Ronald M. Helmer

Jobs

By: Ron M. Helmer

 

1947 was the year of the Leduc discovery well so there was very little demand for young men looking for employment as oilfield equipment salesmen. It occurred to me that with my background of having worked at the Imperial Oil Refinery in Ogden in the past my Chemical Engineering degree might enhance my chances of being gainfully employed there. Accordingly, I arranged an appointment with the General Manager.

When I arrived at the refinery office I was sent to 'The Stud Duck's' office to await his arrival. To say that the ensuing meeting was fractious would be a major understatement. I could hear the old tyrant coming before I could see him; he was berating both his assistant and his secretary in abusive terms. I was astonished at his use of such gutter language but it seemed to bounce off of them without effect presumably through long inurement. He had his assistant take a seat along the side wall of his office. Why would he need a witness? I thought. I found out many years later that his assistant was in fact a brother of my High School Social Studies teacher. He was about to get an unexpected lesson in Social Studies!

'So you think you want to go to work for us, eh?' said the 'Great Man'.

I thought of referring the fact that I had worked at the refinery previously in summer work jobs but decided to omit mention of it. Heaven knows, he might even ask someone else's opinion! Herbie Guttman and I did not leave an enviable record behind us. One summer we had been assigned to the asphalt loading dock, filling empty 400# steel drums with hot asphalt (about 220 degrees Fahrenheit) and loading them into freight cars for shipment to God Knows Where! Asphalt is the lowest product on the fractionation Totem Pole and would come to us directly from where it had been stored in hot condition.

The 'loading dock' was a raised concrete platform immediately adjoining the spur line railway track. When a drum had been filled the bung was securely screwed on and it was picked up by a one-man dolly and rolled into the freight car. The drums were then covered by planks and a second layer of drums taken on board. This was a substantially more 'sophisticated' procedure. Once the drum was filled and hoisted by the dolly, the 'dolly man' started up the planks leading up to the second layer and two 'pushers' joined him to negotiate the steep incline. One might wonder if the Worker's Compensation Branch (known then as the Workmen's Compensation Board prior to the 'revolution') was fully aware of the proceedings. Steel-toed shoes and hard hats were never mentioned.

'Joe', whose name I forget temporarily was head man on the 'bull gang' and became marginally 'spastic'one day and decided to show us how to fill the drums more effectively. He told the workers to stand by while he showed them the proper method.

'Get that drum up here,' he commanded to one of the nearby minions. The nearby minion designated was not familiar with the routine and rolled up a drum that had not been drained. Let me explain! Customarily drums used for asphalt had been used previously then stored until required. Drum 'placers' had always been required to make sure drums had been tipped up and drained of all water before being brought to the filling line. This time Joe's macho behaviour had bypassed a man who knew what he was doing and shouted at a man who didn't have a clue about the proper drill.

Joe jammed the four-inch long nozzle into the three-inch diameter filling hole at the top of the drum and turned on the nozzle tap.He then started tapping the side of the drum as it filled in order to check the level of the asphalt pouring into the drum. Meanwhile the undrained water at the bottom of the drum was heating up and finally converted into live steam. The lads who had been studiously watching Joe's demonstration saw a jet of black, viscous, near-boiling asphalt suddenly squirt out around the filling spout and drench Joe's face and hands. He was gutsy; I'll admit that he had the presence of mind to turn off the filling tap before stepping back, obviously in severe pain.

Attempting to wipe the hot tar from his skin was obviously pointless; it merely exacerbated a bad situation. Old Joe was remarkably stoic as a couple of men led him away toward the First Aid station. I remember clearly seeing his face as they passed and was shocked to see that there was asphalt lodged below Joe's eyelids! I thought he might have been blinded but he was back on the job in a couple of days with only a slightly redder complexion to show for his ordeal. Jack Murray, the old Scottish Senior Foreman with an accent you could cut with a dull knife, automatically blamed Herbie and me for the incident, as usual. We were consigned for three days to the fractionating tower where we coiled uncomfortably on our sides chipping accumulated scale during the shutdown.

I won't go into the theory of fractionating columns, but in reality they're just a sophisticated bunch of old pot stills piled one above the other. I would guess the column we were consigned to was at least one hundred feet high but only about three feet in diameter with entry ports at every level. There was a series of 'bubble caps' at every tray, held in place by four projecting threaded studs. We were required to remove the 'bubble caps', the better to reach the residual scale built up below them. As a result we had to bend ourselves around in manners that would likely have been the envy of an Indian Fakir. I never felt that it was necessary to tell Herbie not to light up a cigarette under any circumstances; the tower reeked of high-test gasoline which would have ignited like a bomb under those circumstances. I suspect that WCB rules today would require that the tower be purged with nitrogen before innocent jerks like Herbie and me would be allowed into them. I grant that we were told not to wear hob-nailed boots and our scrapers were obviously made of brass.

The "stud duck" on the asphalt loading platform was a corpulent individual who had the regrettable name of 'Fat' Zwalikunt! Did we delicately avoid any reference to the American/Canadian temptations of mocking his presumably middle-European surname? No! The emphasis on his last syllable was a built-in target for the clever college boys. As a result, as soon as 'Fat' became aware of what was happening he became sure that 'college boys' were nothing more than a bunch of smart-assed pricks.

There was a permanent employee working on the asphalt dock who had an inferiority complex for which he seemed to have to compensate. His name was 'Shorty', which might explain a lot. He was always talking about how much money he had and how much of it he was carrying in his wallet. The 'smart alecks' on the loading dock didn't need to hear much of this boasting before claiming it was bullshit and cynically claiming that they would have to see it before they would believe it. I guess you could say it was an early version of 'Show me the 'bunny'!'. 'Shorty' presumably played poker at a downtown club or played the horses and would occasionally come to work carrying a substantial wad of money.

Herb was on the 'hot tap' on just such an occasion when 'Shorty' took to boasting again. Herb was naturally needling him once again as was his wont.

'I'd have to see it before I'd believe it, 'Shorty'', Herb said cynically. This comment was too much for 'Shorty''s sensitive ego and he saw this opportunity, as 'flush' as he was, to prove to one and all that he was as loaded as he claimed. Face flushed, he reached into his pocket and drew out his bulging wallet.

'Those could all be one dollar bills as far as I can see,' Herb said tauntingly. 'Lay them out so we can see them!'

Shorty was up to the challenge and, smirking confidently, started peeling off a series of fifty and twenty dollar bills and setting them side by side on top of the drum. Most other activity on the loading dock had stopped as the workers clustered around to view 'Shorty''s wealth. After placing over three hundred dollars on top of the drum he had run out of available space and still had more than half of his roll of bills in his hand.

We were all impressed; this was big money! Herb was so impressed that he lost his concentration and forgot to check the asphalt level in the drum.

'Turn off the tap!' someone yelled as the hot, black fluid bubbled back out of the bung hole and covered the top of the drum, currency included, in an instant.

'Son of a bitch!' 'Shorty' yelled desperately, starting to grab at his money. He didn't grab for long, however, as the near-boiling asphalt started burning his hands. His boasts confirmed (albeit at a price), 'Shorty' spent most of the afternoon crouched over a bucket of kerosene rinsing his fortune. He accused Herbie of deliberate mischief and Jack Murray sent Herbie off once again to the fractionation columns; I was sent with him just as a matter of course.

This was the 'previous experience' I felt it was not prudent to mention to the refinery manager as bona fides at the time of our meeting.

'So you think you want to go to work for us, eh?' he had said. 'What do you think your qualifications are, anyway?'

What do you keep in that bald head of yours, anyway, you silly old fart? I thought. I filled out an application form for your assistant yesterday!

'Well, I've got a B.Sc. in Chemical Engineering from the U. of A.'

'... 'a B.Sc. in Chemical Engineering!..." he said mockingly. 'I'll tell you something, mister; I wouldn't give you shit for a B.Sc. in anything!'Aha! I thought, he doesn't have a degree!

'I've noticed a widespread resentment against university graduates, especially engineering graduates, sir, by persons with poor educations, grade seven or grade eight educations for instance.'

'What the hell would you know about other people's educations, anyway?' he snarled, colouring noticeably.

'Sorry!' I said, 'I didn't mean the remark personally.' Which was bullshit, of course; I had meant it to be specifically personal, and I seemed to have pressed precisely the right button. 'I'm personally in favour of a superior education,' I said smugly, 'they teach you adverbs and adjectives and all sorts of useful words that can take the place of vulgar expletives! Yep! I'm for superior education, all the way!' I said gratuitously.

He had sat silent throughout, his colour gradually rising, his face a mask of contempt. 'I don't think we'll have room for you, Helmer,' he said with finality. 'We'll

call you if something turns up!'

'It's probably just as well,' I said casually. 'I've just remembered some other commitments I should check out first. I'll tell you what; don't call me, I'll call you!

I glanced toward his assistant as I left; he was sitting immobile as he had throughout the meeting. I speculated later about the look on his face . Did he look as though he had been sucking lemons or had just finished eating a tender, juicy steak? I decided it was the latter. After years of watching the bully attacking people who were afraid to fight back he had seen the lion bearded in his lair. It must have been satisfying for him; he looked comfortably well fed.

A few days later I ran into 'Chic' Ellston downtown and was peppered about my activities in detail. When I told him that my prime interest was in sales and that there was a scarcity of oilfield sales jobs he immediately came up with a solution.

'Why I don't I take you down and introduce you to Sheldon Buckles?' he said. 'You could spend a year or so with us, learn the basics of salesmanship and earn a few bucks while you're at it.' It seemed reasonable; as a result I was a rookie life underwriter within a week and my friends were just beginning to cross the street when they saw me coming.

So what did I learn at Manufacturer's Life Insurance? The answer is: lots of things! Every Monday morning Sheldon would hold a sales meeting/pep talk and encourage major huzzahs for the salesman with the best record for the previous week.

I never qualified for huzzahs but there were other compensations; naturally, salesmen, by and large, are a congenial lot and I was accepted readily into the fraternity. A couple of them were dedicated duck shooters and I learned a lot about technique just by listening to them spinning yarns.

The day room for the salesmen was at the back of the sales office so it was impossible to leave the office without being intercepted by Sheldon, who would call us in and deliver a parting pep talk, extraneous or otherwise. I understood his enthusiasm more clearly when it was explained to me that Sheldon earned an overriding commission on all of his agents' sales.

If I looked south across Eighth Avenue past the Federal Building I could see a sign painted on the side of a red brick building that read: MEALS--35 CENTS! I assumed that the sign had been painted some time in the thirties or late twenties; even in the forties the price was still believable!

Across the street to the west was Al's Delicatessen, a hole-in-the-wall eatery that was very popular with the Jewish fraternity. Al was a plump, friendly Jewish man with a white apron and black hair who bought large slabs of kosher meats and bushels of rye bread to feed the Spadina-like appetites of his noon-time customers. He had a rotary slicer with which he would slice layer after layer of pastrami, corned beef or salami onto a slice of rye bread, slather it with mustard, cap it with another slice of rye bread and garnish it with a sliced dill pickle. The standard side drink was Coke or Pepsi. A few ordered a plate with fried meat and a couple of fried eggs but that was the exception. I figured that Al, who was obviously spending his life close to the food he loved, would keep selling kosher sandwiches until he dropped, but this was not to be the case. He sold out and took an office across from my plant on the North Hill in the late 50's and wandered around selling marketing novelties. I don't remember asking him but I assume his rent was bumped and he couldn't make a profit. Too bad!

It was generally presumed that most novice life insurance salesmen would last for about year in the business by which time they would have canvassed all their friends and relatives. After that they were faced with 'cold canvassing' and most of them had no heart for that. I admit that there were days in the heat of summer when I lacked the motivation to go on a cold canvass call and would find my feet urging me in the direction of either the Palace Theatre or the Capitol Theatre. Once there I would head upstairs for the lobby where I would be less likely to have my arcane malingering noticed. The theatres were virtually empty for the afternoon shows anyway. Once my eyes had become accustomed to the darkness I was shocked to discover that many of the customers were ssalesmen from my own organization! The few individuals I didn't recognize were conceivably from other life insurance companies. Abomination!

Another useful practice I learned while at Manufacturer's was the basic understanding of the game of cribbage. I was never any good at it but at least I could supply a partner in times of need.

Dale Carnegie had never held a class in Calgary, in fact he never did in the future either, but he had a fellow called Wal Angus come to Calgary to do it for him. Wal was short and bald, about fifty years old, and he took his assignment seriously. For those unfamiliar with the topic, Dale Carnegie (long since deceased) wrote a book long ago entitled "How to Win Friends and Influence People"; I believe it is still in print. His organization also organized classes which trained people in public speaking.

I had a number of opportunities to speak to large assemblies when I was at university but admit to undergoing a certain amount of nervousness each time. The Dale Carnegie course was about to eliminate any such qualms. I seem to recall having Sheldon urge me to become a member of the first class; he did everything but pay for it! There were about twelve people in that first group, meeting once a week in the assembly hall of a downtown restaurant. Our first assignment was simply to go around the room and have each student stand up and state his name. It was astonishing; some members managed to get to their feet only to find that their jaws had locked and they were unable to speak!

The most memorable individual of all was a middle-aged blonde housewife who wasn't able to get to her feet. When Wal finally succeeded in coaxing her to stand she was so shy she couldn't speak and merely blushed deeper and deeper shades of red until Wal said she could sit down until next time. We were not allowed to write down the names but were told there would be a prize for the member who could remember the most names at the next meeting. I won by remembering everybody's name! Guess what the prize was! An Automatic Dale Carnegie lead pencil! Wow! I was in the big time.

One session was devoted to 'assertiveness'; I can still remember it clearly.

Each of us was given a rolled up newspaper and required to stand alone before a wooden table in front of the class and emphasize our statements by pounding the table with the newspaper. That was great fun! I still remember the 'address':

Some of the students attacked the table so vigorously at the end of the speech that the newspaper had to be renewed. Incidentally, the housewife who had been so painfully shy at the first session had become so outspoken and talkative after three or four sessions that Wal had to limit her comments, and she had a comment for virtually everything!

I recommend the classes to any person who has night sweats and nightmares about being called upon unexpectedly at a large meeting to speak extemporaneously on even a familiar subject.

Well, that was basically what I learned from selling life insurance!

Harry Jensen had roomed with Dawn Fairbairn our first year at University, I can't think of him or hear his name to this day without remembering the tale Dawn told one night at the fraternity house. Apparently Harry had been suffering from a head cold and ran short of tissues. In spite of feeling rotten he dressed himself and walked down to the pharmacy by the High Level bridge and confidently asked the girl behind the counter for a box of Kotex. Although mildly surprised, the young lady took the request in stride.

'Yessir,' she said, 'What size would you like?'

Equally surprised, Harry, after a brief pause, said 'Man size, of course!'

The young clerk blushed and, with only the trace of a smile, said 'Oh, you must mean 'Kleenex', sir!' According to Dawn, Harry was still blushing furiously when he arrived back after walking the block and a half to the boarding house.

I ran into Harry downtown one day and we went to a nearby restaurant for a cup of coffee. I brought him up to speed with respect to my activities since graduation. Harry had graduated a couple of years ahead of me in Chemical Engineering and had gone straight to work with the Bird-Archer Company. He had been told that he was going to be moved to Eastern Canada early in the coming year and wondered if I would be interested in replacing him. Would I?

Bird-Archer was an American-based company with a Canadian head office in Montreal. Their business was industrial boiler water treatment and they had contracts for servicing industrial plants throughout Canada. Their largest account was with the Canadian Pacific Railway and their service representatives were required to call on senior operations personnel at regular intervals. I was actually hired by a man called Jack Koyl whom I met at the Palliser Hotel at the time of his current visit to Calgary. Jack was a large, bluff man who had at one time played in the NHL as a defense man for the New York Rangers.

Bird-Archer were just in the final stages of installing a hot lime-soda water softener for the large steam boilers at the Alyth roundhouse in East Calgary. I made a rapid tour of the senior personnel there with Jack. I seem to recall doing much the same sort of thing at the Ogden shops before heading back for the hotel late in the afternoon.

'Koyl! Bird-Archer!' (hand extended) was the confident method Jack used to introduce himself to any and all personnel. It was not long before I was going about saying 'Helmer! Bird-Archer!' to railway personnel; it had a magical effect and was quite satisfying. I had by this time been given the clear impression that I was going to be expected to launch the operation of the new water softener when it was ready to go. I questioned Jack about this.

'I should tell you that I don't know 'bugger all' about lime-soda softeners,' I said.

'Sorry, old boy, I'm not going to be able to help you much there; I'm off to Vancouver tonight on a late train. Not a problem though, David Graham will be out here in a day or so and he's the genius on all that stuff.' Why did I get the impression that Jack didn't know 'bugger all' about hot lime-soda softeners himself?

'Let's go up to the room and have a little 'pepper upper' before dinner Jack said.

The 'pepper uppers' Jack had in mind turned out to be somewhat larger than 'little'; I'm guessing they were four ounce shots of Canadian Club rye whiskey. During the next couple of hours Jack and I learned a lot about each other and I learned that it was practically a mandate for Bird-Archer service men to buy a bottle of whiskey on a daily basis and find a railway operations man with whom to drink it. If they couldn't find a railway man they could drink it themselves. It was expected that the purchase of the whiskey would show up as a daily amount on their expense account with vouchers attached. They produced institutionalized alcoholics on a routine basis.

Jack had spent the war years as a member of the Canadian Navy and had been Barge Master on one of the personnel landing craft at the infamous Dieppe raid. The British Navy had promised a heavy bombardment of the harbour prior to the landing but pleaded a shortage of vessels at the last moment. The Royal Air Force had pledged a bombing of the area prior to the landing but failed to show up, claiming an aircraft shortage. British Intelligence had assured the Canadian Army that the caves high up on the cliffs overlooking the harbour were unoccupied and would not be used as machine gun bunkers on the day of the raid. They were, in the event, filled with heavy machine gunners for the ensuing slaughter. Thus the British commanders double-crossed the Canadians and hung them out to dry!

Koyl said he was required to hold station, ramp down, after unloading his troops.

He told of the horror of seeing men shot dead within a few yards of the loading ramp. Near the end of the fiasco he said that the German artillery was right down on the beach and the German gunners were firing point-blank at the raiders. There was a twelve by four inch wooden bumper secured along the inside walls of the landing craft and Jack said that while he stood sweating it out a German shell drove into the wooden bumper near the loading ramp and failed to explode. It was still ominously sticking out of the wooden bulwark when he left the beach.

'I thought I'd seen everything,' Jack said, 'but some guys who had been wounded within a few feet of the barge and were still under heavy fire tried to crawl back aboard. They were wild-eyed and completely out of their minds. The guys who hadn't been shot trying to cross the beach were huddled up against a rise at the far end of it, but the Germans in the 'unoccupied' caves had them in a murderous crossfire and continued to pick them off. It was a real blood bath, a massacre!'

'How come you didn't help the poor bastards trying to get back aboard?' I said.

'I couldn't leave the wheel! I had my hands full trying to hold the barge head on to the beach; of course the controls were at the opposite end of the barge.'

'And for years afterward that puffed-up Greek prick Mountbatten went around boasting about what a wonderful success the raid was and how much was learned for the Normandy invasion.' I said.

'I'll tell you what they learned,' said Koyl, whose colour had risen. 'The

British sons of bitches learned how to betray their allies and get Canadian soldiers killed. It has to rate as one of the worst blunders in Allied military history and one of the most shameful exposures of Canadian soldiers.'

Guess who never shed a tear when years later the arrogant Lord Mounbatten was blown to bits by the IRA! Too bad about the little kids, though!

The first summer I was with Bird-Archer they sent me to Eastern Canada to familiarize me with company practice. I went first to Cobourg, Ontario, on Lake Superior. Most of the mornings while I stayed there the temperature was vitually unbearable. After I had showered I made an attempt to dry myself with the hotel towels. By the time I had dried myself and moved down to my legs my chest and back were wringing wet again. By the time I'd dried them again my legs were soaking wet again. I eventually gave up. I remember it was 79 degrees Fahrenheit, the humidity was 97% and there was no air conditioning in a carload. It was like farting against thunder. The only other thing I remember with clarity was the magnificent fresh strawberry pie they served at the hotel.

Following my stint at the lab in Cobourg I was sent on to Montreal and spent time visiting power plants with Harry Jensen and Triain Cabba. What do I remember? I remember standing in a hot boiler rooom with perspiration running down my legs while Cabba droned on endlessly in French-Canadian to the Chief Engineer. But I also remember walking across to the Alberta Bar, a stone's throw from my hotel, where a young man by the name of Oscar Peterson was holding forth on the piano; I remember dining at Au Lutin Qui Bouffe and feeding a suckling pig with a baby's bottle before devouring one of its siblings a few minutes later. Montreal was in its heyday and Harry and I saw as much as we could cram in in a week.

-o-

David Graham stayed in the West long enough to accompany me to the huge steam generation plant owned by West Kootenay Power located in the Crowsnest Pass. They were very serious about their water treatment there, having been required to replace all of their boiler tubes and end plates a few years previously when caustic embrittlement was detected. Very expensive!

We drove all the way to the McLeod River Hard Coal Company mine at Mercoal south of Edson where they had a line-up of five large 500 HP water tube steam boilers. I remember that visit for three significant items. My only Alberta cousin lived there, I met Bert Woody and I scared the living daylights out of Graham driving out on the narrow trail.

Bert 'Bumpus' Woody had been born in Georgia, U.S.A. and had walked into the wilderness before the railway had been completed. He was working for the mine when I met him, but was known in the area as a hunting guide. He had pack horses in the district which he simply turned loose to graze on their own until he needed them. I promised him that I would be back in another month or so and to plan for me and a friend to pack in with him in the fall.

— The End —