Fun at the Telephone Company

© Copyright 2011 Chuck Bozue.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Printed in the United States of America.

isbn: 978-1-4669-0874-1 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-0875-8 (hc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-0873-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011962834

Trafford rev. 12/28/2011

www.trafford.com

North America & international

toll-free: 1 888 232 4444 (USA & Canada)

phone: 250 383 6864 ♦ fax: 812 355 4082

Contents

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Dedicated to my friend Charlie Brown,

and my line boss Bill Otto. Both telephone men who left me with memories, but in entirely different ways.

Foreword

During my lifetime, I have noticed that people, particularly men, love to tell stories about their life experiences. If you know a fireman or policeman well enough, you know that he can entertain a listener for hours, relating on-the-job experiences.

Even mundane occupations are settings for good stories. Having worked at the telephone company for thirty-two years, I had my share of experiences. I shared them with my friends and family. Sooner or later, someone suggested writing a book. Not a classic, but rather one of those bathroom novels loaded with short stories. That’s what you will find here. However bizarre, they are all true. Of course, the names are changed to protect my buddies and me—since we did and said some incredibly stupid, and sometimes dangerous, things. In some cases, the company policies and procedures I write about may not be depicted as they actually were. I’ve attempted to depict them as the field foremen, technicians, and I perceived them.

I hope you have more than a few laughs and a few I’ve been there moments along the way. The telephone company wasn’t my whole life, so I threw in a few personal and family stories along the way. I hope that, between work and home stories, you will gain some background on the real telephone company and also on a seemingly directionless individual who was successful because of his experiences at both work and home.

Chapter 1

Fate Determines My Destiny

During the summer of 1963, I learned that my girlfriend, Linda (now my wife of forty-seven years), was pregnant. That was a big deal back in the sixties! Both of us were Catholic. My mother was a fervent Catholic; Linda had a father—and they both scared the crap out of me. We agreed not to tell anyone. For a long five months, we continued attending school—she was in high school, and I was in junior college. Linda was a cheerleader and actually continued to actively cheer at games during that time. As she got bigger, we knew we had to do something. That something would not be telling anyone!

We were in love, and that was a great help. We stuck together, and somehow, she agreed to go along with one of the worst, most cowardly ideas I had in my entire life. We would run away, get married, and start a life together. Isn’t it amazing what cold fear will do to an otherwise normal-thinking person?

The plan was built on simplicity. The facts of life dictated how, what, and where. The facts were these: we had about five hundred bucks between us, it was winter, we couldn’t involve too many others, she was pregnant, and she was looking more and more like it every day. Because of these facts, we planned to go to New Orleans because it was warm there. Why not Florida, Arizona, or somewhere else? Darned if I know! I guess I thought I could get work there. It doesn’t have to make sense; I was eighteen, moving fast, and scared. Neither of us had a car, so we purchased airline tickets from Chicago to New Orleans for the first week of January. Never mind that we didn’t have a place to stay or a job, we were running on fear.

Of course, we had to carry out this plan in as much secrecy as possible, but we did need some help. Linda enlisted a few of her girlfriends, and I told Tom and Gary, my buddies. Being the gentleman I was, no one, not even my closest friends, knew that Linda and I had been intimate. After getting over the shock that I had been with this hot girl (and a few high fives), my buddies agreed to help. Linda’s high school friends actually purchased baby clothes for her! We filled a large trunk with clothes, and my buddy Gary kept it in his car. I went to a Joliet, Illinois, jeweler and purchased wedding rings for thirty dollars. The two simple gold bands still do the job today.

Thanks to the Christmas dance, we were able to get our suitcases to the airport. Linda had a new dress, and I had on my sport coat and tie. I picked her up at home, and her parents took pictures of us with our bouquet and boutonniere. Off to the dance, or so our parents thought! Actually, we did go, but only long enough to pick up the souvenir booklet and have our picture taken. We left very early, but what high school kids are going to question their classmates when they leave early? We weren’t the only ones doing a little getting together. (Don’t worry, classmates—your secrets are safe with me. Your mom and dad can still think you were virgins.) I digress. We met my buddies at the dance long enough to transfer the suitcase from Gary’s car to my dad’s car. Linda and I drove the forty-five minutes to the airport and rented a large locker (prior to 9/11, it was still possible to do those things). Suitcases safely stowed at the airport, we went to a restaurant for the required after-the-dance dinner, and then we went home. Mission accomplished, job well done—just a few more days and we could begin our life together. Or so we thought!

January 1, 1964, was a typical New Year’s Day morning at my house. Unknown to me as I relaxed in the living room reading the comics, a winter storm had affected the Deep South—including New Orleans! My mother was in the kitchen preparing dinner; my sister and brother were doing their thing around the house. My father was sitting across from me, reading the morning paper. Why I didn’t answer the phone, I don’t know to this day. I like to think it was God, in his infinite wisdom, saving me from myself. Why my sister didn’t answer the phone is a mystery. Don’t teenagers run for the phone? It must have rung four times before Dad got up to answer it. As I slouched in the chair, I could hear my dad’s conversation across the room.

Yes, this is Mr. Bozue. No, I don’t know anything about that. I think you have something wrong. I don’t have any airline tickets. No, my wife isn’t Linda.

Cold fear swept through my body—you know, that rush through your body just before an accident. There was a long pause as he turned to look at me.

Just a minute, I think you want to talk to my son.

He didn’t say a word as he held out the phone. I got up and took it. The nice lady was from the airline. She explained that a winter storm had wreaked havoc on airline travel in the South and my flight for the next day had been canceled. What’s the chance of that happening? Would I like to reschedule? No!

By the time I hung up the phone, Dad was backing out the driveway, and my mother was looking at me as if I had just shot her dog. I was in big trouble.

Linda and I were married on January 8, 1964.

We were married, but I still didn’t have a job. We spent a few days driving to factories and businesses. I would go into the business, and Linda would wait in the car. We weren’t having much luck, but then I got a break from her uncle Bob. Linda’s uncle Bob was a salesman for the local Chevrolet dealer. Within a week, I was selling parts, thanks to him. My boss at the dealership was a particularly difficult man to work for. He spent much of the day ranting and raving at one or the other of us. Several times a day, he would come up to the retail counter, loudly ranting that the register was short. It was always an error in his addition, but the customers I was serving didn’t know that. I hated being called a thief! Sometime during my second year there, I got fed up and quit. Literally walked off the job. I had a wife and now two sons at home depending on me, but I quit. Sorry for putting you through that, Linnie, but it did work out. I had a second job working at Bozas hotdog stand in Lockport, Illinois, so we got by while I looked for work, again.

Fortunately, during the sixties, jobs were plentiful in the Joliet area. One day, looking through employment ads, I spotted one so good I couldn’t believe it:

ILLINOIS BELL TELEPHONE

Hiring linemen

Hiring linemen! Hell, I could be a lineman. Everyone knew that the utilities had good pay, excellent benefits, and, unless you did something really stupid (don’t steal their money or screw their operators), you had a job for life! Hell yes, I could be a lineman.

Chapter 2

Getting Hired

It was early 1966, and the telephone company at that time was AT&T and the Bell System operating companies. This company was so military in its organization that even the company’s vehicles were olive green. Dressed in my best I need a job, please, please hire me clothes, I entered the Illinois Bell Telephone employment office in Joliet, Illinois.

My immediate impression was that the place was a fortress and run by the book. A nice lady gave me an application, which I filled out on the spot. The nice, always smiling and exuberant lady thanked me and said that someone would call if they decided to test me.

Test me! I wanted the job; no, I needed the job right then. I had no idea how large companies hired; there was no Uncle Bob at the telephone company!

Home I went, to my wife and sons, still jobless, and I waited. A week or so later, I got a call to come down for the test. My big chance for lifetime employment was here!

The test was tough and time limited—but so was I. The fact is, I had a natural talent for things mechanical and electrical. I guess I did pretty well on the readin’, writin’, and ‘rithmatic, and I thought I did well on the mechanical section. The nice lady said that my time was up, (she came in on the second) thanked me, and said good luck.

After that, wow, waiting for the call, keeping the wife and relatives at bay—that was the real test. Got a job yet? I don’t think we can stretch the peanut butter much further. You know what I mean.

No call.

Second week, no call.

So, I called them. Had I understood the telephone company, as I do now, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

Hello, Mrs. Nice Lady, this is Chuck Bozue. I was down about two weeks ago, and I was wondering if you heard how I did on the test.

Nice Lady: Oh, you must have done well because we need to schedule an interview with the district manager prior to offering you the job.

As politely as I could, I asked why no one had called me to tell me I had passed.

Well, the nice lady said, we think that if you really want the job, you will call us.

I think, to this day, that it was part of the test. The district manager was on the third floor of the same building as the employment office, in Joliet. An appointment was made for me to interview with him a few days later.

The district manager, a guy named Mel, thought I could do the job. It didn’t hurt that his grandfather had worked with my grandfather in a coal mine in a little town called Staunton, Illinois, 240 miles south of Joliet. Now, I ask you, is that a coincidence or what? Don’t tell me the good lord doesn’t look in favor on the down and out.

I went back downstairs to the employment office, to the now-expected smile of the nice lady.

Your Net Credited Service Date will be April 11, 1966, said the nice lady.

What does that mean? I asked.

Oh—bigger smile—that’s the date you’re hired!

April 11, 1966, means as much to me as my birthday, maybe more. I was reborn—respectable, even admired—and now I could feed my family. I was on cloud nine.

The nice lady suggested, If you have time, stop at the Theodore Street Garage and say hello to your new foreman, Mr. May.

So I left her and headed home, grinning from ear to ear. On the way, I stopped in to see Mr. May. That’s when I realized that everyone at the telephone company wasn’t all smiles.

Chapter 3

First Day on the Job

The Theodore Street Garage is located on the northwest side of Joliet. The foremen’s office in the front was about twenty-five by fifty feet. The interior was done in Telephone Company décor: tile floor, metal desks, cinder-block walls, and blinds on the windows. The door had an electronic lock, which I soon found was standard on telephone company buildings. Upon being buzzed in, I saw about eight desks, each with a foreman seated behind it and paperwork stacked to varying degrees. No one seemed particularly interested in me, so I walked to the nearest desk and asked for Mr. May. The foreman pointed across to an elderly (to me at the time) gentleman with gray hair; a craggy, weathered face; and large hands.

What I noticed immediately was May’s expression. It was somewhere between surprise and irritation. He smoked a pipe. As I was on the way home from the interview, I was still dressed in interview clothes, which seemed to irritate Mr. May. Approaching his desk, hand extended, I introduced myself as his new lineman. Without taking my hand, he removed the pipe from his mouth, turned his head toward me, and said, We start at eight a.m.; you better be on time. Looking down at my feet, he snapped, And you better not show up in those shoes, either. May then went back to his work without another word.

By now, my smile was gone. Not knowing what else to do, I turned and left. What a great start. Monday at 8:00 a.m. would provide my first clues as to why Mr. May was and would continue to be a source of anxiety for me.

The typical Telephone Garage (now, with the advent of politically correct language, called plant centers) was a brick or steel building with an office for the foreman, an assembly room (the guys called it the bum room), training rooms for the technicians, a supply room, a large indoor parking area for the technicians’ trucks, and a mechanics’ area complete with lifts. Outside was a parking lot for employees and a pole yard for poles, cable, large trucks, trenchers, trailers, etc. in the rear. The garage was a reporting center for between fifty and a hundred technicians and their foremen. Each garage covered a geographic area and provided vehicles and materials for linemen, splicers, installers, and repairmen. The garage at 2100 Theodore St. in Joliet was to be home for my first nine years of employment.

That first morning, walking into the bum room at ten minutes before 8:00 a.m. felt like my first day at high school—or, better yet, like walking into a club that didn’t accept members brought in by management. You had to earn your way into this group! Believe it or not, these guys were as tight as cops, firefighters, and marines. Like any other working group of the day, the assembly housed a cross-section of male society. I am not bragging, but I was to learn that, in those days, prior to equal opportunity, the telephone company picked only the best. We telephone company employees were the pick of the work force, and we were held to a high standard by our employer. We had tough, silent types and more talkative, social types. Some were die-hard union supporters; others paid their dues but didn’t feel the need for someone to support them. Many worked hard for their eight hours’ pay, and others worked harder at not working. Most were proud to work for Illinois Bell Telephone Company and knew the value of dropping that name when applying for a home loan or other request.

The bum room was about twenty-five by fifty feet, beige-painted concrete block with a white suspended ceiling. The outside wall had windows facing the parking lot and gas pumps. The walls were lined with folding chairs; the interior had several round tables and several rectangular ones, all with folding chairs. On the south wall were the pop machine and a table holding candy, chips, etc. which were the cause of many arguments among the troops. Doors to the bathroom were on the north wall, along with the company and union bulletin boards. A door to the garage, and, in some cases, to the foreman’s office, was on the interior wall. Walk in there today and it still looks the same. This room was where I was to start and finish my workdays for nine years. It would be a room of arguments, discord, camaraderie, and lots of fun. Usually at someone’s expense. On this particular morning, it was a room filled with looks in my direction, most friendly but reserved, and some checking out the new meat, like lions in a pride. There I stood, lunch bucket in hand, work boots on as instructed, looking back at them and facing my first dilemma of many to come—where to sit! I found an empty folding chair along the wall and waited for 8:00 a.m.

At 8:00 a.m. on the dot, the foremen entered the assembly room with engineering work prints to be handed out to the crews. This time was used for announcements and sometimes for informal presentations. There were none this morning. May was in no better mood this morning than he had been on Friday. It appeared that he supervised twelve linemen. Though most were much bigger than he, they seemed to be afraid of him. His manner with his men was unfriendly, brusque, and all business. What had happened to the ever-smiling human resources lady at the employment office? As I sat quietly, observing the foremen with their men, I noticed that some did seem to have a friendly relationship with their men. This was not to be my fate.

That first morning, I had the new displeasure of being ignored. As each crew got its work for the day, the men would get up and walk out to the garage to load up. I began to wonder if I was supposed to be there that day when I heard May tell a guy that I would be working with him. Evidently not remembering my name, he said, You will be working with the kid over there.

My new partner got up, introduced himself to me, said, Let’s go, and headed for the garage.

Since my welcome had been non-existent, I needed to say something, so, as we walked through the garage, I told my partner that I was surprised that I hadn’t been introduced. His answer came from his heart and gut, I could tell by his tone and look.

He’s a natural-born asshole; he treats everybody that way. I laughed and asked what the difference between an asshole and a natural-born asshole was. My partner explained that May didn’t work at it; it came naturally.

The guys walking around the garage were getting their trucks ready and loading them with supplies needed for their particular jobs that day. Most were friendly, and as my partner introduced me to them, I decided it would be a good group to work with.

Chapter 4

I’m a Lineman !

The job of a technician at a utility company is unlike many jobs in that the technicians may work at a different location each day. The morning and afternoon routine is the same: report for work, get work print from the foreman, load truck with materials and tools, fuel up, and drive to the work location. In the case of the technicians based at t he Theodore Street garage, that location could be ten or fifteen miles in any direction. That first day, we loaded up a line truck and left the garage for a job on the west side of Joliet, doing pole transfers. My partner told me where we were going, as I couldn’t read the work print. However, we didn’t seem to be going in that direction. That’s when I learned my first lesson about open stock rooms: If you own a business, don’t have one!

We drove into a new subdivision and along a newly graveled road. We pulled in front of a house under construction. My partner, with only a wait here, I’ll be right back, grabbed two bags that he had filled in the supply room, off the back of the truck and disappeared into the new house. A few minutes later, he returned with a bag that contained