Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
I was told just before the Christmas holiday that I wouldn't be required to return to Trail but could report directly to the Cominco Nitrogen Plant in Calgary. I had been shown the 'would be' class system that existed in Trail; I wondered if the same attitude had become extant in Calgary. Time would tell!
'Car pooling' was popular in Calgary at the time and it was not long before I was a part of Art's group. Art had a new Jeep station wagon of which he was justifiably proud and each working day he would honk his horn in front of our Scarboro house promptly at seven a.m. I would walk out and climb into the front seat beside him. We would then go down to a location near Central High School and pick up Mac, who was senior man in the laboratory. Our final pickup was at the north end of Victoria Park, where the tall, voluptuous Liz was waiting. Then we headed straight south on the Macleod Trail, turned east at Turner Siding and drove on down to the Nitrogen Plant below the hill near the Bow River. I think we paid Art $25 or $30 a month each.
A direct mandate from Winston Churchill was reputed to have initiated the construction of Cominco's Calgary Fertilizer plant. Ammonium nitrate was the principal explosive in the depth charges used by the Canadian and British Navies in the Battle of the Atlantic. Specialists were commandeered from Cominco in Trail and the plant was built in record time. One of the catalytic towers in the ammonia plant was a couple of hundred feet tall and was installed first before any of the ancillary equipment. Employees still spoke with awe of one of the 'high riggers', Shannon, who had accepted a bet that he couldn't shinny up the tower and do a headstand. He calmly shinnied up and won the bet and pocketed his winnings ($10) when he came back to earth. Incredible!
Except for the somewhat mid-Victorian practice of being required to pass through the guard house and punch a time card each morning the attitude at the Calgary plant was friendly and relaxed. There were two main process buildings involved, the first of which was the one referred to as 'the Gas Plant', and the one where I spent most of my time. Natural gas from Turner Valley was received here for a ridiculously low price by today's standards and converted by heat and catalysis to hydrogen. Nitrogen was produced in another combustion chamber and the two gases piped to the 'Ammonia Plant'. In the Ammonia Plant there was a series of Canadian Ingersoll Rand three-stage compressors that raised the pressure to incredible limits. A pinpoint hole in one of the third stage chambers would result in a high-pitched scream throughout the plant that would immediately result in corrective action. The Ammonia Plant manager was a 'no-nonsense' type who ran the plant like a Portsmouth Port Commander in the British navy, 'pusser', everything in 'apple pie' order.
They seemed not to know what to do with me at first so I was moved around to a variety of jobs and locations. There was a benefit to this in that I became acquainted with more people in a few days than I would have in months had I been stuck in one job.
One of my early assignments was testing fluids from various points around the many flow lines in the plants. Every test required a number of separate manipulations which I eventually considered to be superfluous in some cases and a waste of time. Accordingly I devised and sketched out a more efficient (if somewhat Rube Goldberg-ish) test apparatus that would eliminate at least one half of the fundamental requirements.
'You weren't hired to design improved test equipment,' my supervisor said dismissively when I showed it to him.
'But I could put it together and do any needed glass-blowing myself,' I said stubbornly.
'Forget it, eh! Just do things the way you're told to, the way we've always done them!' What? I thought; is this the kind of aggressive innovation I'm going to be surrounded by at this place? Well, at least I had confirmed the suspicion I had held from the outset--he was an asshole!
One consolation of doing tests in the ammonia plant was that my sinuses remained marvellously clear; it was impossible to avoid whiffs of ammonia from time to time. Never enough to knock you flat on your ass-- just enough to keep you wide awake! It was like being constantly resuscitated without being unconscious to begin with!
Coincidentally, there were two attractive young ladies in the ammonia plant lab who customarily did the line testing. I was merely a trainee being shown the ropes, as it were. Phyllis was of medium height, well filled out and with a pretty face surrounded by jet-black hair cut in a page boy bob. Dorothy was a tall shapely blonde from the Crowsnest Pass. They both wore white lab coats which failed to conceal their shapeliness. I was determined to find out if Dorothy had coal dust at the roots of her blonde hair.
Naturally I made continual importunities to both of these sweet young things. Any time I tried to line something up with Phyllis she begged off because of her scheduled flying lesson. I thought of that as an interesting if different type of evasion. Presumably she finally came to the conclusion that she was overdoing that excuse so she conveniently told me that she was going steady with a city policeman. I finally got the message; she didn't want to go out with me!
I had considerably better luck with Dorothy; she was quite willing to have dinner with me, park at the top of the hill in Mount Royal and hug and kiss to her heart's content. My heart's content differed from hers, however, and all of my manipulations failed to compromise her virginity. Naturally, I arrogantly conceded that she was still virginal. After all, if I couldn't get into her knickers, who could? Conceited, wasn't I?
I took to carrying a jar of cold cream in the glove compartment of the car in an attempt to simplify the removal of the excess lipstick ground into my face.
I had maintained amorous contact with my beloved in Edmonton throughout these travails, of course. I finally concluded that it was time to get married. I had presented the engagement ring during a movingly romantic session the previous autumn. The mutual Christmas visitations and lavish exchange of presents gave me the impression that the time was ripe. We walked across the High Level bridge (hand in hand, presumably) and onto the open land where hundreds of trucks had parked each night, motors running, during the building of the Alaska Highway during wartime.
'I think it would be a good idea for us to get married,' I said, confidently expecting her enthusiastic agreement. I was surprised by her reply.
'I think I would prefer to finish my B.Sc. in Nursing first,' she replied. 'After all, I have only one year to go!' I could scarcely believe her attitude.
'But I've got a good job now with a secure future; you'll probably never need more nursing 'know how' than you already have,' I argued.
'I can't quit now after I've come so far,' she said adamantly. 'Besides, a degree in nursing will always come in handy if it's needed! (How many times had I heard that bullshit before?)
I decided to play my trump card! 'Well, I'm sorry we disagree, but I guess you'll have to make a decision; either you agree to set a date or I'll have to ask you to return the ring!'
'Well, if you've decided that's what you want, then so be it!' she said with a remarkably apparent absence of regret. No begging for me to rethink my attitude, no crying, no sobbing---I was absolutely astonished as she removed the ring and placed it in my hand! I found out later that she had met a tall, handsome engineer in Edmonton shortly after her Christmas visit to Calgary! She apparently didn't find it too difficult to make the exchange and pursue her obdurate desire to complete her education. She had the best of both worlds, an unimpaired education plan and a tall, handsome suitor whom she claimed to love deeply. She had outwitted me! Bother!
I suffered all the pains of the lovelorn for some time, not realizing that I had been inadvertently gifted with a priceless opportunity. Instead of 'settling down' to a lifetime of bliss and a frequently pregnant beloved wife I had been given relative freedom to start my own small but adequate business which funded my travels to Britain and Europe, Greenland, Africa, Australia, New Zealand, India, Malaysia and Indonesia, Japan, China, Tahiti, the Philippines and Central and South America. Twelve years later I managed to marry a lovely woman who gave me three fine children and managed to 'do it my way!' withal.
Soon after my 'dumping' I began chumming around with Bill Friendly, Howie Freeze and Dutch (who had ushered at the Palace Theatre with my brother Lloyd for $9 a week at a time when suits at Tip Top Tailors were selling for $9). Both Bill and Howie owned massive Harley-Davidson motorcycles and I was privileged to ride behind Bill on occasion. On the first occasion he scared the shit out of me when he executed a swerve without warning in order to cross the street car tracks without sliding out of control.
One day Howie had parked his bike in front of Dutch's place on Sixth Avenue and I expressed an interest in learning to drive it.
'Help yourself!' he said agreeably. He showed me the rotating grips on each handlebar ('This is the fuel feed and this is the brake, that's all you need to know!' he said casually.) That was the extent of my lesson. I cranked it up and got it moving slowly down the avenue. When I reached the intersection at the end of the street I was gaining confidence and decided to turn around and drive back to my starting point. I was half way through the turn when I realized that I had swung too wide; I would have to brake slightly and slow down to negotiate the turn. Now which is the gas and which is the brake? I was running out of room so I did the most sensible thing; I panicked! I rotated the gas handle instead of the brake and the machine shot forward, impacted the curb at considerable speed and flew into the air, out of control with the engine running at high speed. I landed on the boulevard first and the motorcycle followed shortly thereafter. The motor was still racing wildly out of control but, pinned beneath several hundred pounds of machine, I was unable to reach the handle bar. But help was on the way!
Howie and Dutch had obviously been watching my maiden transit with interest and were on the run as soon as I executed my brilliant back flip. Howie arrived first and turned off the diabolical device; he had not stopped laughing by the time Dutch arrived to help him heave the monster off me and they had it standing upright again.
'That was quite spectacular, Ron! Would you care to go again?' He was still chuckling. I wasn't chuckling; I was looking at my pants, one leg of which had split along the seam from buttock to cuff. The skin and flesh on the leg had been peeled off neatly from knee to ankle as though by some giant dermatome and was oozing blood down the leg and into my shoe. Howie was still finding it amusing. At least he didn't say he was late for an appointment, so he wheeled the bike back to its place in front of Dutch's house and went in to assist in patching me up. The wound eventually healed and the scabs went away. I decided not to buy a motorcycle. Isn't that what my parents had told me in the first place?
No longer 'a prisoner of love' I was having a fine time chasing girls and generally engaging in borderline mischief with the lads. Neil Gordon was a prominent 'bad influence' in my life during the summers of 1947 and 1948. There was a large house on Royal Avenue just south of Western Canada High School that was rented out to young working females, presumably on a room and board basis. Male visitors were strictly prohibited! Neil seemed to know somehow that there was no 'house mother'
or other security arrangement. His only challenge, therefore, was to find a reliable method of gaining entrance which I saw him achieve one night after all of the beer parlours had closed. He first bumped against the back door until the latch had flown up and allowed us to enter the kitchen . He then went to a drawer in the kitchen and removed a dinner knife which he used to slide through the edge of the door to the dining room and fiddle about with that latch. Once it was opened we were 'home free'. I assume it would be a moot point in law as to whether our actions constituted 'break and enter'. The fact that we were never arrested might have some bearing on the case. A few of the girls seemed quite pleased to see us! Does that count, your honor? If we 'entered' any of the young ladies, would that count?
Meanwhile, back at the Nitrogen Plant my chubby little snot-nosed supervisor had identified certain other human tasks for me to perform. Each year the Gas Plant was shut down completely for maintenance purposes. It remained shut down until every essential nut and bolt, nitpicking or otherwise, was checked and found to be satisfactory. The demoniacal task for which he had chosen me and another rookie was to measure 'creep' in the catalytic tubes inside the furnace. Some genius had concluded that the extreme temperature and pressure to which the tubes were subjected would inevitably cause them to change shape (albeit almost imperceptibly) from year to year. My technical opinion was 'If it ain't broke, don't fix it!'-- that they should all be allowed to function until one blew out and then change them all! But now there was a sense of urgency about it because production had come to a standstill and would remain so until the 'shutdown' was completed.
The furnaces retained heat because of the catalyst material in the tubes and accordingly cooled slowly. As soon as the temperature inside the furnace had dropped to a 'bearable' level we were allowed to enter and begin to measure the cross-diameters of the tubes with special calipers. The 'snotty one's' idea of bearable was somewhere around 150 degrees Fahrenheit! But it was a bit of a trade-off as far as time saving was concerned; it was so brutally hot inside the ovens that we could only stay inside for about twenty minutes before emerging to cool down. Whenever we had finished calipering at one level the 'bull gang' would come in and change the scaffolding to a different height.
When I saw the plant being torn down in 1997 I wondered if the tubes had ever been replaced, or had the whole 'calipering' exercise been nothing more than a bit of incipient Cominco bureaucratic bullshit!
The Gas Plant was the furthest of the buildings located south of the office, consequently while we were being subjected to the travails of 'shutdown' we had little desire to make the seven or eight minute trek to the 'Staff Lunch Room' in the basement of the Main Office. Frankly, I had long since developed an antipathy to the Lunch Room. I have never been picky about my food; hospital meals and aircraft meals have never been an object of my criticism. On the other hand , the Lunch Room had an
inimitable smell that I found disagreeable. Additionally, there was 'The Laugh'. There was a fellow in the Lunch Room who had a laugh that literally spoiled my appetite. How can I describe it? His laugh began as a long groan, not unlike that of a seriously wounded pig, and continued with a series of muted grunts until it petered out.
I can tell a moderately risible story when called for but his reaction became so unbearable that I decided to eat my lunch in silence. It became more reasonable, under the circumstances, to retire to the Gas Plant office where I felt comfortable trading lies with Tom and Ken, the Gas Plant 'stud ducks'.
The next project my chubby little supervisor assigned to me was closer to the Gas Plant than to the Main Office and its inimitably fragrant lunch room; at least that was the argument I used. I assume that my unique research in a remote corner of the Ammonia Plant had been decided at a higher level than he enjoyed. Since the synthesis of whatever the hell I was trying to synthesize had never been done before at that plant it was difficult for him to tell me to '...just do things the way we've always done them!..' in his customary snotty manner. I frankly can't remember whether we were trying to synthesize urea or methanol but since I can't recall being knocked flat on my ass from inadvertently inhaling a large breath of ammonia I'll have to guess it was methanol. After a day or so of 'committing' alchemy I would isolate the synthesizing bomb and disgorge its contents. I seem to recall getting a small cupful of muddy-looking liquid which I dutifully labelled and passed along to my 'mentor', presumably for analysis.
Each day at lunch time I would repair to the Gas Plant office for an enjoyable half hour of badinage with Tom and Ken. Even after my 'secret' research was concluded I continued to lunch in the friendly, interesting and smoke-free atmosphere of the Gas Plant office. Then one day there was a message passed on to me by Tommy who said Mr. Morris's secretary had called and that Mr. Morris would like me to drop in for a chat. Mr. D.D. Morris was General Manager of the Calgary Plant. Any time 'at my convenience' would be suitable.
I liked D.D. 'Pat' Morris; he was friendly and quiet spoken and had been with Cominco for what the English would call 'donkey's years'. I guessed his age to be about fifty-five and although he still had a full head of hair it had turned completely white. I found it hard to imagine that it had turned as a result of inordinate stress. Everyone called him 'Pat'.
'So how are you liking working here, Ron?' he enquired. 'Better than Trail?' I wasn't quite sure if this was a trick question. Did he know the real reason for my request for transfer? I decided to leave that little item alone.
'Trail was okay, actually,' I said diplomatically. 'Of course you know Calgary is my birthplace and I feel quite comfortable here.' We chatted on for a while about the various activities I had been involved with both at the plant and socially with some of the employees.
'Is there anyone you're not gettin' along with?'
'No! Not at all! Why would you think that?
'Nothing in particular; it's just that some of the staff have wondered why you've
absented yourself recently from the Lunch Room.' I pondered my response carefully; I certainly didn't want to raise the subject of the 'Unbearable Laugh'.
'I dunno, Pat, I can't quite put my finger on it; there's a subtle sort of aroma present that makes me lose my appetite.'
'Well,' Pat said, looking very uncomfortable, 'there are some rules existing that you haven't been made aware of, apparently.'
'Such as?'
'Well, such as the fact that there is 'staff' (read 'elite'), and there are "employees' (read 'commoners'); you folks are all automatically 'staff' because you are university graduates.'
'Big deal! What has all that got to do with where I eat my lunch?'
Pat was looking progressively more uncomfortable. 'Well, unfortunately there's a company rule that all 'staff' members are required to eat together in a company approved location; in this case it's the Staff Lunch Room.'
'In spite of my problems with the Lunch Room?'
'That's too bad, Ron,' he said, 'but it's a company rule; I don't think you have much in the way of an option.'
So there was a subtle class system in existence at Cominco! No matter how bright they were or how they had been employed the 'commoners' existed under a 'glass ceiling' which they could never penetrate. Between the attempted coercion in Trail and the subtle but snobbish format in Calgary I was suddenly aware of a revulsion for the unspoken rules of the company.
'Nothing personal, Pat' I said, 'but there is one other option.'
'And what would that be?' he said with a smile.
'I can quit,' I said. I doubt if he could have been more stunned if I'd hit him on the head with a ten-pound hammer.
'Quit?' he said incredulously. 'Surely you can't do a thing like that!'
'Surely I can,' I said with an equally confident smile. 'Thanks for everything Pat, it's been a slice!' I reached over the desk and shook hands with him as he remained dumbly silent. Here was a man who had spent a lifetime with 'the company' and couldn't comprehend a young man with a future blithely quitting a job which, considering the depression Pat'd gone through, was solid gold. It was anathema! He remained silent as I turned and left his office. My next stop was the personnel office where I arranged to have my severance pay cheque mailed to my home address then walked over to Art's car, lay down in the back seat and went to sleep.
— The End —