Vicki-Jesus

Have you ever had one person in your life who over a short period of time, accidentally influenced you more than you could have ever anticipated?

For me that person was Vicki. (Well technically, Vicki is not her real name. But I will use Vicki as a pseudonym in case the real 'Vicki' perchance finds my blog and decides she needs to take legal action against me for not getting permission to use her name).   

I was vaguely aware of Vicki since we went to the same high school.  She strictly hung out with a small crowd of extreme brain-iacs that I would see either in the hallways or at National Honor Society assemblies.  Me and Vicki didn’t really speak to each other, except to occasionally mutter a spontaneous “Hi”.

During high school, I began my first real job (part time) at a restaurant called Cindy’s.  Cindy’s was a blatant knockoff of Wendy’s, the only difference being that Cindyburgers were round instead of square.  I was quite the fast food restaurant protégé, and as such, I was assigned to work all the stations at Cindy’s: cash register, grill, sandwich making, drive-through, fryer, janitorial, and kitchen duty.

One day during the second half of my senior year, as I was standing at the back kitchen sink at Cindy’s washing ketchup remnants out of a stainless steel container, Vicki walked in, dressed in the same brown and orange polyester suit as me.  As I stood there in mild surprise, Vicki walked right up to me, stuck out her hand, and said, “Hello friend, looks like we are going to be working together.  I hope you like Christian rock.”

I stood there, mouth slightly agape. Christian rock? Isn’t that an oxymoron? It was apparent from her one brief sentence, that my young self had completely misjudged Vicki.  She wasn’t an extreme brainiac.  She was an extreme brainiac Jesus freak.

The manager at Cindy’s decided that Vicki should ‘shadow’ me at every station.  Thus for a week Vicki dutifully followed me around listening to my instructions. We looked funny together, me and Vicki.  I was tall, slender, and athletic and she was really short and fire-hydrant-ish.  As we worked together closely during that week, I was convinced the customers had started regarding us as a living version of a Brunswick bowling pin and ball.      

I also discovered during that shadowing week, that Jesus-isms (Jes-isms?) eeked out of Vicki at every inconceivable opportunity. For example: if Vicki accidentally forgot to turn on the timer and burnt the french fries?  No worries, this was just Jesus signaling her to learn better time management.  Or, if Vicki accidentally miscounted and gave back incorrect change, thereby shorting the cash register? Her explanation was that this was Jesus’ way of instructing her to pay more attention to financial matters.  My personal favorite was when Vicki forgot to clean the men’s restroom and everyone had to stay late after closing and help her out. According to Vicki, this was Jesus signaling it was not the appropriate time for her to intimately mingle with the opposite sex. 

Since Jesus was her very own BFF 24/7, Vicki had developed a distinct disdain for anyone who swore around them.  Which was problematic, since we always seemed to be scheduled to work together and I had an affinity for cussing (look people, I was a good girl student who didn’t smoke, drink, do drugs, or behave like a ho. I needed a vice, okay?). Vicki took it upon herself to address my swearing transgressions by either reciting a psalm or actively ignoring me for the rest of the shift.    

Naturally working at Cindy’s alongside Vicki brought out the worst in me.  And thus any opportunity I could take to torture her, I would.  For example, right before Easter, as Vicki and I were stocking burgers in the back freezer, I purposely questioned the existence of God.  Or during the nights when I had dish duty and was by default, left in charge of the kitchen stereo, I would crank Hells Bells and other unacceptable songs by AC/DC as soon as I knew Vicki was coming. And so it went, me goading Vicki with benign anti-Christian acts every chance I could, and Vicki reacting predictably, by trying to correct the error of my ways and lead me down the path of righteousness.  This often included deluging me with Bible study pamphlets, Christian music tapes, and plastic cross necklaces, which I often tossed aside while laughing in her face and telling her to leave me alone. 

I realize now that Vicki was quite patient with me, even though the onslaught of my outlandish pranks and behavior around her never seemed to cease. (There was however one exception of her complete intolerance, and that happened early one Saturday morning before opening, when I changed the words of Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me Baby” to “Won’t You F*ck Me Lady”, and sang it loud and off key specifically for Vicki to hear.  Then she got real mad and chased me several times around the kitchen table with a broom and surprising speed for a fire plug, until our manager intervened and saved me from certain beating.)

High school ended and Vicki switched jobs. Naturally one would assume that would have been the end of our relationship, as we had little in common.  However fate, she of the ironic twisting kind, kept Vicki and me together via carpooling to school, as we both started our college education at the University of Illinois at Chicago. 

Carpooling to UIC made sense, since we each lived at home and the drive from the suburbs to Chicago was long and expensive (and considering we were both paying for our own educations, this mattered).  Vicki drove an ancient white Volkswagen Bug that was so badly rusted, I had to take heed where I put my feet, or risking losing them to the pavement whooshing by below.

At the time, UIC bordered a somewhat rough Chicago neighborhood and it was prudent for students to stay within, or north, of the school boundaries.  One early afternoon, after we finished classes and met at our designated spot, Vicki declared she had to fill up the Volkswagen’s gas tank before we could get on the highway.  So we piled into her car, and whilst I put my nose into a chapter of a textbook, Vicki began her search for a nearby gas station.

As Vicki pulled into a Shell Oil station, I stopped reading, looked around my unfamiliar surroundings, and realized with a chill that Vicki had gone south and driven us straight off the UIC school grounds and right into heart of Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown’s neighborhood.

While Vicki obliviously steered the rickety Volkswagen right up to a pump, approximately eight harden badasses stopped what they were doing to stare at us incredulously for trespassing on their turf. In a feeble attempt to minimize my appearance, I immediately tried to hunker down in my seat; however I didn’t get very far, because my long legs were immediately stopped by the dashboard and overall lack of room available on the passenger side. 

“Vicki”, I hissed, “What the hell are you doing?  Look out your window.  We can’t get gas here, we’re gonna f*ckin’ die”.

Vicki let out a long suffering sigh and stated, “I refuse to listen to you France, especially when you resort to such needless swearing.”

And just like that, I knew Vicki's door of reason was closed for business. Left with no options, I reached down into my Garfield backpack, grabbed the twin pink rabbit’s feet my sister had given me, and started to rub furiously.

Vicki killed the engine.  Rummaging through her pocket, she pulled out five dollars.  With her stubby left hand on the door handle, she paused, turned her head and looked over at me.  Through the cloud of pink rabbit fur that was rapidly accumulating in the space between us, our eyes met.

“Don’t do it”, I pleaded softly, “Don’t go out there.”   She hesitated, then opened the door and got out. And right before she slammed the car door closed, I had an epiphany and shouted, “JESUS WANTS US TO LEAVE RIGHT NOW, VICKI. RIGHT NOW.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to cope with whatever was surely about to happen next, when suddenly, the car door opened, Vicki got back in, and turned the key in the ignition.  The old Volkswagen engine sputtered for a moment and then kicked into life.  Vicki floored the gas pedal and the car lurched forward, stalled, and then took off at a surprising speed.  Vicki, now on a mission from the Lord Jesus himself, steered the Volkswagen between the Shell Oil sign and the station’s entryway and next I knew, she had created a new route by driving over the sidewalk and off the curb, while simultaneously establishing a force field that left the Volkswagen airborne. We flew across the empty eastbound lanes midair, and Vicki somehow managed to veer due west.  Then the Volkswagen landed with a thud, and she continued on to run a stoplight that had just turned red at the intersection of Get Your Fool Honky Asses Outta Here Ln and Otherwise We Cut You Dumb Bitches Up Blvd. 

Vicki managed to drive us to a gas station in Little Italy on fumes and prayers, while I meagerly aided our journey by reverting to my strong Italian-Catholic roots and making several signs of the Cross.   

Safety surrounded by my people (who else? Italians), I tried to absorb my current emotional state as Vicki filled the tank.  Honestly? I was torn, for I didn’t know whether to be grateful that Vicki had obviously banked enough points with Jesus to get us out of that situation, or be mad that Jesus didn’t give that stupid Vicki enough common sense not to get us into it in the first place.  I also had a nagging notion somewhere in the deep dark corner of my brain that maybe, just maybe, this might have been Jesus’ way of telling me that it was time to stop messing with one of his most ardent freaks.    

Soon after, Vicki switched schools and we stopped carpooling.  I never heard or saw her again.

And this takes me back to my initial question. For now because of Vicki, anytime I come across a Jesus freak and feel the uncontrollable urge to do or say something to purposely get myself into un-heavenly hot water, I find myself asking: France, would Jesus really want you to do this?

(P.S. sometimes, his answer is YES).