The Boss

My father worked a small company based in Elgin, Illinois that made “variable speed drives.” My dad would show these to me when we went to a carwash.  His office was in a very boring part of Los Angeles that was made up of warehouses and railroad tracks.  The office had two rooms, a front office and a back storage area that smelled of lubricating grease. The best part about the whole thing was that the desk chair was on wheels and could spin around.

About once a year my dad’s boss would fly out from the Chicago area. He was very different from my parents and therefore seemed slightly glamorous.  He smoked heavily and drank heavily and a stroke had left one side of his face droopy. We had been warned not to stare.  He wore hats like Frank Sinatra and shiny sharkskin suits, and took my parents to fancy restaurants on the Sunset Strip.  He was Catholic, had seven children, one of whom was deaf, and never brought his wife along on these trips.

There was a drawer in one of the living room side tables where my father saved all the little free cigarettes packs he’d gotten on his business flights.  These were to offer when the boss showed up.  Some type of liquor would be purchased, the house completely cleaned and my mother would be her most charming. Once I caught her in the kitchen adding water to the boss’ drink.  She told me that he already had enough and he wouldn’t know the difference.

Sometimes a fellow distributor, an Armenian, would arrive from Fresno to meet the boss. My mother’s close friend would be called upon for double date duty and the five would enjoy a night on the town.  I remember my mother’s excitement when they dined a few tables away from Mia Farrow and Frank Sinatra.

On one visit we drove The Boss up to Santa Barbara for a Sunday outing. We pulled into a large seafood restaurant in Ventura for lunch and the boss insisted that I order lobster.  It was my first time.  I’m rather embarrassed to say that it reminded me of popcorn because of the clarified butter.

The summer that I was eleven my father had been invited to Elgin on business. He invited me to join him.  It was to be my first flight.  In preparation, my mother took me to I. Magnin’s on Wilshire and bought me a red suit trimmed with white—sort of a pre-teen Chanel knock off.  I felt very sophisticated, in spite of my white socks.

I remember that we flew American Airlines, that the dinner tray contained the familiar five pack of cigarettes and that Lon Chaney Jr. aka The Wolfman, was sitting just across the aisle. Against my wishes, my father forced me to get his autograph.

At home my mother was buying my sister a new Barbie to make up for the fact that she didn’t get to come.

We stayed at the boss’ house—but I would call it a mansion.  It was large, brick, has a circular driveway and a pool.  Dad and I were put up together in a downstairs bedroom.

I had four firsts while staying there.  I fell in love with the boss’ oldest and best-looking son who told me I was beautiful. (I imagine he has a guide dog now.) I got hay fever and sneezed to the extent that the boss’ wife got me medication.  I attended a Catholic mass—still in Latin—and contemplated converting because the service was so short.  And I got my period for the first time. I dealt with the later by hiding my underwear and praying it would go away. It did—for a year.