Scream-of-Consciousness

So no shit, there I was, driving through the South Oakland ghetto Friday morning in a maroon and silver pimp van with pink plush upholstery and seven hundred dollars worth of Costco holiday decorations in the back, looking for the eight-track player.
I kid you not.
The thing about working for middle-aged nuns is that you never know what to expect. One moment you can be sitting at your desk, calmly sipping coffee and revising policy binders; the next moment a phone call can shatter your fragile peace of mind.
Now, if there is one thing in this world that I hate more than shopping, it is shopping at Costco with a deranged nun who has decided it is time to buy some new Christmas decorations.
Take this Friday for instance.
I knew when I picked up the phone that I was in for it.
It was the coy little way my boss said the words, "What are you doing?"
"Working on the med policy revisions," I replied, with a sinking feeling.
"Oh, good!" she said. "Get the wheelchair van from Maintenance and meet me at Costco in half an hour."
So I grabbed my handbag and walked down to the Maintenance shop in the basement to get the keys to the van from Charlie and Dave.
"Oh, you want the Pimp Van," Charlie said as he took the key off the rack.
"Excuse me?"
"The Pimp Van. Isn't that what it looks like?"
"I wouldn't know... I've never seen it before."
They both laughed as Charlie handed me the keys.
"Have fun!" they said.
The Pimp Van lived up to its name.
On the outside, it was maroon and silver, with wrap-around windows. On the inside, it was a Pepto Bismol nightmare. Pink plush seats, pink curtains, pink carpet. The carpet was covered with cigarette butts and crushed Cheetos. All it was really missing were the waterbed and the eight-track player.
I realized as I turned out of the parking lot that the vehicle's perimeter was made up of interconnected blind spots. I couldn't see a damned thing. This meant that I would not be able to get on the freeway, because the only way to get there would have required turns that would put my life in serious jeopardy.
So that left me driving through twenty minutes of the most picturesque section of the Oakland ghetto in this gawdawful pimpwagon.
I hoped I wouldn't see anybody I knew.
I tuned the radio to the classic rock station, KFOG. Steve Miller Band. Somehow appropriate.
For the first time in my life, I deliberately cranked up the bass. It seemed necessary.
I played air guitar.
Arriving at Costco, I met my boss, who proceeded to spend seven hundred dollars in a whirlwind forty-five minutes.
We then spent the *next* forty-five minutes trying to get all of the crap into the back of the van.
So there I was, on my hands and knees among the cigarette butts and crushed Cheetos in my brand new moleskin pants, saying silent prayers of thanks that I had been able to talk my boss out of adding another artificial Christmas tree to our list of purchases, because I didn't think I would have had the energy to climb up onto the roof of the van to tie it down at this point.
We (or rather *I*) got it all loaded, I drove back to Mercy, and my boss disappeared for more or less the rest of the day.
I gave the keys back to Charlie and Dave, saying, "Oh, by the way, the boss says *you* fellahs get to unload," with an evil grin.
And retreated to my office with stale coffee and policy revisions.

posted by lisamarlene @ 2:23 PM