Tuesday, January 30, 2024 When I Was A Secretary: Using My Superpower

I worked as a secretary for several years in my twenties. Somewhere along the line, the word “secretary” became frowned upon and wordsmiths came up with the term “administrative assistant” to make it sound more accomplished. Bah. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the word secretary, nor is there anything demeaning about the job. I quite liked it. My one superpower when I was in junior high school was typing – I was a veritable wizard at it. I found this comforting in a world where I was at the bottom of the social heap in every other way. It was inevitable that I would gravitate to work that allowed me to exercise this ability of mine.

The first full-time job I had was secretarial work at an insurance company that, among other things, provided malpractice insurance for doctors. I was looking for a job after a life crisis set me back on my heels so hard that I didn’t quite know what to do with myself. I had quit college and thought a job would help me get my bearings. I went through an employment agency to get some interviews and was gratified to get two job offers from which to choose. Things were looking up!

You know how it is starting a new job. I was anxious to make a good impression, but to my HORROR, I overslept on the very first day, my alarm having failed me catastrophically. What would they think?! I called in and made my way there as quickly as I could, filled with apologies. From that moment I was determined to make sure they knew that oversleeping was a complete fluke – I assured them it would never happen again. And it didn’t.

I was trained in by the Platonic ideal of secretarial-ness; Verla was her name. Verla was everything that a secretary should be: prompt, efficient, patient, conscientious, and very good at her job. With Verla at the helm, it wasn’t long before I was humming along pretty well in my job. The medical malpractice files were so interesting that I’d sometimes grab a particularly thick and juicy one and spend my lunch hour reading it, making mental notes about which doctors to avoid. One of our doctors lost a lawsuit and I had the task of typing up the check for damages – over twenty million dollars. That sounds like chump change now, but it was quite a heady experience for me, particularly since I was using an actual typewriter (no computers and word-processing programs yet) and there could be no mistakes whatsoever in typing the check.

One of my bosses was a colorful character named Tom, a youngish man in his mid-30’s. Tom was a claims adjuster. He approached me at some point wanting me to do some typing on the side for him – all very hush-hush. He was taking some independent consulting jobs and since he didn’t have his own secretary, he hoped I would do the work without tattling on him. I wasn’t a Christian at the time and had absolutely no compunctions about doing it; in fact I found it kind of exciting to be part of a covert mission. The case he had taken concerned some man who’d had his hand cut off accidentally. Whenever Tom wanted me to type something related to this case, he would approach me surreptitiously and make a cutting motion with one hand over his other wrist – his secret way of letting me know that this was for what he called “the Hand-Off Case.” Cloak and dagger!

Our manager, an older man named John, used to call impromptu meetings once in a while. He’d gather us all in a circle and talk about the the company “bidness.” I was privately very amused by his use of that term, but restrained my mirth. These impromptu meetings were horribly boring, so I had to take my entertainments where I could find them. However, the group meetings were few and far between and for the most part, I found my job very satisfying. I was sad to leave it when I decided to go back to college and finish getting a degree.

One more story needs to be told about my experience while working at the insurance company. A friend of mine found out what building I was working in and had a roommate who was working at the same building. “You two should carpool together,” he enthused, “you’ll save so much on gas!” Sounded good to me, so I called her and set it up. Cue the ominous music. Carpooling with her was a nightmare. She was domineering, impatient, rude and insulting. We took turns driving and she hated the way I drove. If I didn’t step on the gas the millisecond the light turned green, she’d fume and yell, “What are you waiting for?!” Sometimes she’d just make unpleasant tsk-ing sounds and roll her eyes with disgust. If she thought I was going too slow (and she often did), she’d criticize loudly. She would direct me on when to change lanes as if I was new to this whole business of driving. I’m very averse to confrontation, so I bore up under this abuse silently, but inwardly grew more and more angry and frustrated. Upon realizing what things I did that provoked her the most, I began to take a perverse pleasure in doing those things just to get her riled up. You’re correct if you’re thinking this was very passive-aggressive of me.

One day we were waiting at the front of the line at an intersection for the light to turn green. A large utility vehicle was turning left in front of us and seemed not to have quite enough room to make the turn. “Back up! Back up, you stupid idiot!” she yelled at me. I’d had enough. In spite of the fact that she was right, I became obstinate and refused to move. The boom on the truck took down the signal light on the corner and everything came to a halt for a time. I was inwardly stricken at having been a part of causing this, but I didn’t say a word. She verbally abused me all the way to work and that was the last time we drove together. I told her to find her own way home. It needs to be said that in spite of the fact that she was so unpleasant, I’m not proud of how I responded to her. I was immature, dishonest and prideful. If I could go back in time, I’d do things very differently.

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