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February of 1971 in Southern California was like so many winter months here. The temperature never dropped below seventy degrees and the last week of the month brought record heat.

Living across the street from Will Rogers Beach, and with a few days off after a grueling ten weeks in Bullock’s Department Store’s Buyer Training Program, I used the first of those days doing what I did best–reclined on the sand, under the sun, with a bottle of cold water, a book, and a joint. Those are listed in no particular order.

After graduating from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas the previous June, I packed up my car and my two monkeys and moved from the desert to the ocean.

I floundered in a frightful job at a horrid envelope factory in East Los Angeles and in November of 1970, I happened to be in Bullock’s Wilshire Tea Room. I struck up a conversation with a walk-around model. Most of the time she spoke of her outfit but the restaurant was not too busy and most of the people were either too old to hear her, too portly to wear her ensemble, or too consumed consuming.

On her fifth trip around my table I asked her what it was like working for Bullock’s. The store had a reputation unequaled in retail. Twelve stores in Southern California each had a full set of buyers for each and every department making Bullock’s the only store of its kind in the United States. Routine then and now is central buying with one or two people making decisions for an entire chain of stores. They purchase through the summer what you will find available to buy at Christmas. 

The model told me the store was in need of Christmas help. I went then and there to the employment office and was hired on the spot to work in sales until Christmas. The day after Christmas is the second biggest shopping day of the year paramounted only by the day after Thanksgiving.

The Christmas season itself is every department store employee’s worst nightmare but I did not know this back when I was 21 and standing before Miss Dalrymple, Employment Counselor. During the interview she offered me the Buyers’ Training Program to begin the day after the day after Christmas.

Driving to East Los Angeles to the envelope factory every day at peak rush hour and then working at Bullock’s Wilshire through the Christmas season made me staunch in what I did not want the rest of my life.

College and high-school always had summer vacation, weekends, breaks every few months, and suddenly I realized that if I did not make some quick rearrangements I pretty much was stuck in the rest of my life dreading Christmas, working like a pack mule starting with day after Thanksgiving, a day that in previous years always began over one month of celebration and vacations.

Instead by Christmas Eve I thought I could stand no longer, had been to scant celebrations and most of those related to Bullock’s, and to beat all, I had to stay there until 11 p.m. to ready the department for the day after Christmas sale when we opened at 7 a.m.

The following day I began thier intensive trainng program and now, at February’s end, during the height of summer in winter in Los Angeles, I reclined back on my towel, joint in one hand, water container in the other. I prepared to sleep into a dream where there were no envelope factories and although I loved Bullock’s, in my dreams there would be no Christmas at the store.

Before I had even fully prostrated myself, alone on the expansive beach, I saw an odd but familiar figure in the distance. She first seemed out of place as she plodded in the sand as fast as she was able, carrying high heels in her hand, wearing a full dress suit, one like the designer types available at Bullock’s.

My vision being a bit askew from childhood and/or the pot, I finally realized it was my partner in training at Bullock’s, Susan Wolf. She had tears streaming down her face. Her hair was wet with perspiration. Totally exasperated, she was the antithesis to sunbathing, with her fancy suit, legs covered in hosiery, heels in one hand, and a purse in the other.

Out of breath and nearly inconsolable, she told me she had applied by mail to Golden Coast Airlines to be a stewardess. She said it was her life’s dream and during our training she responded to an ad in the Los Angeles Times. Her interview was scheduled in forty five minutes and her little Volkswagen would not start. She needed a ride to the airport.

On the way she informed me Golden Coast advised her to allow one hour for the fifteen minute interview, one of several should she be selected on this first go around. I promised her I would wait the hour for her.

I sat in my Mustang convertible just outside the General Offices of Golden Coast Airlines. A large banner flapped intermittently on the side of the building. Fly Golden Jets to San Fransisco and Las Vegas.

Periodically my attention went to the various pretty young women, all dressed like Susan in beautiful suits and high heels, coming and going from the door. Every one tall and pretty with a big toothy smile, bouncing along on the way in, greeting the guard at the door, some stopping for direction.

They left somewhat smaller, less perky, walking with less bounce.

I watched the sign flapping, the hopefuls entering, the lacklusters exiting, the hopefuls, the picture of the Golden Jet on the sign, back to hopefuls, and then the lacklusters. I did this until more than an hour had passed. More than two and after three hours I wondered if perhaps Susan confused our point of contact. I waited another amount of time and finally, a full four hours after she assured me she would return in an hour, I decided a plan of action.

Though I was dressed in my shorts, tank top, and flip-flops, I decided to press the guard to allow me entrance to search for Susan. The building did not look so large that I should not make an attempt to find her.

The guard pointed to the employment office at the far end of a long narrow hallway. Traversing it, I passes several stewardesses in uniform. I remembered my childhood, parents seperated by divorce and the United States, and my frequent trips between them, travelling alone on a plane as a minor in the care of a stewardess. Sometimes I would cry and I received special attention in their care.

My tears related to leaving one parent to go to the other. It did not matter the direction, I always wished I could reverse it sooner than later. Each stewardess always told me she’d be travelling back the following day and coming back to the coast I’d shortly be on the following day, and so on and so on.

Wet with tears I always said I wanted to be a stewardess. This always evoked a sincere smile followed by a slight frown. Only girls can be stewardesses, honey.

This scene repeated itself through my college years, except for the crying, and now seeing these stewardesses in the hallway of Golden Coast Airlines, memories, dreams, wishes, and admiration of these women filled me. And so did their lament to me. Only girls can be stewardesses.

When I arrived at the door signed “Employment” and opened it, I stopped short. In a large room, the size of a cafeteria stood hundreds of beautiful, striking women, all looking like the stewardesses I passed in the hall or met on my frequent trips between coasts, but all in dress clothing and all looking hopeful, poised at their best.

I looked more like a janitor except even clean up people don’t generally wear shorts and flip-flops. I excused myself to the smiling, mostly pretty faces, and occasionally asked if someone might know Susan Wolf. None did.

A soda machine flickered somewhat on the most distant wall and after inserting my change, I banged its side when I received no can. A male voice, an anomaly in this space, cautioned me.

“Careful, it tends to not return your coin if you hurt it.”

I was already laughing at his remark before I turned to see the distinguished man, dressed in a suit, smiling at me. He wore a badge identifying him as Assistant Employment  Manager, Golden Coast Airlines.

As my brain sent words to my mouth, something to the effect of him helping me locate Susan Wolf in this sea of women, he stepped back and exagerated a head to toe overview of me.

“I hope you’re not here dressed like that to apply for the flight attendant job.”

I only wanted to get back to the beach so I only responded with what I did want and not what I did not want.

“I’m looking for my friend who is here applying to be a stewardess.”

“No more,” he said. “No more stewardesses. They’re flight attendants.”

I tried to brush aside whatever he explained as I only wanted to find Susan.

“Everything changes and so did this. No more stewardesses. Flight Attendants instead. By order of the United States Supreme Court. We have to hire males now. In fact we need to interview four by the end of the day and hire two by next week.”

“Well, whatever they are, can you help me find my friend?”

His eyes lit up. “Can you do us a favor, please?”

I hardly could know what he might desire but I bargained that if I did, he would help me find Susan. I figured he might want me to help him move a desk.

“Sure.”

“Apply for the job of flight attendant.”

My surprise made my voice rise. “What?”

“Please,” he nearly begged. “Just fill out a card and at least we show the courts we try.”

I agreed and he did find Susan for me while I filled out the card. She and I left there within thirty minutes.

Again she had tears in her eyes because I was scheduled for another interview the following day and Susan was told to check the mail and if she heard nothing in six weeks, she would have another opportunity to apply in six months.

The following day my interview ended with a promise of a third the following day. The day after that I was in a training class again. This time in the General Offices of Golden Coast Airlines and became a minor celebrity during those six weeks of training.

I was the first male stewardess.