Busted by a Nun

 I grew up in a semi-rural area; I’ll call it Small Town. Big City is about twelve miles from Small Town. If my friends and I wanted to hang out there during the day on a Saturday or on school holidays, we usually had to take a county bus. The summer before my senior year in high school, my best friend, Kate, and I took the bus to Big City a couple of times in June, at the beginning of school vacation.

On July 1, the bus drivers went out on strike.

Kate’s mother worked and had to get up early in the morning, so she usually wasn’t available to drive us anywhere from Monday to Friday. My mother didn’t drive. One of our friends had a driver’s license, but she also had a summer job.

Kate and I were stuck in the sticks.

One morning, Kate read a news article about three fellows who had been in an automobile accident and ended up in the hospital. We were acquainted with one of them. Acquainted, in this case, means we probably talked to him once and Kate thought he was cute.

Kate decided we should visit him. I figured, why not? But how to get there?

Lucky us. Kate's mom happened to be off work that week. The next day, she decided to visit Kate’s aunt who lived in Big City. Kate asked her mom if she would drop us off downtown so that we could window shop for an hour or so and then go to Friendly’s for ice cream.

Her mom let us off on the main street, near Newberry’s. We window shopped for about fifteen minutes; then we walked about a quarter mile to the hospital. “We can’t go in the front door,” I said as we approached the entrance.

"Why not?"

"For one thing, it’s too close to the pharmacy. My aunt works there. I don’t want her spotting us and asking questions. And for another thing, we’re probably not dressed real well for visiting some guy in a hospital run by nuns.”

We changed direction, found a side door, and slipped into the building unnoticed. Other than knowing the location of the pharmacy, I was clueless about the layout of the hospital. As we were plotting our next move, a young woman wearing a uniform walked by.

“Where’s the men’s section?” Kate asked.

“Third floor.”

We hiked up to the third floor and began peeking into the rooms. We checked out three or four rooms without success. And then Kate half-stepped into the next room, gasped, and backed out, almost knocking me over.

“What’s wrong?”

Kate gestured toward the right side of the room. “That guy in the corner. I think I went out with him last weekend.”*

We retreated to a spot near the elevator. We were debating if we should stay or go when the elevator door opened, and a tiny ancient nun popped out. She took one look at us and freaked out, screaming that we were sluts. Well, that’s not exactly how she put it, but that’s what she meant.

Kate and I took off, heading for the stairs. The nun charged after us, still screaming about our short shorts and skimpy tops.

We were faster than our pursuer, but she wasn’t giving up. And then I spotted the door to the fire escape. Considering her age, I figured Sister Scream wouldn’t follow us. We flew down the metal steps, startling the fellow who was enjoying a cigarette near the side door. We booked it back to the main street and hung out at Friendly’s until it was time to meet Kate’s mom.

I don't know if my aunt ever heard about the scantily dressed girls roaming around on the men's floor. If she did, she didn't say. And I didn't ask.

[*Blind Date]

Where I Was When the Lights Went Out

Some neighborhoods surrounding my area are experiencing planned blackouts during the night so that the power company can make necessary repairs or upgrades. If overnight power failures are happening in my neighborhood, I’m asleep at those times and unaware of them.

Unlike the power failure that happened years ago when I was running a register at SmartMart. I wish I had been able to avoid that one.

The new SmartMart had been open for about two weeks and, being the first one in the area, it was still drawing crowds of customers. Like most associates, I had been trained to run a register. However, I worked in the fabrics and crafts department. When an associate worked alone, she was exempt from cashier duty because she had to be available to cut yard goods.

Unfortunately, that night two of us were working in the department.

At one point, the register lines were so long that the head cashier called for anyone who was trained to run a register to come to the front. One of us had to go. My coworker, who had a rather nasty attitude, told me, “I’m not doing it, so I guess it’s going to have to be you.”

Okaaay. Not something I particularly wanted to do either, but not a battle I wanted to pick. I went up to the front and was assigned to a register.

About twenty minutes later, a loud crackling noise echoed throughout the store, and the lights flashed and died. As if on cue, generators turned on the emergency lights in the main aisles, but the departments were left in the dark.

Backup batteries in the front row registers enabled us to keep checking out customers, but for only thirty minutes. “Darren,” the assistant manager on duty, sent the cashiers in the back row to bag for us.

It was my first time running the register. I was a little nervous, but I was doing okay. It helped that most people paid with cash or check. Back then, cashiers had to wrestle with flatbed credit card imprinters that sometimes jammed and held up the line.

Approximately fifteen minutes into the power failure, Ms. Nasty marched up to my register with a frown on her face and hands on her hips. In front of a long line of customers, she yelled, “Get back to the department and help me straighten up.”

Excuse me. With the departments in the dark, just how did she think we were supposed to see to straighten up?

I decided to be nice and not argue with her. Even though I knew what his answer would be, I told my bagger (Bagger) to find Darren and ask him what I should do. Bagger came back and said, “Darren wants you to stay here and keep running the register.”

Ms. Nasty gave both of us the stink eye, muttered something I didn’t catch, and marched back to the department.

Yes, we did get all the customers rung out before backup batteries died. The lights came on about five minutes later, and I went back to the department to help Ms. Nasty straighten up. She didn’t speak to me for the rest of the evening.

Which was fine with me.

Not a Tornado, Just Seemed Like One

The wind is a bit blustery in SoCal today. I had to hold on to my beanie to keep it from being blown away. Windy days forever will remind me of the morning I thought I was going to be blown off a bridge.

In January 1993, I was on my way to work during the beginning of a destructive windstorm in Tacoma, Washington. I worked at an aerospace company located on Puget Sound. To get to work, I had to take a bus into town and walk over the 11th Street Bridge, aka the Murray Morgan Bridge.

At the Lakewood bus stop, the velocity of the wind didn’t seem that bad. However, when the bus arrived at my Market Street destination thirty minutes later, the wind was blowing so hard I wondered if I would be able to get my morning caffeine fix. Struggling against the wind, I finally reached the Judicial Annex Café, where I ordered my usual early morning snack—coffee and croissant.

Twenty minutes later, I exited the café on the lower level. Out on the sidewalk, I hesitated before going any father. I decided to wait, hoping the wind would die down enough for me to make it to work safely.

Another café customer had the same idea. We stood close to the building and watched a variety of trash and other items swirl around us. “Is this a tornado?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “The wind always blows off Puget Sound.” (Well, yes, but it usually doesn't blow that hard.)

As if on cue, a humongous green rubber trash can came tumbling down the street, followed by a newspaper vending machine. The man scurried back into the café.

I should have scurried with him, but I waited to see if the wind would let up. A few minutes later, it didn’t seem to be blowing so hard. If I hurried, I figured I could get over the bridge without getting blown into the Sound.

I speed-walked down the 11th Street hill to Pacific Avenue, which was about two blocks away. So far, so good. But a few minutes after I got on the bridge, the wind picked up again. I became a tad bit concerned when receipts and tissues began flying out of my coat pockets and out of the side pocket on my handbag. Good thing I wasn’t wearing a beanie that day; I would have lost it forever.

I was about halfway across the bridge when thoughts of Galloping Gertie (google it) entered my mind. I knew the 11th Street Bridge wasn't a suspension bridge, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I decided it was in my best interest to give up and head back to Pacific Avenue. I planned to throw myself on the mercy of the baristas at the corner coffee shop. I would ask to use the store phone and call my boss to let him know I was stranded at Starbucks.

I grabbed the railing and crept toward Pacific Avenue. I was all alone on the bridge during the morning rush hour, with not even one car in sight. I looked up and saw a seagull that appeared to be flying backwards. Strange, I thought. Why is that bird flying backwards? And then it dawned on me that, unlike hummingbirds, seagulls can’t fly backwards.

I was slowly making progress toward Starbucks when a red compact car drove by, made a U-turn, and stopped beside me. At that point, I didn’t care if the driver was a serial killer; I was getting into that car.

So I did. The driver turned out to be my boss.

Yes, It Was a Dumb Move

Yes, teenagers do crazy things today, but then they always did. A few days ago, I was telling an acquaintance whom I’ll call “Sue” about one of my high school friends. After celebrating St. Patrick’s Day just a bit too much, he ended up unsuccessfully trying to outrun a police car.

Sue thought that story was really wild, but I knew I could top it. So I told her about the night, or rather the early morning, that we changed drivers in a moving car.

“Why would someone do that?” She asked.

“There was a state trooper coming after us.”

I had been to a party with four friends, whom I’ll call “Kate,” “Ben,” “Don,” and “Duke.” (Honestly, those were not their real names.)

We were heading home around 1:30 on a Wednesday morning. Duke was driving; I sat in the middle, and Ben was next to the window. Kate and Don were in the back seat.

Duke was flying down the road when a car raced by in the opposite direction. He glanced in the mirror and said, “That’s a statey, and he just hit the brakes. He’s turning around. They’ll hang me. Don you’ve got to change places with me.”

Oops! News flash. Duke had no license. Neither did Ben (yes, I knew that). But poor Don sitting in the back seat did. So, with Ben leaning in front of me to steer the car, Duke and Don changed seats. I was lucky I didn’t get kicked in the face.

The trooper initially was so far behind us that he didn’t catch on to the switch. Don wisely pulled over when the cop hit the lights and siren. Unfortunately, after an appearance in court the next day, Don also was without a driver’s license for about six months.

I told Sue that I learned a few lessons from that escapade: 1) Driving without a license is a dumb thing to do, 2) Switching drivers in a moving car is even dumber, and 3) Taking the blame for someone else’s wrong choice is beyond dumb.

“Wow, people don’t do things like that anymore,” Sue said.

Yes, yes, they do. Check the Internet.

We Intended to Send Them Back (But Someone Beat Us to It)

I’ve never known anyone who lived “on the street,” so to speak.

Oh, wait, yes, yes, I guess I did. But I didn’t know them for long.

This is the short, scrubbed version.

One June evening, when I was sixteen, I attended an, ahem, impromptu party in an isolated area on the outskirts of town. During the evening, I met three girls; two of whom were seventeen. The third one was twelve. They had no compunction about admitting they had walked away from a juvenile detention facility in Albany, New York.

Somehow (I didn’t dare ask) they ended up across the state line, where they were befriended by pals of my then boyfriend. The girls had left the obviously low security detention home with only the clothes on their backs. One of them asked me if I had any spare clothes. I hadn’t.

And yes, the party involved alcohol, well beer. I confess that I did take a couple of sips of beer, but that was it. I didn’t care for the taste. I spent most of the night sitting in the car, wondering how I had gotten into this fiasco, and hoping the party would end before any cops showed up.

About three hours later, the evening ended in the second wildest car ride I have ever experienced. Twenty years later, I wrote that part into a short story for a fiction writing class and, more recently, included it in a scene in the novel I abandoned a couple of years ago.

But I digress.

The next morning, I told my best friend Kate about the party, complaining about the girls. “I don’t like the idea of those girls being around Jeremy,” I said. I had overheard one of the guys telling another that the girls were camped out on a friend’s father’s business property. The property, which comprised several acres, was located in another isolated area on the outskirts of town, close to where Jeremy lived.

Kate came up with the idea that we should go find the girls and have a chat with them. Sounded like a plan, but how to get there? Neither of us had a driver’s license.

Fortunately, Kate also came up with the name of an acquaintance who had a car. Acquaintance turned out to be a seventeen-year-old Avon lady. Avon Lady agreed to drive us to the fugitives’ hideout later that evening, after making deliveries to a few customers, including a customer in Jeremy’s neighborhood.

Around 8:30 p.m., Kate, the Avon Lady, and I trespassed on our friend’s dad’s business property and went looking for the girls with the intention of telling them to leave the area. Considering their backgrounds, I’m not sure how well that would have gone over. However, we never found them, which probably was in our best interests.

A couple of days later, I learned our friend’s dad had found out about the trio the day after the party and reported them to the police, which, no doubt, was in his best interests.

My Form Went Above and Beyond

Help-wanted posts for local jobs are popping up all over on Facebook. Prospective employers instruct interested job seekers to direct message the hiring agencies or businesses. I wish that opportunity had been available to me the last time I had to look for a  job. It might have simplified my employment search. Well, maybe just a bit.

During the early 2000s, I was unemployed for several months when the company I refer to as The Zoo packed up and left town. The Zoo had been going downhill for about a year, so the company’s departure was not unexpected.

My friends and I knew we were working there on borrowed time, but we were determined to stick it out until the bitter end. No, it wasn’t the prospect of collecting future unemployment benefit checks that kept us there. The way things were going, if you took time off to go on job interviews, the powers-that-be most likely would terminate your employment, using the excuse that you weren’t reliable. And we all had bills to pay.

Around the first of June, I, along with about forty other former Zoo employees, started collecting unemployment checks. Of course, the Department of Economic Security (DES) expected recipients to look for work. After collecting checks for about six weeks, clients were required to have an interview with a DES counselor in order to verify that they were actively seeking employment.

To help in verifying job searches, the DES gave clients a form to track their prospective employment contacts. The form had thirty-five lines. Job seekers were supposed to write one entry on each line. Kind of cramped, I thought. I divided the form into seven sections of five lines, took it to Kinkos, and made a small stack of copies.

The employment ads came out in the newspaper on Sunday and Wednesday. I clipped ads for jobs I thought I was qualified for. I also clipped ads for a few jobs I knew I was over qualified or under qualified for, because why not? I taped the clips to a sheet of colored paper—using a different color for each month. Next to the ads, I scribbled what I had done regarding the advertised positions.

And I noted all those prospective employment opportunities on the DES form, indicating the position advertised; the name, address, and phone number of the company; the person spoken to; the outcome of the conversation; and any additional comments. If I had e-mailed or faxed a resume and cover letter, instead of making a phone call, I noted the name of the person I had sent them to, if applicable.

I also researched local jobs on the Internet (yes, including Craigslist) and e-mailed or faxed a resume and cover letter to any company that seemed promising. I dutifully noted that information on the DES form.

Before I found a new job, I had filled about fifteen forms with at least one-hundred entries. However, at the time I was called into the DES office to discuss my job search, I had only sixty-four entries. The counselor seemed impressed by my detailed job search record. According to him, I had gone above and beyond. Most recipients listed a maximum of two or three job searches each week.

Because my records were so detailed, I asked the counselor if he wanted to make copies for his records. He said it wasn’t necessary. I was disappointed.

Not a Drunk, Not a Druggie, I Fell

At the end of March, I got distracted while walking across the parking lot of a neighborhood store. I tripped on a curb and face planted on the sidewalk. At first, I didn’t know how badly I was hurt and I panicked. At least four people saw me sitting on the sidewalk, intermittently sobbing and struggling to get up.

A couple of fellows who looked a bit sketchy walked by and ignored me. That didn’t surprise me. On the other hand, I was so disappointed by the elderly couple I asked for help. Yes, I understand that they might have been reluctant to get involved. But I did not ask them to help me directly. I called out to them saying, “I’m not drunk, I’m not on drugs. I fell. Would you please go into the store and tell an employee that a customer has fallen outside” They stared at me, stuck their noses in the air, walked to their car, and drove away.

Apparently, it was asking too much to almost beg them to go into the store and tell an employee that a customer needed help. Yes, sometimes sketchy individuals do hang out in the area, but I’m not one of them. I guess the couple assumed I was lying about not being an alcoholic or drug addict. No, I am not one of those and never have been. And, like that couple, I’m also a senior citizen.

Eventually, I picked myself up and hobbled off, hoping I could successfully stay upright until I got to where I had to go. When I did get there, I discovered my cell phone was missing. I wasn’t on the phone when I tripped, but I did have it in my hand.

By some miracle, I survived with only several painful scrapes and bruises. I was lucky. It could have been so much worse. I could have broken my nose or my cheek bone. Or my wrist.

People, don’t be so quick to judge others. When someone obviously is hurt and is floundering around on the street, struggling to get up, they deserve to be helped, no matter who they are. If you see anyone, anywhere, who seems to be ill or injured and in distress (even if they do look a little sketchy), you DON’T have to help them directly if you have doubts about how they would react. But, please just do the right thing, and go into a nearby store and tell an employee that someone needs help. And if there is no store nearby, call 9-1-1.

And yes, I got my phone back. Another customer found my phone and turned it in to the store. I don’t know who he was; he didn’t leave his name. I am sorry I wasn’t able to thank him.