THE SECRETARIES: Pretty much right. We manned the phones, “covered” for three-hour martini lunches, unidentified liaisons, extended cocktail evenings, and late-night romps at The Peppermint Lounge or P.J. Clarke’s. We stonewalled wives and our bosses’ bosses, and dreamed of a better future. Our pay was $50 a week before taxes. A few successfully snagged and wed older bosses. One or two beat the odds and ascended the career ladder.
THE BOSSES: Pretty much right. They needed us. Most of the bosses, predominantly men, were kind and respectful, but there was always that one oddball “creative” who indulged in invectives (“dumb broad,” “stupid chick”). The bosses advised us, if asked, on love or financial woes, and attended our brunches or soirees on occasion, seemingly fascinated by our quirky digs and doings.
THE SEX: Absolutely right. Like an endless electronic hum beneath the city. A conscious or subconscious presence all the time. When not indulging, there was planning, considering, assessing, regretting. There were locked office doors, private calls, doctor appointments, and dirty laundry stuffed into filing cabinet drawers. Someone across the street filmed a lunchtime tryst in our building, resulting in pink slips.
THE SMOKING: Dead on. Everyone smoked—all the time. Brands were debated. Gold cigarette holders from Cartier, exotic ashtrays, silver lighters, and cigarette cases made the scene. As did matchbook collections. Lives were lived through a haze of gray smoke.
THE BOOZE: Nailed it. All booze, all the time. Secretaries bought little cocktail recipe books with instructions on how to make “sidecars” and “between-the-sheets.” Blurred vision was the norm for many. Hangover remedies were compared. All strata, from bosses to beginners, got blotto at parties. Silver martini shakers were the go-to gifts.
THE HIJINKS: Poor. Not enough craziness on the TV show. My floor was called “The Madhouse.” A continual soundtrack of yelling, bawdy laughter, singing, guitar and uke playing (lessons offered), ringing phones, swearing, arguing, etc. Jokes and recipes exchanged hands constantly. Someone brought in a new motorbike and did test runs down the hall. Shampoo bottles were dropped from windows to watch bubbles descend. When visitors appeared (moms, wives, clients) the place went silent as a tomb. My mother remarked, “What an efficient office!”
THE WORK: Fairly accurate. Lots of awards, new accounts, celebrations. Bright, innovative work. Energy and excitement. How and when it got done, who knows? It did, in between all the de rigueur diversions. Our agency was securely entrenched in the top tier.
THE HOURS: Pretty much right. Loose, at best. Arrivals and departures flexible. Two-hour lunches, at least. Time allotted for personal, pressing, or romantic pursuits.
THE OFFICE: Sort of right. No electric typewriters. Big black Underwoods. No air conditioning, just ancient fans. Offices closed when temps hit 90 degrees. Our set-up had small offices surrounding a large bullpen filled with secretaries and trainees.
THE CLOTHES: Oh-la-la, right on. For the ad execs: from Don Draper-distinguished to Brooks Brothers tweeds. Skinny ties, hats, overcoats, wingtips. For secretaries: heels, nylons, shirtwaist dresses with pearls. Pointy bullet-bras and death-grip girdles. Teased hair. The wives visited in snug suits or cotton dresses, plus hats, gloves, and shiny purses.
Mona Abboud, a writer/songstress, lives in Sleepy Hollow, Ill. (From Chicago Tribune, April 7, 2013 © 2013 Chicago Tribune. All rights reserved. Used by permission and protected by the Copyright Laws of the United States. The printing, copying, redistribution, or retransmission of this content without express written permission is prohibited.)