Returning Broke to Dayton

The two years of graduate school came to an end in June 1971 and I returned to Dayton. Accompanying me were the three wearisome characters who yammered in my continual hallucinations. Once back in Ohio, I decided not to teach again as I felt too exhausted to listen well.

            Grad school had left me broke. I had no money to rent an apartment. Even the bus fare downtown and back was burdensome. So for three weeks I lived with friends while searching for a clerical or sales job. The jobless rate in the United States in 1971 was 4.9%. Surely I could find work—easily.

            Not so.

            From nine to five of the first week, I pounded the pavements, going from one downtown business to another. Most employers immediately said I was overqualified and would never stay with the job. Despite my assurances, none of them had me fill out an application. The interviews I did have led to secretaries calling me to say I hadn’t gotten the job.

            In the second week of my search, I went back to a place where an agreeable employer had interviewed me. He was gracious enough to see me despite the fact that he hadn’t hired me.

            “Mr. Loftus, did I do something in the interview that disqualified me for the job? I’m asking so that in future interviews I’ll do better.”

            “To be honest, Miss Ready, it had nothing to do with your interview. You’re a personable young woman.”

            “Then why didn’t you hire me?”

            “It seems you have a file with the FBI. They’re warning us against hiring you.”

            “How could I have a file? I’ve done nothing illegal.”

            “They said you protested the war and were a troublemaker.”

            “I did protest. But it was peaceful.”

            “I have to tell you that the government doesn’t take kindly to protesting.”

            “But you could still hire me, couldn’t you?”

            “The truth is I don’t want the government to start scrutinizing me. I don’t need an FBI file.”

            During that second week, I asked several other employers who’d turned me down if they, too, had heard from the FBI. They had. They wouldn’t risk hiring me.

            Despite this, I did find work, but only with the help of a good friend.

            In my posting “Deep Commitment” of February 18, I introduced you to Jeanne and Jim, a Dayton couple whose example helped me become part of the protest against the Vietnam War.

            Jeanne now helped me find a job.

            Her friend Char worked at a department-store warehouse beyond town that was looking for employees. We met on Wednesday evening of the third week of my search and she explained the job to me.

            “Would you work for the minimum wage?” Char asked.

            “I just need work. Anything will do right now.”

            Another friend of Jeanne’s had a small attic apartment to rent. On minimum wages, I’d have no discretionary money, but I could manage if I lived frugally. However, I wouldn’t have the money for bus fare to the warehouse and back each day.

            “You can drive with me,” Char said. “Just meet me at Jeanne’s house each morning and I’ll pick you up.”

            “What would you like me to pay you each week?”

            “Nothing. I’d just enjoy having someone to talk to.”

            I wept at such generosity.

            On Thursday of that third week, Jeanne drove me out to the warehouse, and I used Char’s name in applying for a job. The manager said he’d ask her about me. The next day, he called. I had the job. The following Monday I started tagging clothes.

            On Saturday, I’ll tell you about that job and why I got fired.

                                                                        (Continued on Saturday . . . )


PS: If you are entering the give-away for the book "The Sword of Senack," please click here.

Photographs from Wikipedia.