Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
I took the Greyhound bus home from Los Angeles. Fortunately I was not charged for the massive hangover I carried with me. I had been advised by the ticket clerk to take the 'inland route'; how far inland I never knew, but he claimed it was shorter and therefore less expensive. I believe in my mistrustful way that most of the knowledgeable bus riders were taking the coastal route, which was much cooler.
There was no air conditioning and no toilet on the bus and naturally, according to 'The Laws of Murphy', I was suffering from marginal diarrhoea. The so-called 'washrooms' at the stops the busses used were execrable, smelly messes. I don't know why I never considered the use of the train. There is not much else I remember about that ghastly trip.
Bob was still living with his wife and two children in San Pedro, south of Los Angeles, working for Brown Drilling for what was considered in 1942 to be the incredible wage of $300 per month! We went to the beach one day and Bob went over to the refreshment stand to buy some hamburgers and drinks. He reported on his return that he'd had to pay $1.00 each for the hamburgers! We were all appalled.
Back in Calgary I phoned through to Herbie Guttman who confirmed room and board was still available where he was staying in Trail. A flying trip to Edmonton to hug and kiss my sweetheart for a couple of nights, then off to seek my fortune.
The Cominco plant at Trail covers several square miles at a number of levels along the side of the gully leading down to the Columbia River. When we first passed through Trail in the early thirties en route to the lakes beyond, the environmentalists had not yet become active since the area for miles around was still devoid of any growth as a result of the fumes from the smelters. The main part of the city lies on a level area below the steep hills, above which lies the section known as Warfield. Herbie and I were getting room and board at a home up a steep avenue above the downtown area.
I was put to work in the metallurgical research section of the laboratory in Warfield, far above the Columbia River. My first memory of the lab was the sight of a young blonde girl sitting at the reception desk just inside the front door. She wore thick-lensed glasses and had a charming welcoming smile but they failed to hold my attention for long. What did hold my attention was the green cardigan sweater she was wearing over what I assumed were outstanding breasts! Believe it or not, her name was June! I soon found that most of the male employees left her presence humming the tune to the well-known song from 'Oklahoma': 'June is bustin' out all over...' It seemed to provide them with no end of vicarious delight. I guessed her age to be about twenty-five.
My immediate supervisor was a genial, freckle-faced individual whose first name was Fred. I guess he'll have to remain as Fred 'Something-or-Other' for the time being. If I think of his surname later I'll come back and revise it. I fell into the classification of so many well-paid dolts in the past who carried out repetitive actions for fuzzily understood objectives. It seems that management was concerned about the effectiveness of the electrolytic process used to collect the precious zinc from the zinc-laden liquor produced when the zinc was leached out of the ore by sulphuric acid.
The laboratory room I worked in was crammed full of small inter-connected plastic electrolytic cells filled with zinc sulphate as an electrolyte. The electrolyte was supplied from an overhead carboy filled with authentic fluid drawn from the process at the factory. Each of the small cells was complete in that it had an anode and a cathode. The objective of the the exercise was to attempt to find a way to minimize the migration of lead ions from the anode to the cathode. The zinc plated out on the cathodes was adulterated in this way and the value of the zinc accordingly affected. As a result, the lead anodes were dressed in tiny 'sockies' of every imaginable description; closely-woven rayon, nylon. cotton, polyester, polypropylene and any other obscure fabric that could stand up to the electrolyte was tested for its ability to trap the lead ions.
After the electrolysis had continued for long enough to build each cathode to an acceptable size the operation was discontinued, the cathodes and anodes were removed, washed and further processed. When the cathodes had been washed and dried each of them was coarsely ground up and placed in a numbered bag and sent off for analysis.
Each of the anodes was washed and dried and dressed in another exotic material, the cells were cleaned, another carboy of zinc sulphate was delivered from operations and the entire operation would begin once again. You would be forgiven if you think this 'scientific' exercise was boring and drone-like. The main difference between us and 'worker bees' was that they worked until they died from overwork whereas we worked only until our assignment was completed or we resigned from boredom.
I admit that we had certain inimitable recreational diversions not available to the winged drones. Let me give you an example: care for the environment was not as deeply imbued in the consciences of the members of the Warfield laboratory group as they are now---I think! One day I was invited by a member of the staff to attend at the back of the lab building to observe a 'spectacle'. It consisted of rolling a 150 lb. steel drum of caustic soda down the steep slope behind the lab into the Columbia River. By mere coincidence I had brought to the lab with me that day a break-down Winchester lever action .30/06 deer rifle. Don't ask me why!
The six-inch diameter lid of the drum had been removed to enhance what I was ensured would soon take place. And indeed it did! An explosion we could hear from several hundred feet away at the top of the river bank shot the drum high in the air as the river water reached the caustic soda. The drum was drifting slowly downstream with the current between eruptions. It suddenly occurred to me that I had the means to enhance the 'spectacle'. I rushed back into the lab and grabbed my rifle and a box of shells and shortly thereafter was taking long shots at the drum from high above. The drum eventually drifted downstream out of sight, periodically shooting high in the air as the contents were exhausted. We returned to the lab satisfied that we had 'done our bit' to elevate the pH of the Columbia River.
An exchange of romantic letters was continuing between me and my beloved in Edmonton and I yearned to be once more in her presence. At the same time, the magnificently endowed June, receptionist extraordinaire, was plying me on a daily basis with what a prudish fellow might construe as intrusive personal questions. My replies were my only defence.
'Why don't you come down to my place some night for dinner?' she would ask with a puzzled look. 'I'm not a half-bad cook, you know!'
'God, I'd love to Junie, but I promised the boys I'd sit in with them tonight for poker!' Poker! what a symbolic Freudian excuse, I thought. On another occasion it was a bowling commitment, then a 'must attend' lecture by one of the top research scientists. I realized that I was running out of excuses. By that time the renovations to the staff house in Warfield had been completed so about a dozen of us moved up there. This was psychologically helpful in that it removed me from the close proximity to June's private lodgings I had previously thought of as progressively more attractive. After all, what harm could an innocent dinner 'pour deux' be? I fantasized regularly about the various denouements that might transpire and regrettably decided in each case upon priestly forbearance (whatever that might be!).
I think I spent approximately five monthe in Trail before a certain instance convinced me that the life style there was not to my liking. Several of us, having achieved 'elite' status by moving up to Warfield had been invited to a house party on one occasion. I can't remember who the host was or what was the occasion except that, like most Trail gatherings, the booze flowed freely. I think I can honestly state that my behaviour was not greatly removed from that which I had developed during my years at University. There was an open bar, of course, and I was systematically getting pissed
to the same extent as most of my compeers.
'I've got my eye on you, Helmer!' said a stern elderly gentleman with a balding head. 'I've been watching you for some time!' I was initially shocked , then began to wonder what the hell I had done to upset the old fart. And who the hell was he, anyway? I couldn't remember him having been introduced as the host.
'I thought I felt something gummy on the back of my neck!' I said cheekily and moved away. It seemed that every time I turned around for the rest of the evening
I would spot the tall, lugubrious bugger staring at me from a distance. In the meantime I had been reluctantly forced into a retrospective examination of my behaviour for the past hour or two. I hadn't fallen flat on my face near the kitchen bar, drunk or sober; I hadn't thrown up on the living room rug; I hadn't been patting bums, male or female. What was with this demented old prick? I decided that if I saw him once more at a Warfileld soiree I was going to adopt an ermitic life-style. Maybe he was queer! I never thought of that!
My roommate at the Warfield residence was Sam, whose assignment was to test all of the high pressure or highly-stressed metal machinery at Warfield for incipent cracks or ruptures. He and his associate were using a relatively new technique called 'Magnafluxing'. All potential areas of potential stress damage were identified and subjected to a powerful magnetic field. They were then dusted with a fine powder of iron filings; any tiny incipient cracks invisible to the naked eye were then made visible by a raised line of powder and recorded for further review.
One night I was awakened by a loud shout from Sam. I switched on my bedside lamp, ready to have it out with his nocturnal attacker. When I looked over to his bed Sam was deeply asleep; his 'attacker' had mysteriously vanished. I questioned him about it the following morning.
'Jesus! Did I do that? I was obviously bringing a horse down the back stretch! I thought I'd put all that behind me; it's nearly ten years since I gave up riding!'
'Riding? You mean race horses? Don't tell me you were a jockey!'
'Okay! I won't tell you!'
'I'll be buggered! How long did you ride?'
'Close on to fifteen years , I guess. I rode on both the Western Canadian circuits for about ten years, I guess. I thought I'd finished with the nightmares, but if they bother you I'll see if I can get a separate room.'
'Now that I know what it's all about I can probably cope with it, otherwise maybe I can get some earplugs.'
'We'll see if it gets worse; when I was riding I got so I hated to go home, it upset my mother so much! I was booting horses down the home stretch half the night; I think it was my language that upset her most! We eventually put a couple of woollen blankets over the bedroom door, one on each side!'
Sam's whooping and hollering didn't seem to increase with time so we weren't required to re-arrange the sleeping accommodation. I always admired a guy who had finished a career like 'jockeying' then concentrated himself enough to become unique in an entirely separate vocation.
The arrival of the 1946 Worl Series arrived as usual in October and activity in the Lab building became more robotic than usual. Only dire emergencies were able to keep anyone away from hearing distance of the radios operating on every floor. I remember it only because of the incredibly bizarre circumstances surrounding the final minutes of the final and deciding game. I remember only that the St. Louis Cardinals were playing and one of the pitchers was Emil 'The Cat' Brecheen. Correct me if I'm wrong but I believe it was a classic Dick Merriwell finish; it was the bottom of the ninth, two out, three balls and two strikes on the batter, and...THERE WAS A POWER FAILURE!!!!!
In a normal metropolis it would probably have been days before everyone became informed by word of mouth about the final outcome. But Trail was not a normal metropolis; every office and work station had a telephone and there was conversational interchange on each of them every day. Apparently one of the zinc plant offices had been listening to the series on a battery-powered short wave radio. Within seconds of the power failure other offices became aware that the zinc plant office still had transmission. This may have been the first 'spontaneous Internet' in history. Within ten minutes everyone in Warfield was aware of the outcome of the game. Ironically, I don't know who the Cardinals were playing nor who was the final victor. Phone your local library for further details!
There was an American working in the Warfield laboratory who claimed to have been one of the marines who occupied Guadalcanal. He said the fighting never really stopped at night and there were patrols out amongst the enemy foxholes every night. The Japanese were very good at this practice, very deadly, but he said the Ghurkas were even better. Even after staring into the darkness for several hours he said movement was difficult to identify. The only identifiable sounds were the rustle of mice and other tiny ground animals. The first indication that he was not alone was when he felt a barely perceptible brush of fingers slowly tracing the back of his helmet. After a frozen moment he would feel a soft pat on his back as the Ghurka moved silently away. If the helmet profile had been Japanese....well!
Sometime in October I had a phone call from a member of the Warfield Social Club asking me if I could organize a short skit for the Fall Social. I could only assume that someone who had witnessed our university exploits had been blabbing.
Actually, I thought it was a pretty good idea and so I canvassed the lads who had participated in our college crudities. It was laid on with a minimum of persuasion and on the big night I must say our burlesque presentation was well received. Webster's Dictionary defines burlesque in part as '...bawdy humor; ludicrous or debasing caricature of any kind.' Our group lived up to the definition and more; 'crude' might be a better adjective, but it was hilariously received nevertheless and all of our participants were roundly complimented.
A week or so later I had an extremely saccharine phone call from no less a peronage than the doyenne of the Warfield Society elite, the wife of the manager of the laboratory section i.e. 'my boss'!
'We thought your presentation the other night was wonderful, my dear boy. People are still raving about it!' I recognized the slow curve; when was she going to deliver the fast pitch? 'As you know, we have a kiddie's show every Christmas and some of we ladies thought your 'little skit' would be just perfect for them.'
I shook my head, perhaps I was losing my mind! Perhaps she had seen some other show! Who the hell was nuts around here? 'Are you sure that's the type of material that would be understood by children ma'am?' I said as non-committally as possible.
'I realize that some of it may be a a bit too sophisticated for the little ones, but surely you can change it around a bit to make it more enjoyable for them,' she said confidently.
My mind was racing, '...a bit too sophisticated...' was it? How about a bit too vulgar, too earthy, too ribald, too raunchy? There was not a single portion of the skit that didn't border on one or all of those descriptions. And she had the cheek to think that it could be corrected by a few minor changes. Was she from some other planet?
'I'll have a chat with some of the other lads, ma'am, and get their feelings about it, then I'll get back to you right away!'
'Thank you, Mr. Helmer, I'm sure the other ladies will be delighted,' she said.
Don't count your chickens before they've hatched, sweetheart! I thought glumly to myself as I hung up the phone.
Here are some of the responses I received from members of our burlesque group when I canvassed them:
---'Jeez! I don't believe this! Wasn't she at the fall party?'
---'Hell no! Why should we rewrite our whole act for a bunch of snotty-nosed little Warfield brats?'
---'Whatsa matter with her? She nuts or somethin'?'
---'This is for adults, not kids,---Christ almighty!'
I got the idea that the proposal was not popular! Two or three days later I returned the nice lady's phone call. 'Sorry, ma'am, but I've talked to each of the lads and they feel like they would like to pass on your kind invitation.'
'You're saying you're not going to do it?' The warmth seemed to have disappeared from her cultured voice.
'I guess that's what I'm saying, ma'am; I'm sorry!' There was a prolonged silence on the line.
'Hello?'
'Yes, I'm still here,' she said. 'I've just been thinking that my husband will be very disappointed by this news.'
'.. my husband!..Christ! She was talking about my boss! I came close to falling off my chair. This was a shakedown! Was there such a thing as intra-corporate extortion?
'Yes, well I'm sorry too, ma'am. Goodbye!' The next day I went to 'Personnel' and requested a transfer to Calgary.
— The End —