The BONEBOX, or The Grim Reaper Wields an Extra-Care Card
Posted September 27, 2009on:
So, this morning, I pull in to my second favorite haunt, CVS, (my first favorite being ANY yard sale or thrift/second-hand/consignment/antique boutique) and what should my wandering eyes behold?
Only THE most incredible old HEARSE on earth – right there in the handi-spot!
I LOVE this old hearse!
(I realize we’re nearing Halloween, but this is the second time this week I’ve seen it out’n’about….)
I LOVE this old hearse!
(have I mentioned this?)
It’s decorated with morbid-cute stickers and fake foliage and a warm, fuzzy death-wreath adorns its grill; what’s not to love?
BEST OF ALL, its tag reads:
Though I do drive my dream car, my sassy red convertible bug (and you thought I was gonna say ‘Suzie,’ my ’97 Isuzu-Trooper-Beater, didn’t ya?);
THE VIV COVETS THE BONEBOX !
*As you may have already deduced, Viv has a story on the BONEBOX. She has stalked that corpse-coche for a couple of years; it is the muse for an already-in-progress YA novel (on which she’d better git her draggin’ dupey a’crackin)’. She has tried many a time, in vain, to discover its mystery driver.
Who could be behind the wheel of the tricked-out tomb-taxi?!
So, I’m trolling the aisles of the store, in search of its elusive chauffeur. There aren’t many customers, and I see no one who may be a possibility.
Now, I’m not exactly sure for whom I look, but I’m fairly certain there must be some emaciated 7-ft.- scraggly-haired-hooded-robe-wearin’-Crypt-Keepin’-zombie lurking somewhere in the well-stocked rows of pharma-heaven. I’m thinkin’ anyone wielding a scythe (NOT one of those plastic-kiddie-jobbies) will be a dead giveaway. I will positively burst into tears if the driver turns out to be the sweet old grandma perusing the $4.99 Good News Bibles (although, it appears she may soon be a BONEBOX passenger).
I spy a burly fella over in Vitamins (in his Gold’s Gym tee and spandex shorts — no doubt I’ll see him on peopleofwalmart.com someday – directly under a photo of myself); but, nope, no way; he’s not my guy. (I’m guessin’ he’s the school-bus-yellow Mustang.)
I will cry if Grandma owns the BONEBOX, but I will shit myself right there in CVS if Grandma’s ride is the Mustang; I swing through the Depends, just in case.
In Frozen, I run into my all-time-favorite clerk, Miss M. She is the sweetest little gal, and I just love her (and not just because she KNOWS my fag-of-fancy and is the one who slides my pleasure across the counter). I sidle up to her, scope for eavesdroppers, and in hushed-tone, let her in on my little recon mission.
As Miss M. returns to the register, I make a final, disappointing sweep.
That’s it. There is no one else in the store.
Did that creepy coffin-chariot drive here by itself?!
I high-step it to the checkout. Hearse still here? Check. Did Miss M. see anyone leave? Nope.
Now, while Miss M. checks-out some other lady, I’m keepin’ an eye on the register and the door, squatting behind the As Seen on TV! and New! Maybelline metallics displays, keeping an ultra-low profile in my red polo, hot-pink John Deere ball cap and reflective yellow raincoat. (I SO should’a been a spy…is there a ‘peopleofcvs’ website?)
The woman checking out is short and stocky and in her mid-late forties. She has Sally Field’s Steel Magnolias-helmet-hair, and though she’s sportin’ a stylin’ black ensemble (low, black patent-leather heels, slacks and a black tunic with, I think, tiny white flowers), she’s some meek’n’mild school secretary or a volunteer at the library.
Naw, she’s no BONEBOX driver, either.
Who the holy-heck is mannin’ that hearse?!
I must know!
Now it’s a frickin’ QUEST, Gawd-damnit!
There are only three cars left in the parking lot, and one’a’them’s mine! C’mon!
Panic-stricken, fearing I’ve somehow missed someone else, I leap up and bolt to the back of the store via its gray main path (my head flooded with the fuckin’ Munchkins advising me to ‘Follow the yellow-brick road’).
Nobody else is in the joint!
I tear back up front (shut-up, Munchkins!) just in time to see the automatic doors close behind the unassuming black-clad secretary/librarian.
I ask Miss M. if she saw anyone else. Nope.
And it hits me; NO FREAKIN’ WAY!…no…freakin’…way….
I tiptoe-creep backward from the check-out to the edge of the door frame and lean back to a 60˚ angle to peek out at the BONEBOX.
I sprint back over to Miss M. (who is, by the way, only mildly entertained by my antics, so familiar is she with my lunacy).
“THAT’S HER! SHE’S THE ONE! OHMIGOD! WERE THOSE LITTLE SKULLS ON HER SHIRT?! I THOUGHT THEY WERE FLOWERS! THEY WERE TINY SKULLS, WEREN’T THEY?! OHMIGAWD!”