Harry – Ch2

I have no recollection of the application process nor the interview process.  The job listing had to have been in the newspaper because that was the only place where jobs were posted at the time.  I don’t recall having a typewriter at the time – I was living at my cousin Toby’s house then.  He was an architect and would have had no need for a typewriter.  How I got the job….. no idea. 

But there I was at the San Francisco Airport in training class for Budget Rent a Car.  I started working there in July of 1985.  My instructor – and my boss was a thirty-eight year old slender man with intense blue eyes and strawberry blonde mustache.  When he talked he did so at such a clip that his mustache moved back and forth which reminded me of the way Charlie Chaplin would contort his face.  His accent was from somewhere back east but I never nailed it down as from any specific place. Atop his head a mass of curly hair  – the same color, strawberry blonde.  His name was Harry.  

Training was a week and then we were dispatched to various locations inside of the airport itself. There was a Budget desk inside of each terminal at the baggage claim level and then there was the large return center that was on airport grounds close to the airport entrance just off the freeway.  Occasionally we’d work there.  

Working inside the terminals was interesting in that people from all over the world arrived and completed their rental agreements.  It wasn’t all that busy even though we worked by ourselves.  Flights generally arrive in clusters and when that’s over, you just wait around for the next set of flights to arrive. 

Working at the return center was always busy and for the most part, I liked that better because I worked with serval others, though it was during the return process that the conflicts arose.  Overtime charges.  Fuel charges. Drop charges.  

Harry worked in this building and did his part in the conflict resolution process but also with finding every opportunity to interact with me.  He’d ask about my morning, or what I had for lunch.  He asked about my days off, where I went, and what I had done. To anyone casually observing it would have appeared as nothing more than someone being a great manager.  But it was obvious that Harry was flirting. 

I was only at the job for two months before I determined that I could not afford to live in the Bay Area and I made arrangements to move back to Minneapolis.  I’d asked Harry about a transfer but at the time the Budget location in Minneapolis was a franchise – so a transfer wasn’t possible but Harry did offer to write a letter of recommendation for me.  

I was hired on the spot in Minneapolis and within a week I was asked to be one of the managers.  I was nineteen years old, working alongside industry veterans and concerned that as the newcomer at such a young age, I’d be walked all over by the existing staff.  I voiced this concern to management and was told that they’d already discussed it with the staff and for the most part, it was a done deal.  All I had to say was yes.  So I did.  

There was only one rental counter at the Minneapolis airport and the afternoon team consisted of only myself and Gary, Shelly, Jane, Jeff, and Bobby. The general manager of the location was Judy, a former flight attendant from Braniff.  The return center, like at San Francisco, was nearly the entrance to the airport on a service road..  

Next to our rental counter was Dollar Rent a Car, next to them, Avis, then Hertz, then National.  Everyone from all the rental agencies got along well except with the folks from Avis.  Man, they were a stuck up bunch.  We’d all crank-call them asking for the most ridiculous things – then bust out laughing when they’d look over and see us on the phone talking to them.  That pissed them off even more.  

I had rented apartment upon my return to Minneapolis that was on the route 7 bus which traveled between downtown and the airport along Minnehaha Avenue.  The apartment was a garden unit that faced the back parking lot.  Nothing to write home about but it was clean, tidy, and the building was owned by the family of a girl with whom I went to high school.  

I furnished the place with an old sectional sofa from my grandmother’s attic – it was maroon nylon frieze, and to this day I’d love to have that sofa.  I purchased a floor to ceiling bookshelf unit in white laminate from the Scandinavian furniture store, and ordered a new mattress and a white laminate cafe table with four black lacquered bentwood chairs from Sears.   On the table I placed a single glass block with black spray painted pussy willows.  

Sparse yet comfortable – I called it ‘minimalist”, but the best was that I had it all I had it all to myself.  

My schedule at Budget was Tuesday – Sunday 2:00p – 10:00p.  During the day I took a part time drafting job downtown – working Monday – Friday 8:00a – 12:00.  Being on route 7 I had enough time to get home, change clothes and get back on the bus and head out to the airport.  So while no one likes working two jobs, my days were manageable, diverse and generally enjoyable.

One day Shelly and Jane approached me and asked for a day off together.  They’d heard of a hiring event at the convention center for Western Airlines, a Los Angles based carrier that had had a base in Minneapolis, and wanted to go.  I arranged for their time off and they suggested I go with them.  

“You’d be perfect for the job” Shelly told me.  

I demurred, having just moved back from California and now with a leased apartment, I was in no position to move again, but I was rooting for them, as was Judy, the general manager and former flight attendant from Braniff.  

As it happened, the day of the hiring event downtown was my scheduled day off.  On a whim the night before I decided I’d surprise Shelly and Jane and show up, if for no other reason to be there for support.  I typed up a resume’ – I had an old portable typewriter, set it on the dining room table, then went to my closet to determine what I would wear the next morning.  There wasn’t much to choose from.  

I called off for the drafting job that next morning, got dressed and caught the route 7 bus downtown.  My attire:  olive green pleated slacks (it was 1985), a light blue button down Oxford cloth shirt with a maroon tie, a brown tweed sport coat, and brown wing-tipped shoes.  In my mind the color palate worked.  In reality… it didn’t.  

At the convention center I found Shelly and Jane and got in a line with them that snaked around he block. Seven hundred people showed up for this.  

Eventually we made our way into the convention center, presenting our IDs and resumes, then entered a large hall where we took a written test.  Following the test we waited while they were graded.  Names were called over a loud speaker and those called were moved into another room.  Those who remained moved on. 

The next test was an aural test.  Listening and comprehension.  Again we waited and names were called.  My name was called.  I went to the next room and all of us there were told we’d be moving on to the next round.  The original 700 people had been halved twice, and now there were 175 of us.  I did not see Shelly or Jane in this room. 

Next was a group interview with about ten of us.  Meet someone in the room, learn about them, and then introduce them to the group at the end.  The introductions given told about how the other person the was a total people person. How they loved to travel and meet new people.  It all sounded like complete bullshit. Everyone was dressed exceptionally well.  Perfect hair. Perfect makeup.  And there I was in mis-matched fabrics, textures, and hues.  This exercise cut the number in half again.  I moved on to a one on one interview. 

My one on one interview was with a delightful young Asian woman named Patsy.  She’d been flying for Western Airlines for several years.  She had blunt cut black hair with straight bangs down to just above her eyebrows and she wore a hot pink skirt and matching jacket.  We talked causally for awhile and then asked why I was applying.  I told her that I hadn’t come here to apply – that I was only here to support two of my employees.  There were more questions.  I answered them honestly.  I had no reason not to.  

Finally Patsy asked me to tell her about my worst day at work. I told Patsy about a day we ran out of cars.  We had people lined up at the desk waiting and the service team was washing the returning the cars as fast as they could to turn them around, but by the end of the night, we had none left.  

Two men were standing at the counter at 9:30 at night waiting for their cars.  I’d explained that we didn’t have them despite their reservation and that we’d pay for the cab fare to and from wherever they were going and get them a car in the morning.  Patsy said that sounded like a reasonable offer.  “What did they say?” She asked. 

“One man started pounding his fist on the counter and demanded I give him a car”, I told her.  

“Then what happened?” she asked

“He started cursing at me, calling me names, and continued making a scene”.

“What did the other man do?”

“He joined in – and now they were both shouting.” 

“What did you do?”

“I told them that if they didn’t shut their fucking mouths they’d get nothing from me – no cab fare, no car. Nothing.” 

Patsy fell out of her chair laughing.  “You said that to them, those exact words?”

“Yes”. 

“What did they do?”

“They shut the fuck up and took a the cab fare”. 

Patsy asked if I could come back the next day because there was someone she wanted me to meet.  I said yes even though it meant calling off for a second day at my job downtown.  

The next day I met Stewart who was the base manager in Salt Lake City where Western Airlines had it largest hub.  Stewart was small man about my height but thin with nondescript chestnut hair and glasses.  Young but professional.  Calm and very disarming in his demeanor.  I recall talking about nothing in particular and when it was over Stewart said I’d hear back in a week or two.  I thought nothing of it as we’d spent less than a half hour together.  I didn’t know why Patsy wanted me to meet him.  

Back to work the next day Shelly and Jane asked what happened.  I told them.  Jane cracked up when I told her the story I’d told Patsy about the two guys that I told to fuck off.  That was that and we resumed our responsibilities.  We chalked the day off together as something interesting to do. 

A bit more than two weeks had passed and I’d heard nothing from Stewart.  It was now the end October.  Things were going well at work – both jobs, and with two months being back in Minneapolis I was into my groove.  

One afternoon when I’d arrived home to change clothes before heading out to the airport there was a message on my answering machine.  These things were pretty new at the time – I’d likely gone into debt to buy one.  The voice said they were calling from Western Airlines in Los Angeles and asked that I call back at my earliest convenience.  My heart began racing.  I dialed the number and waited for an answer. 

After identifying myself I was told that Western wanted me to join a training class in Los Angeles that started in two weeks.  

“Do I have a choice?” I asked. 

“A choice about what”, the woman asked. 

“Well, I have to unload an apartment I just moved into.”

“I see,” she said.  “There is another class scheduled two weeks after that.  Could you make that one?”

“Yes.”

The woman confirmed my address and said she’d be sending out some paperwork and some pre-training materials to complete.  Included would be my plane ticket to Los Angeles.  

I was stunned.  

I said yes because I had twenty-eight dollars in my savings account, Christmas was coming, and I thought that if wasn’t home for Christmas I’d be excused for having to buy gifts.  Now, I had four weeks to sell the furniture I’d purchased and notify my landlord of cancelling my lease which meant forfeiting my $300 deposit. 

Four weeks later I was on a plane headed back to California after having left there just three months earlier.  

My training class was comprised of fifty people from various places across the country.  We were housed at a hotel across the street from Western’s offices on Avion Drive.  We were given a daily stipend for food and mostly ate at the company cafeteria.  Our first day in training, the first thing we were told by a woman named Barbie was that if we were to be one minute late for any class we’d be relieved of training.  

Monday through Friday we were in classes and our weeknights were devoted to studying.  We had tests every morning and if we didn’t pass the daily test we’d be given a ticket back home. We did however, have the weekends to ourselves to do whatever we wanted. 

I befriended a handsome young Mexican man that was in my class.  Carlos was from Los Angeles but chose to stay at the hotel for training though he did go home on the weekends.  Carlos was skinny dude with a big smile, a gregarious attitude, and was animated in a manner that reminded me of a marionette.  For the month we became inseparable.  

Carlos captivated me – not with just his looks but with the world in which he lived.  He went to the ‘Hollywood’ parties and talked bout the people he’d met.  He talked about the sex clubs he visited – and those from the Hollywood parties that were also there.  He knew Roddy McDowall because his roommate had dated him.  I’d seen Planet of the Apes so many times as a kid that I thought I knew Roddy McDowall.  Carlos played all of this off as if it were just another day – and maybe it is for someone who lives in Los Angeles.  To me it was utterly captivating. 

On the weekends Carlos would take me around Los Angeles in his yellow Volkswagen pickup.  Together we’d go out to the clubs in West Hollywood drinking and dancing.  It felt like I’d hit the big time this time around in California as it was a far cry from life in Chico and way better than sleeping on my cousin’s sofa.   As with any two young gay men that were inseparable, Carlos and I also fucked around on the weekends.  It’s true what they say about skinny guys.  

The last week of training we were required to take observation flights – we could go anywhere we wanted at no cost.  I felt the need to go back to Minneapolis for a day but the non-stops from LA to Minneapolis were full.  The only way I could get there was to fly to Oakland after class, spend the night, then fly to Salt Lake in the morning and connect to Minneapolis there.  

I called Harry and asked if I could stay at his place as I didn’t have enough money to pay for a hotel in Oakland.  Harry agreed and picked me up at the airport that evening and took me out to dinner but not just any dinner.  He’d reserved a table at the nicest restaurant I’d ever been to.   Harry ordered rabbit. I chose a steak. I suppose there’s not much difference but I’d never been to a place that served rabbit.  

From there we drove to Harry’s place – a perfect little townhouse near Lake Merritt that was neat and tidy with only the slightest signs of bachelorhood.  It’s likely we sat around drinking wine for awhile – Californians drink a lot of wine. 

At some point I Harry became someone agitated.  Not in an angry way but he was fidgeting and unfocused.  He went into the spare bedroom and lifted weights for a bit which I would have never expected him to have and seemed a bit odd  Then Harry suggested we take a steam as he had a steam room / shower combination.  

Something was up.  I was his guest so I kind of had to play along but hey, I’m always up for a steam. It didn’t take but a couple minutes in the steam room for Harry to be on his knees blowing me.  The partial obstruction of the steam, combined with the wine and then the weights must have given him the courage, as he’d likely been working up the nerve to do this all evening. 

My flight out the next morning was early so off to bed – and I slept in Harry’s bed that evening.  I not opposed to that in general, but after what had happened in the steam room it felt kind of strange.  

I spent time with Harry once or twice when I had Oakland layovers but after some time we’d lost touch.  I’d called some years after and discovered that his number had been disconnected.  I called the Budget office at the San Francisco Airport and asked for him.  I was told he moved to the corporate offices in Chicago.  I tried calling there but no one seemed to know Harry. 

When the internet arrived I searched for Harry.  Nothing came up.  Years and years of searching.  Easily a decade.  I’d wondered if he was still alive because so many people I knew of his age had died.  I could find nothing on Harry.

Until the week that I moved to Chicago.  I did a search and this time I got a hit.  Age matched.  Previous addresses matched.  New location was Virginia – and there was a phone number.  I called it.  Left a message.  It was Harry’s voice. 

Later that evening Harry called back wondering what in the hell I was up to and I could picture his mustache moving back and forth as he talked.  I told him that I’d just moved to Chicago. He told me he had lived there which I already knew.  He asked where in the city I was living.  I told him Sheridan Road.  I told him my address. 

“Oh my god”, he said.  “I used to live right across the street from you.”  

Every couple of years we’ll talk but it wasn’t until I wrote about my recent visit to San Francisco that I understood the importance that this man played in the future outcome of my life.  There’s no telling if I’d have gotten the job at Budget in Minneapolis without his letter of recommendation.  But me being there at that time, and having made a snap decision to attend a hiring event for Western Airlines at the recommendation of my employees changed my life entirely.

Harry and I talked this evening by phone.  We had a lot to talk about.  He was thirty-eight when I met him and now he’s seventy-six and living in Baltimore near his siblings.  This finally explains Harry’s accent.