One million B.C., coincidentally the same time to the minute Raquel Welch appeared as that shapely Neanderthal babe in the movie of the same name, I was applying for a job in the SClarita Valley’s first television station. It was owned and run by NBC but was a cable-access outlet with the dubious call letters of VCCT — Valley County Cable Television. I called it Viet Cong Cable TV. Wasn’t supposed to.
It was early 1971 and I was 20. I had been hired to write, produce and act as talent in various news and features.
I remember sitting outside the station manager’s office, door open, my heart hitting a million. Within earshot, The Big Boss was discussing my salary with his numbers guy. The NBC CFO suggested paying me $25 an hour. I had a rather roomy, quiet, clean and cozy duplex at the time. Rent was $65 a month. Imagine covering lease or mortgage after a couple hours Monday morn.
My math then, as it is now, was sketchy, but I breathlessly calculated that I’d be making more than the president of the United States of America (Coolidge). My face sagged as I eavesdropped. My paycheck fell all the way down to $10 an hour. Still. A McDonald’s cheeseburger was 30 cents then and leftover Russian war brides were going for as little as $45.
Within a blink, I was promoted to news director by my 21st birthday. Valencia was brand-new, but, we were still a cow town. There were three kinds of women over 14 in the valley: married, old maids and steno pool at the Hart District. It was a male-dominated society, at least in the work force. One day, our growing station hired a woman.
VCCT resembled a poorly written sitcom — in Albanian. The reception was like a video report from a space ship orbiting Uranus, scratchy, blurry, black-&-white and boring. But, the valley was growing. This newfangled invention of cable TV meant the thousands pouring into our riparian enclave could get programming other than Wednesday night professional wrestling. One day, I’m sitting at my desk, slaving away at the afternoon daily newscast. There’s a stampede outside my office. The tech director hit the brakes and did a U-turn to breathlessly announce: “You’ve GOT to see who they hired as our new marketing VP!!”
Back then, as now, NBC handed out meaningless titles as if they were marked-down 49-cents-a-pound Costco Facial Hair, Make-Up & Mole Remover. Tribal supporting guy I am, I moseyed down the hallway to peek at the new marketing director in the pants suit. Just outside her office were all the guys, doubled over, clutching their pouches, holding hands over their mouths and stifling giggles.
The marketing director’s door was open. I knocked, was bid entry and introduced myself. I was so terribly disappointed. She seemed like — I can’t even say, “decent” because I’d known her all of four seconds. She seemed — regular. She wasn’t Lynda Carter. You know. TV’s Wonder Woman? She wasn’t 8 feet tall, didn’t wear a witch’s hat like Margaret Brainard Hamilton in “Wizard of Oz” nor did she add, “… my pretty” at the end of, “… nice to meet you.” For all the excited galloping up and down the hall, I was expecting something more along the lines of a five-legged chimpanzee who made ill-shapen animal balloons. I think NBC/VCCT got the idea within a few weeks that male, woman or yet-to-be invented Gender 46, it didn’t matter if you put a golden retriever in that swivel seat because there was absolutely nothing, except for potatoes, carrots or cattle, to market in Newhall. Soon she was gone.
Decades later, I’m still struck by the sixth-grade boys cooties reaction from the guys, all of whom were older than me by a decade-then-some. The politically correct of today will huff and blow the dust off the word, “sexist.” But, really? You just didn’t see a woman fire captain or head of a company back then. We were in a period of transition.
I remember a wonderful albeit brief story in The Mighty Signal back in the early 1960s. Local sheriff’s deputies stopped a woman. For what? Running. From what? Nothing. The word, “jogging” has been around since the 16th century and popularly used here in America (except for the SCV) since 1948. Local law enforcement was baffled that a housewife was just “running” to keep in shape and blow off steam.
Me? I pretty much can make fun of anything that moves, or doesn’t. But, I never really could see the logic or smartness behind the prejudices of my day, and that crossed over to racial minorities. I had a coach once who confided that Black players couldn’t play quarterback because they weren’t that smart. I didn’t even purse my lips or shrug, not wanting be paid a visit at post-saloon closing hours by leading citizens in percale sheets. But, I do remember mentally bouncing around, and censoring, the response that the Black kid in question could run faster than the god Mercury, give an impala a 100-yard start and still tackle him AND he had enough football I.Q. to thread a frozen rope 45-yard TD pass through 11 lumbering defensemen — over and over and over again.
One of my best friends is Mexican-American and begrudgingly note he’s smarter than moi (far from better looking, though). Around that same time, he’s working for a national grocery outlet as assistant manager. An exec told him he’d never be promoted to a store manager. Why? He was, “… a Mexican.”
America. It’s a still a great country, with all its bumps and flaws, where you can come to an obstacle and climb over, no matter whether you’re wearing sensible pumps or tennis shoes, or thrive, despite the color of your skin. Heavens. America being America, one can even do amazingly darn well for themselves, even if they’re an un-handsome so-&-so …
With more than 100 writing awards, Santa Clarita’s John Boston is Earth’s most prolific humorist and satirist. Look for “Naked Came the Novelist,” Boston’s long-awaited sequel to “Naked Came the Sasquatch,” coming this fall on johnboston-books.com.
