Higher Heights

In Columbus, Ohio, July 1947, Jordan David Wingate peered through the front window of the employment office of Berwick Memorial Institute and saw a few cars cruise by. At 9:00 a.m. those employees who worked there had already arrived. In 1947, America had not sufficiently recovered from the World War II economy to build cars on the scale they had prior to the war; nor had the majority of Americans gained the kind of employment which would provide salaries high enough to purchase the Ford, Chevrolets, Oldsmobiles, and other automobiles that were being built. Many people were predicting that automobiles would one day be in such abundance that finding a parking space would be a major problem. But this morning Jordan had been able to park his black Model T Ford in a space close to the building.

He glanced at his watch, the clock on the wall, and at the receptionist whose ear and mouth seemed to have been glued to the phone the past thirty minutes, now ten minutes beyond his 9:00 a.m. appointment. In nearly two years spent applying for positions in his engineering field, he had to endure long waiting periods, but he could not remember any that had lasted this long.

Eventually, the receptionist stood up, presenting him with a full view of her rather shapely body. She smiled at him, pirouetted and disappeared into one of the offices behind her. A hopeful sign. Several times Jordan had been on the verge of questioning her about his interview. But Berwick was one of the premier research firms in America, and after repeated turndowns from other companies he did not want to botch this opportunity. Ten minutes later the receptionist, followed by a skinny, bleached blond, emerged.

"Mr. Wingate, I’m Mr. McCabe’s secretary. What can I do for you?" The blonde asked none to convincingly.

"I’m here for my appointment with Mr. McCabe."

"Was that appointment for this morning?"

Jordan fought to contain the combined frustration and disappointment, built up over nearly two years. If he let it out he would feel relieved, but if he bottled it up one second longer he could not guarantee how he might react. He said, in a low measured tone, "I’ve had this appointment for over a week."

McCabe’s secretary looked at the receptionist as if for clarification. "Sir, if you had an appointment with Mr. McCabe I assure you I would have it on my schedule."

"Look," he responded. "I’ve never met you before--but I talked with this lady and she assured me that she set up the appointment."

"Mr. Wingate. There is no reason to get upset."

So he had lost the battle. Usually a pause and a deep breath enabled him to remain calm. But the voice he heard inside said this is not the time for being calm. This is the time for demanding your rights.