The one with the odd job, drag queens, and little old ladies

So they say, everyone at one point or another has one of those jobs that classify as “The oddest job I’ve ever had.”

It’s the factoids you see in the magazines about celebrities; like, “Before she was famous, Jennifer Aniston was a waitress” or “Before he was famous, Brad Pitt stared in a Pringles commercial.” or “Before he was famous, Justin Timberlake was famous.”

I’m not saying I’m headed for stardom, I’m just saying I occasionally work a job that’s being filed as “that-job” if ever the card need be pulled.

You see, on occasion, I help a friend out by covering her shift at her afternoon assignment. And what is it I do? Well, I’m a carrier for a pharmacy (read: drug trafficker). I drive to the friendly neighborhood pharmacy, pick up a 5-gallon-size Tupperware full of prescription medication and deliver it to old folks like the milkman of yesteryear.

This is never without event. Like the one time when I saw an old lady run across the hall to find her pants before she answered the door. Scarring. And quite frankly, I don’t know how I recovered to a straight face before she answered the sliding glass door.

Today, I was invited into the home of an 86 year old woman who no longer can hold a pen steady to write her name. Before we could walk across her cozy living room where she lives alone, we paused in the middle of the room so she could tell me what she was watching on TV.

The season finale of “America’s Next Drag Queen”

So, for the span of a whole commercial break, I stood inside a cozy little living room with an 86 year old lady and watched transsexuals parade down a catwalk.

“Isn’t she pretty? Oh, dear me. I called him a her! I can’t believe it. I can’t think of them as men, they should just stay women. Those wigs are very expensive, and oh! Look at those legs! If I had legs like that I would dance like that for $25,000.”

…Smile and nod, Chase. Smile and nod.

(And avoid that last visual. No, seriously, don’t think about that. . . too late.)

Not long afterward, she began to complain about her handwriting. To find common ground I joked “People look at my handwriting and ask if I want to be a Doctor.” She forced a chuckle.

As we were huddled over the table in her kitchenette, still watching the television, she told me, “My daughter has a,” she paused to whisper, “girlfriend.”

“Her girlfriend called me yesterday to tell me she received her doctorate!” Her eyes widened and twinkled enough to be noticed.
“I told her, ‘I always wanted my daughter to marry a doctor!’” She flashed what I’m sure were dentures, and then her lip quivered just enough to be noticed.

The elderly lady, stuck half-stroke into her first name, told me about her birthday party earlier this month. And how she received 12 cards from 12 friends, and how great a sense of humor her daughter and daughter’s girlfriend, Phd, have, and how she doesn’t have any cousins left anymore (even the ones younger than her have passed on), and how she doesn’t have any money left anymore.

But then, as she signed her last name and I scooped up the check and documents, she showed me her fridge. Spreading near-every inch of the white, two-level fridge and freezer: magnets. Magnets marking a world well traveled. Cruise ships and ancient ruins and frou-frou rufflely friendship memorandum.

“And this is why I’m broke.” The old woman chuckled.

“You lived a full life!”

“I did! And I danced! For 11 years, I danced!” She nodded toward the shelf dedicated to ballroom trophies with a delayed wink.

As she walked me to the door, she asked my name.

“Chase.”

“Wha?”

“Chase…. like chasing after someone. . .”

“Cha-… Chad?”

“No, Chase. Like the bank”

“…”

“C-H-A-S-E”

“… Chase?”

“Yep! That’s my name.”

“That’s a different name. That’s a good name.”

“Thank you. I like it.”

“You keep that good name.”

She said it one more time, just in case I missed the weight:

“You keep that good name.”