Although work and school kept me busy, I made time to drive to Knoxville every three to four weeks to visit Sewa Singh, have dinner with Paul and Arlene, and discuss my thesis with Professor Buchan. For the winter quarter of 1969, I only signed up for one class, Principles of Organization, which I took at Nashville’s UT satellite campus. The professor was a kind, older man in his sixties, and after the first class, I explained to him that I needed to raise my GPA to a 3.0 in order to graduate.
“Okay,” the professor said noncommittally.
“I really need an A in this class,” I said, hoping for a more sympathetic response. “I am writing my thesis, and I work full time at Vanderbilt University Hospital.”
“I understand,” he said.
I hoped he did understand. Mr. Clark told me that the hospital would reimburse my tuition if I received at least a B in the course, increasing the pressure to make good grades.
A number of things bothered me about my job at Vanderbilt University Hospital. I secretly resented my tiny desk in Jacob Walker’s office in the Programming Department, and I only saw Mr. Clark when he attended the meetings to discuss my project. To my disappointment, he never contributed to the subject. The meetings are a waste of his time, I thought. Why should he come at all if he does not intend to provide any feedback?
Most of all, I could not stand working for Mr. Walker, a guy with a physical education degree. He became director of programming because of his data processing experience, and I couldn’t help feeling superior to him since I was almost finished with my master’s in industrial engineering and had experience at the UT Hospital. I wanted to improve every aspect of Vanderbilt University Hospital, and I could hardly wait to “change the world.” They were lucky to have me. I didn’t hide the fact that I thought I deserved more, and Mr. Walker started calling me “hot shot” when talking about me to other staff members. There was nothing I could do about the situation, and my work always remained on the back burner, because Mr. Walker’s secretary always gave preference to his work and instructions, leaving my notes to be typed up last.
In a way, I blamed Professor Buchan for placing me at this hospital. After discussing my concerns with him, he apologized and said he had not been aware that Mr. Clark would treat me so poorly. He had assumed I would report directly to the assistant administrator.
“Kris, once you receive your degree, I will help you find a better job,” he said. “For now, stay where you are until you finish your degree requirements. It is beneficial for you to stay in this job at least a year.”
Reluctantly, I accepted his advice.
Soon the time came to present to Mr. Clark and Mr. Walker my study findings for the laundry project. During my observations, I discovered the Laundry Department did not keep inventory for the linen, nor did they keep records of discarded torn linens. They also purchased new linens sporadically. Happy with my report and recommendations, Mr. Clark told me to proceed.
One summer day, as I was washing my car and had begun to wax it, Maelie saw me through the patio door and came outside to ask if she could help. I gave her a rag and let her wax the hood of the car. She seemed to enjoy it and acted as if it were her own car. It took a long time to apply the paste, let it dry, and then rub it into the car with a clean soft cloth. After a while, we grew tired. It took longer than I expected, and the sun was already low in the sky before we even finished half the car. As I folded the rags and put the lid on the paste, Maelie said, “Kris, I can finish waxing your car while you are at work.”
“I don’t know,” I said, hesitant to accept her offer.
“Please let me, Kris,” she said. “I would love to do it, and it would save you time.”
I couldn’t say no to her, and for the rest of the week, I hitched a ride to the hospital with a guy from Franklin, the nearest town to the apartment complex, while Maelie waxed a portion of the car each day of the week. Knowing she had a crush on me, I was amused.
At work, I often talked to Mrs. Brown, and she enjoyed telling me about her daughter. One day, while she helped me look at furniture for my apartment, she mentioned her daughter was coming to Nashville to attend a formal dinner.
“There will be good food and dancing,” Mrs. Brown said. “Would you be interested in going with her? She just graduated from an out-of-town university and doesn’t know anyone in Franklin or Nashville.”
“Sure,” I said. “But I’m not a good dancer.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter. Since we are near the mall, I’ll help you pick out a suit to wear.”
With Mrs. Brown’s help, I chose a formal, black, double-breasted suit with a bow tie and a pleated, sky-blue shirt with French cuffs.
Later that evening, I mentioned my dinner date to Mrs. Olsen. “Hmm,” she said quietly, looking thoughtful. Maelie was in the room, and her eyes flashed. “Oh really,” she said. Her voice choked, and her face showed a strange mixture of anger and disappointment. Then she muttered under her breath, “Who is she to go out with you? You were mine.”
Maelie couldn’t look me in the eye after saying this and quickly went to her room. Mrs. Olsen watched Maelie leave, and I could tell she was
