SAN FRANCISCO, HERE I COME

My next job found me working in Shakey Town. It didn't last long. 03/10/2016

SAN FRANCISCO, HERE I COME

 In 1963, Bob Tonneson left FWC’s cooling tower department and began working for Rogers Engineering Company, a small privately owned San Francisco firm. Now, in late 1966, Bob knew that my job with DeLaval would soon end. He arranged for me to meet Mr. Rogers at a business lunch. Much to my delight, he hired me on the spot as a materials expediter at a slight increase in pay over my current salary. It seemed too good to be true.

It was. From day one, the agonizing complex chore of commuting to my new job began to take its toll on me. Early each morning I would drive to the Southern Pacific depot in Millbrae, take the train into San Francisco, board a cross-town bus to Market Street, and then change to another bus to reach my office on Beale. I could walk rather than take two busses, but when it rained, as it often did, I had to ride them

The office opened at 8:00 a.m., which forced me to take an early train. While dressing one morning, Angie remarked, “I never thought you would do it.”

"Do what?"

"Take a night job." Only the light of the moon intruded on the utter darkness of the morning.

I hated commuting back from San Francisco. My workday ended at 4:30 p.m., but the first train I could take that stopped at Millbrae did not depart until 5:15 p.m. I arrived home about 6:30 p.m. If I missed this train the next one got me home well after 7:00 p.m. A few times I fell asleep, failed to get off at my stop and had to ride for miles down the track before I could get off. As a rule, few trains going back to San Francisco stopped at Millbrae. I had to phone Angie, ask her to load up the kids, come pick me up and drive me back to Millbrae in order to retrieve my car. Usually heavy rain would fall to add to the fun.

I could drive from home to my job rather than take the train, an option akin to Sophie's Choice. I could crawl along with heavy freeway traffic to reach San Francisco where parking could rarely be found. Lots far away from my office charged exorbitant fees.

Just before Christmas, I missed the morning train and had to drive to work in the rain. Coming home that evening, I found myself gridlocked in traffic. After an hour behind the wheel, my car had moved exactly four miles. It took me until 7:30 p.m. to make it home. I screamed to Angie, “I’ve had it. This commute is killing me. Any job would be better than this one.”

Fortunately, one came my way shortly afterwards. Not just any old job, but one that would change my life completely. With my new position in hand, I began singing “San Francisco, Here I Go,” lyrics more pleasing to me than the original version.

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