It was an extraordinary statement to show up in such a suit, because the Hallmark Cards white-collar uniform was a plain black suit, white shirt and a narrow subdued tie. Nothing else was acceptable.

No one looked at him or paid any attention to him. He strolled through the department, stopping a various cubicles to shoot his cuffs or adjust his tie, trying to show off his new suit in the best light. When he didn’t get a reaction, he retreated to this office and soon reappeared in shirtsleeves. At Hallmark that was considered out of uniform and cause for reprimand. Again no reaction. The tie went next. He flung it over his shoulder into the aisle between the open waist-high cubicles. Soon the shirt followed, than the shoes, socks, trousers and, finally, his yellow polka-dotted boxer shorts. He was now stark naked. Still no one reacted. Everyone pretended it was business as usual, discussed his or her assignment with him, asked about his kids, talked about the weather.

I made the mistake of asking him, if he wanted to try one of the new A-line paper dresses that had just been added to the Hallmark line and of which I had several samples hanging in my cubicle. He looked at me as if I had just stepped off a UFO, turned beet-red and commenced to scream at me: “How dare you speak to me like that? Why would I want to wear one of your paper rags? I am wearing a brand new Zegna suit.” I tried to point out that he was bare-assed naked, but he would have none of it. “You are toast here,” he yelled and stormed down the hall toward the corner office of the VP Marketing to finalize my demise. But nothing happened.

We never saw him again. And again, no one talked about Mr. Johnson’s bizarre flame-out. I decided it was time to look for other employment.

My wife’s father had been a crooner on the radio in Kansas City in the 30’s and 40’s. He’d had his own show. He knew the General Manager of one of the city’s radio stations, who was a friend and a fellow member of the Kansas City Country Club. Membership to this club was restricted to white Anglo-Saxon Protestants. Jews, Catholics and other exotics, never mind blacks, didn’t need to apply. Anyway, he got me an interview and I talked myself into a job in the station’s promotion department. Money-wise it was a lateral move, but at least I could relate to the people working there. They seemed normal.

Mike McCurdy was my new boss. He always wore a jaunty bow tie, spoke softly and drank gin like a fish water. He liked dry Martinis. His Martinis were made up of a generous helping of Bombay Gin, what my brother would have called a three-finger shot, followed by a close pass past the glass with an open bottle of vermouth. He believed that the vermouth fumes gave his drink that special je-ne-sais-quoi. He never appeared drunk, but I know that five of those gin-only Martinis had to have an effect. Mike never showed it. Only his speech became even softer and slower.

When he had to fly, he always carried a large thermos filled with gin. He feared flying above all. By departure time he had to be pushed onto the plane in a wheelchair. He explained to the stewardess that he had a lower intestinal problem which sometimes weakened his system, but that he would be ok, since he carried his prescribed medicinal fluids with him in his thermos.

The station carried the games of the AFL’s Kansas City Chiefs. Those were the Hank Stram glory days, when the Chiefs won Super Bowl III. I got to know most of the players. I helped them cut commercials and promos at the station, guys like Len Dawson, Buck Buchanan, Ernie Ladd, Otis Taylor, Fred “The Hammer” Williamson, Mike Garrett, Jan Stenerud and Fred Arbanas, a one-eyed wide receiver.

My job was to write copy for station promos, retail ads and to schedule placement of radio spots. I did voice-overs and handled special sales events for the retail sales guys. There were no women in this or any other sales department in town then, nor were there any other minorities selling advertising in those days before affirmative action. I also made sure that my boss made it back to the station after his five-Martini lunches. He had a tendency to wander when he got loaded and needed tending.

About six months into this job, I decided to quit smoking. By then I had a 2- to 3-pack-a-day habit. Pall Mall non-filters were my brand of choice and they began to affect my health. I was 29 years old and could not climb a flight of stairs without huffing and hacking my lungs out. I decided to quit cold turkey and I did. Everyone was impressed. The problem was that I compensated for the Nicotine-urge with stuffing my face with chocolate. I blimped up to 230 pounds.

My wife suggested amphetamines – speed – to help me lose weight. She knew a doctor who prescribed them freely as part of a weight-loss program. They worked in getting my weight back down to 190, but they made me totally paranoid and brought to the surface all my suppressed memories, which I had banished from my conscience as a matter of survival. My nights were wracked by nightmares.

The faces of the dead I had left behind in my years in the employ of Uncle Sam swam up out the mists of my drugged and paranoid mind. Dismembered body parts and scenes of destruction flashed before my eyes. It all came flooding back. I thought I had buried my nightmares deep enough to be rid of them forever. I was wrong.

I went to work in the mornings totally exhausted, tense. I was a bundle of nerves. I didn’t eat and reverted to my old stand-by – vodka – to take the edge off. I was a mess. My job performance suffered. I skipped Law School classes regularly and ultimately had to resign. My home life suffered. Finally, one of my co-workers suggested I join a gym and work out. I took his advice. I put a stop to the speed, the vodka and the chocolate binging and began to feel better. I worked out every day. My body improved. Sleep returned and I re-buried my nightmares. I also increased my neck size to 17 inches and noticed that most of the serious guys in the gym were taking steroids. They kept after me to try some of their concoctions, which helped them bulk up and give their muscles definition. They looked great, but I had had it with chemicals in my system and refused. I quit the gym and took up golf.