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.