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.

Not Exactly a Domestic Goddess

I’m decluttering my apartment. I’m plugging away at it in between doing my taxes and beta reading, both of which I’d rather be doing.

Doing housework has never been one of my favorite activities. But I’ve learned to do it and do it well. I just tend to put it off. These days, I’m seriously considering hiring someone to clean my apartment every few weeks. Only thing is, I’d feel obligated to clean the place before the cleaner arrived.

As a child, I admit I was a bit spoiled when it came to helping around the house, but there’s a reason for that. When I was two years old, I was terrified of the vacuum cleaner. If Mom wanted to vacuum the living room rug in peace, she had to draft someone to take me for a walk.

By the time I was eight, my parents were fairly certain I had gotten over that nonsense. So, early one Saturday morning, Mom flipped the switch on the vacuum cleaner, turned it over to me, and pointed me in the direction of the living room. Within minutes, I had toppled a couple of lamps, knocked my little brother into the magazine rack, and scared the cat out of three or four of her nine lives.

“Do it yourself before she kills us all,” Dad hollered, extracting Mopsy from his shredded trouser leg.

Unfortunately, my father’s instinct for self-preservation condemned my mother to doing most of the housework forever.

When I was thirteen, my parents decided I was old enough to start helping out around the house on a regular basis. But, by that time, I was beyond rehabilitation. I just couldn’t seem to get the hang of housework. Mom complained that I dusted around knickknacks and doilies and failed to vacuum the corners of the living room—or any room.

My incompetence annoyed Mom even more when it came to keeping my bedroom picked up. She claimed the place looked like an explosion at a rummage sale. “How can you tell the clean clothes from the dirty ones?” she frequently asked. Sometimes I couldn’t. I also suspected that I held the town record for having the most overdue library books. I had a habit of shoving them under my bed. They stayed there until the librarian reminded me that the books were due back weeks ago.

When Mom couldn’t stand the sight of it anymore, she cleaned my bedroom. Coincidentally, she usually did this right before we were expecting guests. Throughout my adolescence, Mom had a recurring nightmare in which a guest took a wrong turn on the way to the bathroom, stumbled into my bedroom, and disappeared forever.

[Note: A slightly different version of this mini-essay was posted on Blogger in May 2005.]

Interview Didn't Go Well, but the Job Did

Were you ever belittled during a job interview? I was.

In December 1970, I was on a layoff from the Second Best Electric Company (SBEC), and collecting unemployment benefits, aka a weekly check. I had just completed my first accounting class at the local community college and had registered for another evening accounting class during the spring semester.

On Thursday, December 31, I went to the Department of Employment Security (DES) to discuss employment opportunities with a counselor. After he reviewed my work history and education background, he thumbed through a stack of index cards to determine if I was qualified for any of the available jobs. “How would you like to work for a CPA?” he asked, flashing a Cheshire cat grin. “Mr. C is looking for a receptionist who can help with the bookkeeping.”

That sounded like a good opportunity. I liked accounting, and I had done very well in the class. I also had worked temporarily in the accounts receivable area at the SBEC, so I did have some experience in basic bookkeeping procedures, well, mostly in auditing accounts receivable balances. Getting experience in small business bookkeeping seemed like something that eventually might get me a better job, preferably in a larger city that had more opportunities.

The counselor wrote out a card introducing me to Mr. C, gave me directions on how to get there, and wished me good luck.

At first, I thought I had walked into an empty office. Then I heard voices coming from somewhere. I ventured farther into the front office, peeked into another room, and discovered two more offices. An older woman was sitting in the back office, talking to someone I couldn’t see. When she noticed me, she came out and asked me what I was doing there. I explained that a DES counselor had sent me for a job interview with Mr. C. She frowned, rolled her eyes, and went back into the office, where she muttered something I didn’t catch. A few minutes later, Mr. C. shuffled out.

Mr. C looked past retirement age, way past retirement age. He also looked as if he had slept in his suit that seemed to be a size too big. After greeting me with a scowl and a growl, he parked me at the shabby not-so-chic receptionist’s desk and told me he would be back in a few minutes. He then proceeded to keep me waiting for what seemed like forever while he chatted with the woman.

I gave up trying to eavesdrop on their conversation and picked up a coffee-stained document I found on the desk. I spent the next 15 minutes or so trying to make sense of a convoluted list of office rules that referenced Mr. C’s wife and his brother who apparently were partners in the business. I wondered where the brother was and how old he was. I assumed the woman talking with Mr. C was Mrs. C.

I put the list aside and checked out my potential office. A couple of metal file cabinets sat against one wall. Additional standard equipment included a telephone, a manual typewriter of undetermined age, and a bulky machine studded with what looked like a half-zillion numbered keys. It had no electrical cord attached; instead, the machine had a lever on one side.

I really don’t want to do this, I thought. A few minutes later, I made up my mind to go back to the DES office and ask for another referral. Before I could sneak out, the woman came and told me that Mr. C would deign to speak with me. She ushered me through the second office that had cardboard boxes piled several feet high against one wall. A tin box about the size of an apartment refrigerator sat on the other side of the room, along with more cardboard boxes and a few metal storage cabinets.

Mr. C’s cluttered office looked as if it hadn’t been updated — or dusted — since the beginning of the Eisenhower Administration. In addition to the outdated furniture and office equipment, packages of snack food and jars of Planter’s peanuts were strewn over a second desk. Mr. C pointed at the chair the woman had recently vacated. Against my better judgement, I handed him the introductory card and sat down.

I don’t remember most of the things we discussed. But I did mention that I had used an electric typewriter and an adding machine at my previous job. Mr. C sneered and said, “Electric typewriters and adding machines are no good for this type of work.” In answer to one of my questions, he told me the machine with the half-zillion keys was a comptometer, which, apparently, was good for this type of work. He then belittled the accounting class I had just completed and informed me that I knew absolutely nothing about accounting.

I guess he wasn’t impressed by my A in the accounting class.

Mr. C’s patronizing attitude made me feel like the dumbest thing on two feet. I wanted to get up and walk out. But what would he tell the DES counselor?

Despite my perceived shortcomings, he offered me the receptionist/bookkeeper position. I wanted a job, but not that one. Working there wouldn’t be a good fit for me — mainly because of Mr. C’s crummy attitude and the prehistoric office equipment I would be required to use. And then there was his wife. I probably would have to work under her supervision. If she was anything like him, would I be able to get along with her?

My first instinct was to tell him thank you, but no thank you.

However, I knew the DES counselor would follow up with Mr. C. So I felt I had no choice; it was either accept the job or lose my unemployment benefits. I accepted the job and went home and spent the long weekend sobbing intermittently.

I showed up for work on Monday, resigned to making the best of it until I could find a more suitable job. I arrived before Mr. C did and was greeted by my new co-worker who was sweeping the front office. I thought it odd that his wife had arrived before he did. And she seemed surprised to see me. She was horrified when I addressed her as Mrs. C. Oh, wonderful, she wasn’t his wife. Her name was Esther, and she was his secretary/ bookkeeper.

Mr. C strolled into the office about twenty minutes later. He also seemed surprised to see me. I figured that, for some unknown reason, they never expected me to show up. After Mr. C left the office, presumably to visit a client, Esther confided that I was a replacement for a previous DES referral who had turned out to be an unreliable slacker. When I asked about the list of rules, she told me to disregard it. Mr. C’s brother and his wife no longer worked there. So far, that news was the most positive thing about the job.

After I got to know Esther, she admitted she didn’t like working for Mr. C. She planned to stick it out because she wanted to retire in a few years. I later learned she had walked out on her long-term former employer about ten months before because of a conflict of interest with his wife. Although she had interviewed at other companies, Mr. C was the only one who had offered her a job.

I suspected that Esther also was a DES referral.

Esther and I were a great team. We worked with minimal supervision. We knew what had to be done, and we did it well and on time. If there was a chore one of us didn’t particularly like to do, we compromised. For example, Esther agreed to keep on sweeping and dusting the front office on Monday. And I agreed to maintain and operate the tin behemoth in Esther’s office, which turned out to be an ancient copier, aka the glorified ditto machine.

Mr. C usually was out of the office for part of the day. And when he was there, he seldom discussed anything with us. Most of the time, he didn’t even say good morning when he arrived. And if he did, he just sort of growled it at us on the way to his office. When there was something special that had to be done, he left us hand-scribbled instructions that often were confusing. He always wrote them in one paragraph, no matter how long they were. In hindsight, I think Mr. C would have loved e-mail. E-mail would have saved him from spending money on yellow legal pads and generic sticky notes. And the e-mail messages would have at least been legible.

My starting wage was $2.00 an hour, which was more than the current minimum wage; however, I received only a five-cent an hour raise each year during the next two years. To keep us around, Mr. C paid us a small annual bonus in May. The promise of that money was like a carrot on a stick, so to speak. The bonus was our reward for not bailing during tax time.

Our workload could get super crazy during tax time, which lasted from the middle of January to the April deadline. One year, Mr. C took pity on us and hired a part-time employee to help out. Lillian was a previous DES referral who had worked in our office for a short time a few years before. She needed a temporary second job and had contacted Mr. C. I was put in charge of training Lillian. As it turned out, I also was in charge of correcting most of her work.

Although clients appreciated our efforts, Mr. C never praised us for doing a good job in keeping the office running smoothly. On the other hand, he never complained about our work. I assumed I was doing a good job, but it would have been nice to have received some positive feedback.

One morning, about three months after I had started working for Mr. C, a personnel specialist from the SBEC called my parents’ house and told my mother she had a job for me. When I got the message, I considered the offer for five minutes. Then I told Mom, “Call the SBEC and tell them I’m not coming back. And ask them to please send me the money I contributed to the pension fund.”

The way things were going at the SBEC, I eventually would have been laid off again. I didn’t want to work for Mr. C forever. However, I realized that experience working in a CPA office would look better on a resume than experience auditing accounts receivable balances or doing whatever busy work the SBEC personnel specialist had in mind for me.

I worked for Mr. C for two and a half years. I prepared monthly write-ups and all types of tax-related forms, including quarterly payroll tax reports, sales tax reports, and individual and small business income tax returns. I prepared a weekly payroll and wrote payroll checks for a popular restaurant. I also typed annual financial statements on translucent master copies and made duplicate copies on the glorified ditto machine.

Among my “other duties as required,” I deciphered many of Mr. C’s hand-scribbled hieroglyphics and edited them into intelligible documents, including letters to clients and the IRS. I searched through old client records stored in the cardboard boxes and located documents needed for IRS audits. And I learned how to fib to clients, IRS agents, and a process server.

I left when felt I had learned everything I could learn there, along with a few things I didn’t necessarily want to learn. It was time for me to move on. After I gave my notice to Mr. C, Esther told me how pleased he had been when I accepted the job.

[Note: For another story about Mr. C, please see the blog post following this essay: “We Suspected He Lied About His Age.”]

Excerpt from Adventures in Working
copyright 2019

We Suspected He Lied About His Age

I recently found some old newspaper clippings I’ve kept since the 1970s. One of them reported an adventure involving my former employer, the late CPA. For a short time, Mr. C was sort of a local hero. My co-worker, Esther, and I weren’t impressed by the newspaper article. Nothing that man did surprised us.

Mr. C most likely was past retirement age when I went to work for him. At the time, I had just completed an introductory accounting class at the local community college. Although I hadn’t much liked math during high school, I discovered I liked accounting. I was happy when the counselor at the Department of Employment Security sent me to an interview at a CPA office.

That is, I was happy until I stepped into the office.

I think Mr. C ran out of filing space about ten years before he hired me. Cardboard boxes were piled up all over the place in Esther’s office. I was even less happy when I saw the comptometer and manual typewriter on the desk in my prospective office. I had used an adding machine and electric typewriter at my previous job.

After a discouraging interview, he offered me the job on the spot. I wanted a job, but I didn’t want that job. However, thanks to being laid off from the Second Best Electric Company, I was collecting unemployment checks. So I felt obligated to accept the receptionist/ bookkeeper position.

About a year after he hired me, Mr. C earned his brief claim to fame by chasing down two teen-aged purse snatchers. He might have been old, but he was feisty. Mr. C never discussed his background or personal life with Esther and me. However, we knew he had grown up in New York City. We figured he probably had some previous experience with muggers.

Mr. C seldom directly communicated with us about anything. (He left lots of notes; the man would have loved e-mail.) He never told us what happened at the shopping center that November evening. Esther and I read about it in the newspaper, like everyone else did.

Mr. C and his wife had finished shopping and were walking to their car. That’s when one of the teens yanked Mrs. C’s purse from her shoulder and took off across the parking lot, followed by his accomplice.

Mr. C chased the thieves through the parking lot, across the street, and into another shopping center. When he got to the second parking lot, a passerby realized what was happening and joined the chase. Mr. C and Good Samaritan had cornered the teens against a fence, while a third person called the police from a nearby store.

Mr. C was the star witness at the teens’ trial. The newspaper article stated that he had refused to reveal his age in court. A court official told the reporter that Mr. C was “in his sixties.” Esther and I snickered when we read that. We suspected our boss had lied to the court official. We were pretty sure he would never see 70 again. Apparently, Mr. C swore to tell the truth about everything except his age.

Excerpt from Adventures in Working

copyright 2019

Never Really Homeless, But I Felt Like I Was

I have compassion for individuals who are homeless because of circumstances beyond their control. On the other hand, I can understand why people don’t want them squatting in their front yards. Homelessness is a sad, tough problem with no easy solution.

I never actually was homeless, but there was one time in my life that I felt as if I were. And during another time, technically, I guess I really was.

In the late seventies we lived rent-free in an old bunkhouse on a ranch north of Tucson. I lived there at the whim of the owner who didn’t like me, despite never having done anything to cause her to dislike me. Initially, both late Other Half and I had been promised work there, but my bookkeeping job fell through. In hindsight, I suspect that the owner never intended to hire me.

To make a very long story short, I hated living there. I never had felt so lonely before--- or since. I don’t suffer from depression. Good thing, too, because living in that place was depressing. The ranch was located in the Catalina Mountains, aka the middle of nowhere.

After doing a few household chores, I had nothing to do for the rest of the day. Because of the drug drops rumored to be taking place at a nearby airstrip, I was warned not to wander outside the ranch grounds. So my leisure activities generally were limited to: 1) hanging out with the ranch cats, or 2) visiting the foreman’s wife and watching what seemed like endless soap operas while listening to her complain about everything and everyone.

I frequently woke up at night wondering if I would ever get off the mountain. Worse, not having been employed for months, I wondered if anyone would ever hire me again. Oh, yeah, I did have a job in town for a short while. I quit after a couple of weeks. I just wasn’t cut out to be a bartender.

Eventually, I did get off the mountain.

After a week of unsuccessfully looking for work, I walked into the personnel office of a big box store and almost begged the clerk for a job. She called the controller, who came down and interviewed me. I walked out with a job in the accounting department. I think the controller hired me against his better judgement because he realized I was semi-desperate for a job. After I had worked there for a couple of months, he told another employee, “I hired her off the street. I didn’t think she would stay.”

But I stayed for a little over two years. Fun times.

I left the store when I went to work at the university. I am grateful for that university job, not only because it later looked good on my resume, but also because of the many college credits I was able to accumulate for a very low cost.

Fast forward several years. Those university credits transferred to another college during the time of my second experience with perceived homelessness.

I was living in an apartment that was close to my job and to the college I attended. But it wasn’t my apartment; I was never on the rental agreement. Fortunately the landlord was cool with me being there. And the legal tenant acted as a buffer between me and . . . well, not going for the long explanation at this time.

However, it didn’t take me long to discover that there was an individual in the area who was not thrilled to see me there. And unlike my experience with the ranch owner, I confess that this person probably had a valid reason to feel that way. Person probably was delighted to learn I was moving back to the West shortly after finishing my last class.

I still joke about living at the post office box I rented for several years while I was completing the requirements for my degree.

Cooling off in His Secret Spot

Here’s my Beach Buddy Bruce, aka YouTube’s Oceanside Trenchcoat Guy. I filmed this video when we were hanging out at the beach on a recent Sunday morning.

Bruce is a well-known Oceanside, California, beach personality. He’s been splashing in the water wearing a trench coat for about five years. He’s been filmed, photographed, and/or interviewed, most likely by hundreds of people, including Channel 8 San Diego’s own feature reporter Jeff Zevely who spotlighted Bruce during a Zevely’s Zone interview in August 2017.

Yes, a man walking into the ocean while wearing a trench coat is an unusual, sometimes even concerning, sight. Tourists have called 911 on him several times, only to be assured that that’s Bruce and he’s okay.

Bruce is well-liked and respected by the locals and tourists who have taken the time to get to know him. People admire him for having the courage to do what makes him happy. Oceanside residents and former residents look forward to seeing the live videos he films almost every day.

In addition to posting live videos on an Oceanside community Facebook page and posting GoPro videos on his YouTube channel, Bruce also posts short videos and photos on Instagram. At last count, he has more than 4,000 people following him there.

One day, but probably not soon, I’ll post “Knock Me Over,” the first video I filmed of Bruce. I did that two years ago, on a wild night in June, when the angry sea continually catapulted water and rocks onto and across the Strand, causing the powers-that- be to close the street.

[Note: I've blogged about my Beach Buddy on Blogger before. To learn more about him, read my September 7, 2016 post.]

Don't Like to Encourage Fibbing But . . .

A couple of weeks ago, after attending Coffee with a Cop, Beach Buddy, aka the Oceanside Trenchcoat Guy, dropped me off in front of my apartment complex. I was heading to the front gate when I noticed a twenty-something young man (YM) who seemed to be wandering around aimlessly. I didn’t recognize him as a neighborhood resident. On the other hand, he didn’t look homeless. He approached me as I was about to disappear into the courtyard.

YM: Do you have any spare change for the bus?

Me: Sorry, no. But you could try giving the bus driver a sob story. (Over the years, I’ve seen various scenarios work well hundreds of times.)

YM: I tried that.

Me: Try another bus driver.

Yes, I probably shouldn’t have offered suggestions, but I did. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t encourage anyone to fib to an NCTD driver. But it was oppressively warm that day. And I all too well remember waiting for buses in Tucson during July.

Brouhaha At the Carnival

[Note: I confess that this essay is very badly written (and you know it is very badly written when I use two adverbs together to describe it). Sadly, over the years, I have downloaded too many freebie e-novels that weren’t written much better than this.]

Talk about being a drama queen; I think I was at my best with this essay. Well, at the time; later, I did top it as a college freshman. Unfortunately, the writing in this is really bad, well, more like terrible. But what the heck, I was seventeen when I wrote it. I’m fairly certain I typed this draft on a manual typewriter. During typing class, when, of course, I should have been practicing whatever lesson we were supposed to practice that day. And I sucked at typing on any form of a manual typewriter. My fingers were too short to reach the keys correctly. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

I’ve modified the essay just a tiny bit, but this version contains 99 percent of the original material, minus the typos and weird punctuation, of course. However, I did retain all those strangely structured sentences, the weird word usage, and those awful adverbs—ugh. I’ve also added comments in brackets. Names of all participants have been changed to (hopefully) prevent anyone reading this from figuring out who they really were.

This version isn’t complete; the last page seems to be missing. So this probably was a rough draft. I must have edited the story a bit because I’m sure I showed a “clean copy” to “Jeremy” (a high school boyfriend, more or less, mostly less as it turned out). I made him read a lot of the crazy stuff I wrote. He never told me I was crazy, except the time that “Kate” and I stalked his brother “Roddy” by trailing him down the street for about a half mile one Columbus Day, back in the Mid-Jurassic Period. Oh, wait; it was Roddy who told Jeremy we were crazy. (Sorry, Roddy, we were really bored that day, and you just happened to walk by. We saw an opportunity and we took it.)

Thinking about it now, I wonder how we ever got into this mess. Making that remark wasn’t like “Jenna.”

We We’re Minding Our Own Business When…

Every year, some organization in the next town [Fire Dept.?] sponsors a carnival. I think it goes on for the better part of a week. My four friends and I went to the carnival for three nights in a row. By the third night we felt like veterans [lame usage here].

Passing by a certain bunch of guys we knew, I could sense Roddy and “Max” staring at me behind my back [Yeah, I know, adolescent paranoia.] You’d think I committed a crime. [Huh! Jeremy cheated on me; well, I guess maybe he cheated on both of us. Yeah, he did.] But I wasn’t at the carnival to brood over my personal problems [even though I did anyway]. Thoughts of Roddy’s boyish looking [Well, he was a boy.] younger brother, Jeremy, never wandered far from my mind or my heart. [OMG, I can’t believe I wrote that, but I was sixteen (at the time this brouhaha happened) and thought I was “in luuuve.”]

The five of us decided to split up. Kate, “Cindy”, and I stayed together, while Jenna and “Sally” went off together in another direction. Kate talked Cindy into having a picture taken at the photo booth, so we went over there.

About twenty minutes later, we were standing in front of the photo booth when Sally came racing up to us, trailed closely by Jenna whose appearance had suddenly changed from one of exemplary to that of chaotic. Her long, honey-brown hair [honey brown?], which had been pulled back into a french twist, now looked disheveled and uncombed [redundant]. To me, her appearance relayed the impression that she had just slugged it out with someone. How right I was!

Breathlessly [How’s that for an adverb?], Jenna and Sally had pieced together their little escapade of a few minutes ago. They had been standing in front of the motorcycle exhibition when Sally made some reference to Hoody Guy who was practically the star attraction of that racket. A couple of nights previously, he had made clear his interest in Sally [In other words, he tried to hit on her.].

Although the feeling was NOT mutual, Sally made some remark about him. It was just her bad luck that the two girls standing in front of them didn’t exactly appreciate Sally’s praise of Hoody Guy’s masculine attributes [Whatever the heck they were. Sally may have been impressed, but I wasn’t.] In fact, their dislike was so intense that they started bugging Jenna.

Jenna was wearing a very nice pair of slacks. One of the girls said to her, “So, you think you’ve got hot pants.”

“No,” Jenna said. “I think they’re cool.”

The girl apparently didn’t much like that answer. She had slapped Jenna across the face and started pulling her hair. Sally, completely stunned, had backed off and watched the affair [weird choice of word] from a safe distance. Finally, Jenna got away and she and Sally went looking for the rest of the crew.

As we listened to the details, Kate, Cindy, and I began to feel pangs [another weird choice of word] of revenge surge within us [Oh, the drama---and the insanity.] In a wild moment of madness [That explains it.], we all hollered, “Let’s go get them.” After securing [Oh, puhlezzze!] a description of the two from Jenna and Sally, the five of us courageously set out to finish what Sally had unwillingly started.

Halfway to our destination, a thought suddenly hit me like a bombshell [Yikes!]. Calling our little army [Well, fits in with bombshell.] to an abrupt halt, I asked Jenna to repeat her description of the girls. She did: one blonde, one brunette. Oh, brother, I had seen those two here before. And man, were they ever something. My idea of two typical sluts [is writing sluts politically correct these days?], and how right I was.

Realizing that we weren’t fooling with just anybody, I began to think things over. However, the determination of the others dissolved [weird word again] any fears I might have had at the moment. Chins set firmly [s/b chins firmly set for consistency w/fists phrase] and fists tightly clenched, the five of us continued on in our search for trouble.

We found it, or rather, it found us halfway around the carnival grounds. That’s when we sighted [Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.] our opponents heading in our direction. Personally, I’d rather have sighted a saber-toothed tiger and a dinosaur instead, but that’s life, so they say [really lame sentence, and weird too]. Just about then, I thought life was getting to be pretty crazy and a little dangerous [Got even crazier a couple of weeks later, but that’s another story involving an “open house” event, a minor accident, and a state trooper.].

Our courage began to fail as we previewed [ugh] our opposition. We unanimously decided against violence and continued on our way, ignoring the two. Unfortunately they decided not to be ignored. We all cautioned one another not to get excited [Panic would be a better word here.] as the pair began trailing after us. After all, there were five of us and only two of them.

I walked about five yards ahead of the others, with Kate close behind [We were scared out of our minds at this point.]. Intuition told me there was going to be trouble, and again, how right I was [I seemed to be right a lot]. Making up my mind, I turned to Kate, “I’m going to find a cop.”

“No,” Kate said, “If my mom and dad see this….” [Kate and Jenna’s parents were also at the carnival that night.]

Ignoring Kate’s protest, I raced to the animal [sheep? cows? pigs?] exhibition where I found a rather elderly gentleman who was certainly far from my idea of a cop [I favored State Troopers; they looked good in uniform.] but it apparently suited the person who had the audacity to pin that badge on the man’s shirt. And as long as he was endowed with that shiny symbol of authority, he would do. [Oh, puhlezzze!]

Attempting not to appear too worried [actually too freaked out], I told the officer that two girls were apparently determined to start something with my friends and me. I explained that they had evidently [way too many adverbs in this thingy] singled out one of my friends to push around.

Without any sign of surprise [Happened all the time, I guess.], he followed me almost mechanically to one area of the carnival where a crowd had gathered. Shoving my way through the human mess, I blinked my eyes in disbelief at the sight before me. The Blonde had grabbed Jenna’s long brown hair and, by that means was whirling her around [bad sentence]. Jenna was no match for the girl, who, by her attitude of pugnacity [pugnacious attitude], conveyed to me the impression that she was, most likely, the veteran of several similar disagreements.

I knew that I had to do something. But what? Realization hit me like a rocket [Oh, puhleeze! Yeah, I know redundant expression.] as I turned my shocked gaze and discovered to my horror [No, really?] that Jenna wasn’t the only one being thrown around. Kate, standing stunned on one side of the crowd, was about to be charged by the Brunette, who looked no less friendly [This should either have been less friendly or no more friendly, but whatever.] than her companion.

In the midst of all this excitement, whom did I happen to glance upon standing bewildered among the spectators but Sally and the equally dazed Cindy.

I knew what I had to do. As the Brunette came racing toward Kate, I charged into her with all my strength, and as she retreated in surprise, I yelled in her face with all the audacity within me [sure], “You leave her alone!”

Caught off guard, the Brunette fell back, startled. “What are you butting in for?” she yelled.

Before I had a chance to yell a smart remark in return and before she had the chance to reciprocate the attack, the slightly tardy police officer (or whatever he was), who didn’t seem much interested in the first place, calmly wandered into the circle and broke everything up. The crowd, disappointed because the battle had culminated in the first round [Wonder what the heck that was supposed to mean?], faded away in amusement [ugh].

Hoping against hope that we had seen the last of that pleasant pair, Jenna, Kate, and I rounded up the two non-participants and proceeded to continue our tour of the carnival grounds. This time we stuck together.

About twenty minutes later, while standing before one of the many amusement booths, I learned to our great dismay that fate was against us. When turning around, I noticed the enemy sneaking up behind us. Not rejoicing at this present development, I concluded that I’d just better find that cop again.

I walked away from the booth at a normal pace. Kate came up behind me. “I think they’re going to start something,” she whispered. “I heard one of them say ‘you take this one, and I’ll take that one.’”

The next thing I knew, one of the girls grabbed my coat [Why the heck was I dragging a coat around? It was July.] “Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.

“I’m going to get a cop,” I said in exactly the tone of voice that I had been addressed.

“And why are you going to get a cop?” the Blonde asked.

“Because,” I retorted, “I don’t like the way you’re treating my friends.”

Apparently, that wasn’t the answer they were looking for, because the next thing I knew I was being slapped across the face. As I realized my true plight, I began to panic. I wanted to run, and then the Blonde smacked me good with her experienced little hand.

Courage renewed, I threw down my sweater [What the heck happened to my coat?] and began kicking wildly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kate shoving her way through the crowd that had gathered.

[Unfortunately, the last page of this story got lost somewhere between the Mid-Jurassic Period and now. However, here’s how it ended: Kate grabbed onto a post and started kicking the Brunette in the stomach. About two minutes later Kate and Jenna’s parents wandered into the scene and broke up the fight. Blonde and Brunette took off, never to be seen again that evening.

A few minutes later, we discussed the situation with two or three guys who began talking to us. They were strangers to us, but they knew the other girls and their reputations. The guys walked around the carnival with us for the remainder of the evening, for protection, I guess. I don’t remember who they were; I (more or less, less as it turned out) had a boyfriend at the time, so I wasn’t interested. At any rate, we didn’t become permanent friends with them, which probably is just as well.]

Just One of Those Things You Always Remember (Updated)

[Note: This post was originally published on November 12, 2012.]

I was fourteen then and in the ninth grade.

Back in the Mid-Jurassic Period, students were allowed to leave the school grounds for lunch. On that particular day, I was walking to the diner with a friend who was in the eighth grade. I’ll call her Lily, but that wasn’t her real name.

We were halfway there when Lily stopped in the middle of the street, grabbed my arm, pulled me closer, and whispered in my ear, “See that guy coming toward us.”

How could I not see that guy coming toward us? He looked nasty—scowl on his face, black leather jacket, tight jeans. The word hood popped into my head.

“That’s [Tough Guy],” Lily said. Although I hadn’t formally been introduced to Tough Guy, I knew some things about him, and they were not good things. He was a person whose reputation preceded him.

“He had to get married,” Lily whispered as he strutted past us. “Now he has to get divorced because he has to get married again.”

Yikes, I thought. “That’s crazy,” I said. “And anyway, maybe you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

Actually, Lily sort of heard right. The timing was a little off though. Tough Guy did get divorced within a few months. And he did have to get married again, but that happened about five years later. He married Lily.

Postscript

I was formally introduced to Tough Guy during my senior year of high school. By that time we had several mutual friends, including my friend Kate.

Lily and Tough Guy eventually divorced. She remarried and moved out of state. Tough Guy never remarried. Maybe he thought two marriages and two divorces were enough.

Sadly, both Lily and Tough Guy died much too young. Lily was a likeable person. Tough Guy, not so likeable most of the time. However, there was an evening when I decided I liked him a little better.

One Friday evening, back in the Late Jurassic Period, I was watching Kate’s children when Tough Guy showed up at her house. I didn’t realize he had been drinking, or I would have told him to go away. With the kids there, I didn’t want to provoke him, so I figured I’d let him stay as long as he behaved.

Yes, he did behave.

I don’t remember what our original conversation was about, but after a while, Tough Guy started talking about the son he had with his first wife. The son, I’ll call him “Wayne,” had been a toddler when he was adopted by his mother’s new husband.

Apparently Wayne, now a teenager, recently had learned that Tough Guy was his biological father. Wayne telephoned Tough Guy and asked him if he was his real dad. Tough Guy told him, “I may be your biological dad, but that man you live with, the one who takes care of you, he’s your real dad.”