Strange Dealings at the Oven Mitt Factory

The business was located in a three-story warehouse in the Mission district.

In 1991, I lived in San Francisco and was in desperate need of work. I grabbed a Bay Guardian newspaper and searched the classifieds. There were plenty of clerical and medical assistant gigs but I didn’t want to work in a corporate or hospital setting. I considered a bike messenger gig but this required something sturdier than my wounded Schwinn. That’s when a strange ad leaped out at me: “Oven Mitt Factory in need of Customer Service Manager.” This was mysterious and worthy of a second look.

I called the number and spoke with the company president, a woman named Catherine. She sounded young and quirky though her dialogue was dotted with hippie jargon like “bummer,” “trippy” and “you dig.” We arranged an interview for the following day.

I walked from my apartment in Noe Valley to the Mission District. The business was situated near Harrison and 18th Street in a three-story building. The front door had a brass plate with the name “Jubilee Oven Mitts.” I entered a neon-lit foyer with bright colored polka dots on the walls. A twenty-something man with tattoos and a shaved head greeted me at the front desk.

“Yeah,” he mumbled dismissively.

“I’m here to see Catherine.”

“She’s in back. Follow the patchouli stink.”