Quitting, Part One
“Liberty means responsibility. That is why most people dread it.” –George Bernard Shaw
Each morning I passed his office where he was shooting the shit with his gang, his chair tipped back, smiling, and each morning he called out, “Good Morning,” and each morning, hatred and shame would flood through my body. But I was not the kind of woman who desired revenge. There was a play called Extremities playing off-Broadway that portrayed a rape victim torturing her attacker. While I didn’t see the play, I read the reviews, and the premise was clear: if a woman is given the opportunity to obtain revenge, she would not hesitate. I didn’t believe I would be physically savage if given the opportunity. My anger about the rape was turned inward, quelled by alcohol, compartmentalized, and minimized. I felt guilty for my very existence. I had been told repeatedly I was provocative, challenging, and physically attractive, which meant I deserved to be raped. I learned early on that betrayal could be repurposed, painted over, and called something else.
My politics was a reflection of my parents’ liberalism. Coming of age in the late seventies and early eighties was a lesson in disappointment and the idea that you had missed the fun. Of course, Vietnam wasn’t fun, Charles Manson wasn’t fun, and certainly, the riots and violence at home weren’t fun, but then the generation before me went to Woodstock, experienced the Summer of Love, and musicians like Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and Mama Cass weren’t already dead. The Iran Hostage crisis was underway the year I graduated from Rutgers. Americans fumed while Islamic revolutionaries thumbed their collective noses at the indignation of the American people. One friend, an Iranian activist who was a grad student in the Rutgers theater department, lost his visa, returned home, and promptly disappeared.
There were those who believed dropping a nuclear bomb on the Middle East was justified, but our collective hurt made no sense considering the sins of our fathers, funding the contras in South America, invading countries as we saw fit, and rewriting our own history of slavery and the treatment of Native Americans. When Ronald Reagan was elected in 1981, it seemed like a bad dream. He lowered taxes for the rich, cut social services to the bone so the mentally ill were let loose in American cities, invented the concept of the Welfare Queen, and refused to pass legislation that would help fund AIDS prevention.
At twenty-three, I felt exhausted by life. This feeling of being jaded was familiar. High school had been an exercise in pretending situations that scared or hurt me, didn’t. I could have found refuge in punk or nihilism, briefly attractive after reading L’Etranger, except I liked things to be nice, and punk was mean and noisy. I was too much of a hippie to adjust how I approached life. I was hopeful and I didn’t like people to get hurt. I still believed that things were going to be better, even if I didn’t live to experience that life. My heroes as a child had been Helen Keller, Anne of Green Gables, Anne Frank and Pippi Longstocking. I wanted to be someone others trusted, someone who could make the world a better place, or just someone who could make the phones ring. I loved my parents and sisters, and there were times I felt happy, running, swimming, watching a great movie, reading a wonderful book, or making love with someone I cared about, but these were lightweight pleasures outweighed by the darkness of my drinking and the violence I’d experienced at the hands of men.
It seemed like a sign when I received a message on my answering machine from Gabrielle with tons of ‘erms’ and ‘ahs’, saying she was coming to New York with some other friends from Dublin and then they would be driving a car to California, intending to spend the summer in Berkeley where another Trinity friend, Charles Hunter, was attending graduate school. Without saying it aloud, I knew my days as a worker bee at Bell Telephone were numbered.
My relationship with Gabrielle was intense, passionate, and perplexing. During my senior year at Rutgers, when I decided to visit Ireland, I called, and her older sister Melanie answered the phone.
“Is Gabrielle there?”
“No. Is this, Molly Moynahan?”
“Yes. I was thinking about visiting after Christmas.”
“Oh, she’s gone to Africa with Christopher Aston. Did you know him?”
Did I know him? I had been madly in love with him, longed to be invited to Africa, and pined for him, and Gabrielle knew everything. And now they had both betrayed me. I hated them both, but her most of all.
My jealousy was overwhelming. Later I would discover there had been plenty of bickering, and the trip wasn’t ideal, but at that moment, I simply imagined them fucking in a feather bed, surrounded by jungle animals like some sort of pornographic Wild Kingdom. She would meet his siblings and parents, and everyone would be in love with the charming actress from Ireland. After many tearful phone calls, long letters, and some months, we decided a man shouldn’t destroy our friendship, and she came to visit me at Rutgers. The house on Mine Street was next door to a fraternity. While I refused to attend their parties one evening, a few days into her visit, we were broke and thought we might steal some alcohol as a neighborly gesture. The fraternity’s front room was a scene of insane destruction. The huge fireplace was filled with beer bottles, broken furniture, and discarded articles of clothing. There was garbage strewn all over the front lawn. Although I spotted several other girls, it felt like we’d wandered into a male riot, all of them white, most of them shirtless and very drunk.
“Hey, chicks!” one of the drunk, shirtless guys bellowed.
Gabrielle looked at me. “Good god,” she said. “I was sure Animal House was exaggerated.”
“Hey,” the shirtless guy pointed at us. “She sounds foreign!”
“She’s a visiting member of the Irish royal family,” I said, assuming these boys didn’t know Ireland had no monarchy.
“Cool!” said another one, handing Gabrielle a beer. Meanwhile, I ducked behind the bar and located a full bottle of tequila, which I hid just outside the front door. By the time I came back inside, Gabrielle was surrounded by the fraternity, asking her to say things in her Irish accent.
“Sorry, Princess Gabrielle is due at high tea,” I said. We ran out the door, grabbed the bottle, and ran back into my house, screaming and giggling. Hiding in the front room, we watched as the frat boys appeared in the street, trying to see where we had gone.
On their arrival at Kennedy Airport, the Irish girls took a ridiculously costly cab to Times Square, where they lost a large chunk of their funds playing three-card monte. In all the years I’d lived near New York, I’d never known anyone to fall for that scam. But then again, I’d never had newly arrived Irish girls visiting me. By the time they reached Hoboken, one had decided to return home after visiting relatives, but the other three were game to forge ahead to the West Coast. Alex was a graceful, slightly shy girl with a posh accent. Cherry, yes, that was her name, was a puzzle, a virgin who inspired lust in all men as she flirted incessantly.
After a month-long visit during which Gabrielle and her sister sublet my sister's place in Manhattan, the girls left for their cross-country journey in a car supplied to them by a company that specialized in drive-away cars. Why anyone would entrust a car to these girls remains a mystery. Cherry couldn’t drive, Alex had just obtained her license and Gabrielle was without a license and was blind in one eye. But drive they did, frequently forgetting which side of the road Americans drove on, stranding themselves in a cattle pasture in Utah where they were rescued by several Mormon brothers living at home waiting to meet nice Irish girls and finally driving over a supermarket barrier on their way to return the car, miraculously avoiding a penalty for its damage. After this journey, they settled down in a slummy sublet in Berkeley to search for jobs.
Back at New Jersey Bell I had been briefly assigned to supervise the directory assistance operators who worked in the central office. Here I experienced a different sort of mean behavior, lots of dirty looks, rolled eyes, sighs and attitude, less open rebellion but in some ways, a worse atmosphere. The operators, all female, resisted any directive I offered, fully aware I was a sacrificial lamb. Outside, I now had tactic support from the gang, who, I believe, saw me as a victim of bad management decisions. They welcomed my visits since I’d stopped telling them to wear their safety glasses, one of the few safety rules I recognized. I wore my hair down, put on make-up, and smiled whenever possible, which worked like a charm. My production soared, and customer complaints were nearly non-existent. My colleagues continued to sabotage me whenever possible, but I largely ignored them.
Moving inside meant I had to dress like an office person, not someone who could climb a pole at any moment. I had to get up even earlier to find something office acceptable to wear and deal with gossip and office politics. Outside, people just told one another to “fuck off,” and that solved most problems. Most of the operators were at least twenty years older than me, and long-term Bell employees were angry about my salary and benefits. In order to retain the female college hires, we were given extensive benefits, including generous telephone allowances, six-month raises, savings plans, medical that included vision and dental, pension benefits, and tuition reimbursement. Of course, being so young the only thing that mattered to me was my salary and being able to call Ireland without incurring huge bills. I tried to be charming and treat the operators like equals, but they hated me even more.
I tried to learn from them, but they froze me out or spoke loudly about how I must be bored by their stupid jobs. Finally, I did the minimum and pretended not to hear the whispered comments or the snide looks I received when I tried to be friendly. I was made responsible for firing a veteran female installer. In retrospect, I’m sure this wasn’t my job. I called her into my office, and looking down at the bullet points I had been given, I looked up and understood that this woman, at least forty, was afraid of me and what I was about to say. I was about to take away her job. I burst into tears. If you’re firing someone, you shouldn’t cry.
“Holy fuck! Don’t get so upset.”
“I’m very sorry.” I blew my nose.
“How old are you, honey?” she asked, lighting a cigarette.
“Twenty-three.” I felt my lip trembling.
“Just read me what it says on the paper.”
“Insubordination, tardiness, bad attitude, safety.”
“Safety? Those motherfuckers! I’m totally safe!”
“I’m sure you are. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t belong here. What did you study in college?”
“History, nineteenth century novels, acting, Italian and ceramics.”
“Ceramics?” She started to laugh. “Like pottery?”
I nodded.
“Don’t stay here.” She stood and ground the cigarette out on the floor. “You’re not cut out to be a sneaky bitch. You totally suck at it.”
My boss was hovering at the door. “I need your van keys. Also, can you turn in your tools?”
“Sure.” She looked down at me. “You gonna be all right?”
I nodded. She shook my hand. I started to cry again.
“Call your mother, honey. And don’t let those bastards see you cry.”
I called my mother. “I can’t do this anymore. I just fired someone.”
“What for?”
“Who knows? She was like forty years old. I can’t do this anymore.”
“You can’t quit, Molly. I helped you get this job. It’s a very good job.”
“No, it isn’t! It’s awful. I spend all my time driving around in circles in this horrible car, and everyone hates me. I get up at five o’clock every morning and the only thing I understand is I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. I’m a joke.”
“They pay you well.”
“I’d rather starve.”
“How will you support yourself?”
“I’ll wait tables again or clean houses. Jesus, Mom, I’d rather be a prostitute.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. Remember, the head of the phone company did me a favor.”
“A favor?” I wanted to tell her about Doug, but I never would. “Mom, don’t you care that I’m miserable?”
“Maybe you need to be more grateful.”
“They call me ‘the college cunt’.”
”I was chased around the desk.”
“This isn’t about your goddamned life, mom. It’s about me. My life. Me.”
My father picked up the extension. “Go ahead, quit. You go from one failure to another.” He hung up.
My mother started to speak in a softer tone, but it was too late. I hung up.
I was going to quit. I would go to California and live with the Irish girls, drink myself to death, or maybe get a gun and shoot myself in the head. I suddenly felt much better. I was so tired. Anything would be better than another day that started at five o’clock in the morning and was full of humiliation and people disliking me. Ten years earlier, this decision to go west would have been culturally acceptable, but in 1982, the idea of leaving a well-compensated, semi-corporate job in the midst of a recession with barely any marketable skills was regarded as madness. I had my next six month evaluation, and after two years, it was finally positive. My production was high, safety violations low, attendance perfect. I had been hit by a snowplow as I was skidding down a hill during a blizzard, the Hornet’s tires quite bald, visibility zero, the driver jumped out of the cab and when he saw the N.J. Bell logo immediately grabbed his neck and started groaning. They put the wrecked car on a lift in the center of the garage, and I had to recreate the accident with Tinkertoys, three Bell System lawyers drilling me about what had happened.
“You’re doing good, Moynahan,” Ed, my boss, said, grinning.
“So, this is a positive evaluation?”
Ed nodded. “Yup.”
“Okay, well, I quit. I’m giving you two weeks' notice starting right now.”
He laughed.
“I’m serious. You made me fire that woman I didn’t even know. I cried.”
“So? You’re due another five thousand buck raise. Who cares if you cried?”
“I care. You don’t cry when you fire someone. I hate this job.”
“Of course, you do. We all hate this job. That’s what weekends are for.”
He meant well. I could see that. But he’d also blamed me for being sexually harassed. “You’re smart, Molly. Real smart.”
“You think I’m smart?”
“I know you’re smart. Everybody knows that. A real smart college graduate. You’ll be my boss someday.”
I thought about how I’d slept with Danny Bauer and caused the strike and how he looked at me like I was still naked. And how Doug had made me hate myself even more. I wasn’t smart. I stood and put my hand out.
“I can’t be the only female college hire who has quit.”
He shook his head. “Some chick in Basking Ridge just disappeared. Got in her company car and never came back. She’s got a warrant out for her arrest. And there’s that lesbian in Point Pleasant.” He didn’t say any more.
“Did the lesbian quit?”
“Who knows? Can’t tell with those types.”
“Two weeks, Ed.”
“Sleep on it,” Ed said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli, 1781
I called in sick. For two years, I hadn’t missed a day of work. Mainly from the fear I’d return to a mutiny or, at the very least, a rattlesnake in my desk drawer or a rat nailed to my door. My alarm had rung at five o’clock in the morning for two years and by seven I was sitting at my gray metal desk praying to the god that didn’t like me that I would manage to get through the day without humiliating myself. It didn’t work. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, noticing for the first time how the light from the street filtered through my lace curtains, throwing shadows across the room, the sun was warm on my face and I was free of fear. Normally, I woke up to the terrible feeling there was something heavy perched on my chest, heavy and hideous like the painting by Henry Fuseli called The Nightmare, which depicts a woman swooning on a bed with a gargoyle perched on top of her. Dread, fear, anger and loneliness had been a constant during my stint at Ma Bell. Anger had fueled my determination to survive until I received a positive evaluation, but anger was exhausting. I was exhausted and tired of being careful, which included never drinking during events connected to work. The adrenalin required to constantly be on guard had required so much energy that when I called in sick, I remained in bed for the entire day, getting up as night fell to buy groceries.
Returning to work, I wore an embroidered peasant blouse and black jeans. My hair was down, and I had eye makeup on when the men reported for work. There was a chorus of wolf whistles. I handed out their work orders, and then I stood up.
“Listen, I said. “I’ve resigned. Thank you for allowing me to work with you. Thank you for putting up with my inexperience and incompetence.”
They actually looked surprised and possibly sorry. Miguel, a Mexican man who had been called every insulting name you can call a Hispanic, spoke first.
“Ms. M, you shouldn’t leave. I think you’re finally getting the hang of stuff.”
They laughed. I looked around and realized I would miss them. Even though I was probably the worst boss they had ever had, they didn’t hate me.
“Go to work before Ronnie calls and tells you all to get the fuck out of the garage.”
Danny was the last to leave. “I never told anyone about us.”
“Thank you.”
“You weren’t meant to do this. You aren’t an asshole.”
“I crossed a picket line, so maybe I am.”
“Yeah, that was rough. So where are you going?”
“California.”
To be an actress?”
“Sure. Or a waitress.”
They gave me a party, a wild send off in a sleazy bar. I was mainly in a blackout, but I remembered making out with someone completely unsuitable, and when I woke up the next day, my car was parked but covered in new scratches and dents. I packed up my apartment and drove to Princeton to leave the boxes in my parent’s basement.
—Molly Moynahan, author and writing coach