There Was This One Time...
PART 1: When I sat across from two murderers
Memories are messy.
They show up like broken-down circus performers trying their hand at magnet fishing, pulling up a scent, an image, a song, wrapped in a story you almost forgot. They’re the kind of stories that start with, “There was this one time…”
They rise up whether you want them to or not. So, I say—let's own them. Unapologetically!
Here’s one of mine. Might not be so different from yours.
PART 1
It wasn’t that I hadn’t already seen the edge of humanity.
My most formative years were spent along The Boloney Trail. I was no longer riding shotgun in the middle of the night while my father dodged Mexican Federales. I was now carving out a place for myself among the rank and file of San Francisco’s well-appointed citizens—holding down an 8-to-5 job managing the industrial temp department for Manpower in the old Phelan Building.
The Phelan, a Renaissance Revival wedge where Market, O’Farrell, and Grant converged, had once been hailed as earthquake-proof before the 1906 fire reduced it to rubble. Rebuilt a year later, it became San Francisco’s jewelry hub. By the early ’70s, when I worked there, the building was showing its age.
The jewelers and gem dealers were still there—men like Isaac Levinson. His office was next to ours, though if I caught him in the hall, he’d glance away, as if eye contact carried a price. He looked as if he’d signed his lease before the ’06 quake, and carried himself with the weary dignity of someone who had survived more than one storm. Most of the others walked with a hump and dressed alike in black vests and pleated trousers; they resembled a guild of gnomes guarding a forgotten craft. Their hair had thinned into feathery puffs, their eyes squinted as if permanently fixed behind invisible loupes. They shuffled through the hallways with jangling key rings, disappearing into burrows of cramped, shadowy offices. Not at all like mine, which seemed to have a revolving door…felons in and out all day, brushing shoulders with men who handled diamonds as if they were crumbs of eternity.
I had started at Manpower as a temp myself, running a mimeograph for an architectural firm. When that assignment ended, I was offered the job of managing the industrial division—following the previous manager’s attendance problems. I had only a vague idea of the work: a company called, explained what they needed, and we sent them a warm body. Seemed simple enough.
“Just got back from Marin,” she’d say. “Expect some new applicants.”
Manpower had two offices on the third floor. The white-collar side had comfortable chairs, framed posters, and low-pile carpet. The industrial side—my side—was stripped bare: two metal desks, an army-green filing cabinet, a scattering of chairs, and a metal coatrack by the door. The walls carried the musty smell of an old man. But the tall double-hung windows overlooked Market Street, and on warm days I opened them to let in the clatter of streetcars and the sight of BART clawing its way under Market Street. To many, that office might have seemed depressing. But for a twenty-two-year-old with business cards for the first time, it was a rung on a ladder no one in my family had ever touched.
It’s hard to imagine now, but back then, small industrial shops still dotted South of Market—especially along Third Street. Many had lost workers to the higher-paying BART construction jobs, and like every agency in town, we were always short on applicants.
Recruiting fell to Helen. She was in her forties, with short hair, a shorter fuse, and even less tolerance for small talk. She had once managed the office side, but after a falling-out with management, she’d been shifted to industrial, where fewer people asked questions about her methods. Helen seemed most comfortable recruiting in the places no one else would go. Later, I would realize San Quentin was one of her deepest wells. When she did breeze in, she was usually working on a spearmint Life Saver, the kind of woman who looked like she’d spent a lifetime tamping down one habit with another.
Every so often, she’d poke her head into my office with a warning.
“Just got back from Marin,” she’d say. “Expect some new applicants.”
I’d nod, check that I had enough applications, W-2s, and time slips. Unlike the office side, we asked blunt questions: trades worked, ability to lift 50 pounds, forklift or jackhammer experience.
Sure enough, two days later, four men arrived mid-afternoon, filling every chair. I welcomed them, handed out clipboards and pens, and eyed them as they wrote. I had three openings at Schlage Lock on Bayshore Boulevard—two punch operators and a laborer to unload freight cars. Schlage had been in San Francisco since 1920 and now employed 1,600 people. They were one of Manpower’s best industrial clients.
The men wore worn-out pants and poorly fitted shirts, their hair cropped shorter than most. Hitchhikers or rail riders, I guessed. At twenty-two, everyone over thirty looked middle-aged to me. Two of them snickered together as they filled out their forms.
The door opened again. A huge, bald, dark-skinned man stepped in. The four men glanced up and gave him a respectful nod. I was out of chairs.
I handed him an application and turned to the two who were now fidgeting, tapping their fingers against the clipboard.
“You about done?” I asked.
“Ready as we’ze ever gonna be,” one said, springing up with his form.
“Yap, me too,” said the other.
The newcomer took one of their vacated seats and began writing.
“For murder,” I asked, trying not to give away my shock.
I started the interviews, but before I could focus, the two men still waiting quietly slid their clipboards under their chairs, muttered they’d be back later, and slipped out. I gave them a cheery, “OK, no problem,” while thinking, Like hell you will.
I turned back to the applicants seated across from me.
“Dawayne, looks like you’ve got some metal shop experience,” I said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How about overtime?”
“I’ll take as much as I can get.”
I read further down and froze. Prison.
“You put down you were in prison?”
He leaned forward, voice low. “Yes, ma’am.”
“For murder,” I asked, trying not to give away my shock. Jail wasn’t unfamiliar to me. At five, I’d waved to an uncle’s arm stretching out between iron bars on the fourth floor of the county jail.
“Yes, ma’am. Got out yesterday.”
Before I could find my voice again, the second man blurted out, “Same here, ma’am. I got out two days before Dawayne.”
“For—”
“Yes, ma’am. Murder.”
I exhaled. “All right then. Have either of you heard of Schlage Lock?”
They left with timecards, a flyer on how to conduct oneself on the job, and instructions about callouts.
That left me alone with the big man.
After I phoned the HR person at Schlage and shared the good news, I collected myself, then motioned the man to my desk. His application read: George Smalls. I nearly laughed. The man was as large as Paul Bunyan. And like the others, he’d come from San Quentin but left out the details – I could only guess.
It was then that I began to understand Helen’s recruitment strategy, giving me a whole new meaning to low-hanging fruit.
George sat like a dark stone, casting a shadow across my desk. Nary a word, barely a nod. I was caught in a stalemate, balanced on the sharp edge of a knife between fear and respect.
“Well, Mr. Smalls,” I said, intentionally addressing him by his last name, “I’ve got an opening at Schlage Lock. Interested?”
A few minutes later, the elevator bell dinged, carrying George down to Market Street. I wandered to the window and looked out. The financial district was emptying; men in suits heading for martinis as the closing bell had rung in New York. Watching George cross Market, I wondered if any of us ever truly outran our roots.
The phone rang behind me.
I had no idea it was the first note in a long, discordant symphony of chaos—one that would end with Ronald Reagan ducking for cover, a man missing in the BART tunnels, and George Smalls threatening to toss me out a third-floor window.
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Did this story stir something in you—a memory, a scent, a sound, a story of your own? If so, I’d love to hear it. Drop me a line on Substack, and let’s breathe life into our stories together.
If you’re craving more grit and truth, check out The Boloney Trail Trilogy, available now wherever books are sold.