ILIANA FROM OLD NAVY

March 15, 2004 | 9:07pm

Iliana turned the simple act of running out of gas into an exact science. After all the times I pushed her into the Diamond Shamrock, hugged her, said it be all right, dried her tears, and told her not to do it again, she did — again and again. I even scuffed up my favorite Steve Madden knock-off shoes for her while nudging her empty twot car into a stranger’s driveway.

But she’s all grow’d up now and has done it so many times, she doesn’t cry when it happens. She has AAA speed-programmed into her cell phone and probably carries an extra container of gas in her trunk. She says she can’t do it anymore now that she lives in D.C. and I couldn’t be happier — the streets circle in weird unending loops there and I have real Steve Madden shoes. But there was a time when Iliana was a disaffected Old Navy sales person just like me.

Flashback to 1998

I met Iliana today. She has a beautiful smile, long gorgeous blond hair, and perfect skin — bitch. She’s also extremely lazy. I hate working with her; she never puts the garment number on the doors in the fitting room. I’m constantly opening the door to half-naked women with torn off-white panties or frightened children. At Old Navy I work at a pace called "communist production level." Okay, I only work that fast when I’m in the fitting room or at the cash register. "I NEED TWO BOAT NECK TOPS FROM WOMEN’S SHOP THREE! SIZE SIX IN BABY BLUE. AND SIZE 0 IN BLOOD RED! FROM MEN’S SHOP 2, I NEED SHIT BROWN PAINTER PANTS IN SIZE FAT."

But on the floor I can’t sell worth a damn. I don’t like talking to people or standing up for five hours straight. That’s why I take numerous bathroom breaks.

All Old Navy employees receive headsets at the beginning of their shift. It’s a power thing, knowing what’s happening all around the store. You hear the fitting room barking demands and requests to the various shops in the store, you hear the manager telling the lucky to take a fifteen-minute break, but there’s also a dark side to the headsets.

For the unfortunate soul who asks to take a bathroom break, there’s a 50% chance of disaster. Even if you take off your headset, you can still bump the "on" switch. It’s a one way radio, making it impossible for anyone to tell you you’re "live" in the bathroom. Everyone can hear you sighing; mumbling,"oh yeah;" farting; and of course, humming that oh so catchy song "Hit Me Baby One More Time." ***Plop, plop, sputter, pop***

Iliana, however, is the kind of person to sprint to the door, bang it down, and yell, "YOUR MIC IS ON!" Wait, that’s not her. She’d the one to laugh her ass off and console me later. And that’s why I love her, she’s fun and exciting. She doesn’t take life so seriously and she’ll scare the bejesus out of you after a scary movie.

Iliana is a true friend. After all, who else would laugh when I thought I got herpes from that fuck’n cop? How was I supposed to know it was just a rash?

Hey, Ils! Remember the airport? See you in San Diego!