Miracle in Seattle

Part 2

I had been in Seattle for several weeks in the Fall of 1963, looking for my first permanent job after graduation from Smith College.   My 22nd birthday had passed on October 2nd and I still was only working at occasional temporary jobs through Kelly Girls, as they were known in those days.   I lacked the typing skills expected from most girls–and that’s how they all thought of me: a girl.

But I had heard about a very upscale employment placement agency and decided to contact it.  The woman who owned the agency was very elegant: in her 40s with upswept blonde hair, wearing a pale pink silk dress with pale white silk hosiery.   Her spacious office, with high ceilings and a huge view window in a downtown office tower, was equal to her appearance.  I was still wearing suits, hats and gloves.  No other job seekers were in her office.

As with the other employment agencies,  she asked me to complete a registration form.   My resume counted for nothing. 

Then, to my dismay, the first thing she said:  “How fast can you type?”

I nearly burst into tears.  My money was vanishing.  I really needed work.  And all this must have been very apparent to her because she said:  “My dear, you are over-educated and under-trained.  You need to take a typing class.”

As a possible act of sympathy, she found a temporary file clerk job for me.  It was boring.  Boring beyond belief.  For this, I thought, I spent four years at college?  But I showed up at the file clerk job every day until it too ended and I received a pitiful little check. 

By now my $187 adult life starter fund was well below $100.  I was eating coffee and toast for breakfast.  No lunch.  Soup with a lot of crackers from a cafeteria from dinner.   That take-away basket of fried clams and french fries at Ivar’s on my first day in Seattle was only a fond memory from a more affluent period of my life. 

 The other young women–girls–at the Y were not having the same problem I was.  They all could type like whiz-bangs.  Even the ones that had gone to college for a year or two.

Sometime during this period–and I don’t remember exactly when or how it came about–I had an interview with a woman who did a women’s talk show on TV in Seattle.  She, too, was wearing upswept hair, a dark unnatural auburn, lots of make-up and a very nice suit.  She needed a secretary who could type so I was immediately out of consideration.  However, we talked for a while.  I told her I had contacted many ad agencies in Seattle before I arrived and no one seemed to be interested in hiring me.  I hadn’t even managed to land an interview with even one ad agency.

She came up with a suggestion:  Go back to Spokane and apply for jobs at TV and radio stations.  She was certain I could get work and start in a career in broadcasting there.   I thanked her.  It was a friendly and pleasant interview.  (And maybe I should have followed her advice.  But it wasn’t the last time I would decide against getting involved in broadcasting–decisions that I have had second  thoughts about over the years.)

I did not go back to Spokane.  I hated Spokane.  Going back to Spokane meant failure.  And failure was unacceptable to me.  What I needed was a miracle.  Little did I know then that throughout my life I was going to rely on these kind of “miracles” –positive things that happen out of the blue when my circumstances seem incredibly bleak.

One day in early November the miracle happened.  One of the employment agencies had a new listing for a  permanent job they thought would be right for me.  It was with TV Guide.  It was to be an Editorial Assistant.   My lack of typing skills was not important. 

The interview with the regional editor–I’ve forgotten his name–went well.  We talked about this and that and no mention of typing.  I remember one topic we discussed was Francis Bacon, the British artist.  We both liked his work.  That was the kind of interview it was.

And I got the job!   And it paid $60 a week!

Later I learned that I was exactly the kind of girl he was not supposed to hire.  The guidelines from TV Guide headquarters stated that local editors needed a high school education.  No college graduates.  But out in remote Seattle, 2000 miles from the company headquarters in Radner, Pennsylvania, this regional editor had hired 8 women, all very bright and clever and most had some college education.

I fit right in.  And never again in my life would I be asked:  “How fast can you type?”

(This post is part of an experimental memoir.  I teach memoir writing and will edit your memoir to make it better.  Learn more at www.onedaymemoir.com)