Personal Holiday

HHS Graduation Day, May 29, 1975
(photo courtesy of George Scott)

After graduating high school in May 1975, my parents allowed me one last slacker summer before I began a lifetime of work. That year I spent the months of June and July doing, well, pretty much nothing. It was great.

Then along came August, time to knuckle down. It didn’t take long to find a job. Soon I was hired part-time at Diners Club in the microfilm department, making a whopping $2.10 per hour.

Not long after I was promoted into a full-time position researching stray payments, those checks with little or no identification, to determine whose account would be credited. At this point my pay spiked to $2.30 per hour. I was rich!

A couple of months later, I transferred into the word processing center. Three of us were isolated in a small glass-enclosed soundproof room with our mag card machines. Do you remember those? Mag card machines were basically a souped-up version of the IBM Selectric typewriter, with the capability of storing your work on a magnetic card until you were ready to let the words fly. All you had to do was press a button and voila! the machine would replay all of your keystrokes. We really fancied ourselves on the cutting edge of technology.

The majority of our work consisted of sending out thousands of form letters, mainly credit card application rejections. I was determined to be the most prolific word processor in the history of word processors (a new profession, granted, so probably an easy “A”). In this position we sometimes spent an entire day doing nothing but typing names and addresses, over and over and over. Occasionally we were slowed down by bizarre handwriting or by an applicant who failed to include their ZIP code on their application. Now you'd have to stop, pull down the big ZIP code directory stored above your desk, and look up the address.

Sometimes the addresses weren't in the big book. When that happened, we were told to use the general ZIP code for the applicant's city. Over time, we started to memorize those general codes. “What’s Minneapolis?” one person would shout above the racket. “55401,” another would reply. To be honest, sometimes we just wanted to keep the rhythm going and didn’t even bother to look up the address. Because you’d no sooner turn around and there would be another stack of a thousand rejected applications, ready for a letter.

The company was located miles away at the Denver Tech Center, quite a distance from the northern suburbs. I didn't mind. I enjoyed driving, and back then a commute through metro Denver was not the nightmare it is today. I loved the freedom and the responsibility, and especially loved having enough income to buy my very own car: an avocado green Chevelle with loads of horsepower.

In 1975, Interstate 225—which skirts the eastern edge of the metro area—was still under construction. It ended at South Yosemite, a few exits shy of its goal. I would avoid the Valley Highway traffic and sneak out from I-270 to I-70 and then onto I-225. Once I discovered this “back way” to the Denver Tech Center, I loved my commute.

The Denver Tech Center began its life in the early 1970s. Diners Club headquarters was located in a low brick building on the southern tip of the DTC, a little bit north of Orchard Road. I often sat outside at lunchtime, and remember seeing nothing but prairie as far south as the bluffs rising alongside the highway on the northern edge of Douglas County. This scenic area, where once a thriving cattle ranch existed, has since been transformed into a suburban sea of homes. And the last time I was in the DTC, I could no longer find that old building. I'm sure it's there somewhere, dwarfed by the glimmering high rise buildings.

Anyway, this rather meandering story began as a way to commemorate my favorite holiday, a personal holiday of sorts. You see, my job at Diners Club had few perks, but one thing that stood out was what I considered the best benefit offered to employees: a bonus holiday in celebration of your birthday. This proved to be quite a revelation for me.

After that, no matter where I worked, my birthday tradition has been to take the day off. Oh sure, I'll admit a few times I may have called in "sick" (cough, sniffle, cough) but mostly I have been up front with my employers and told them, listen, I just don't want to work on my birthday. Most have been agreeable.

And now, thirty-six-and-a-half years later, today is no exception. I’ve grown quite tired of working but am still grateful for another personal holiday. So thank you, Diners Club, for the annual inspiration.

Hmmm, what shall I do this year?