Laurel, The Very Bad Volunteer
When I was a sophomore in high school, a friend and I decided to volunteer with a local, health-related non-profit. (I’d like to say it’s because we were moved by a presentation during one of our school’s “development days” – when we were supposed to learn more about ourselves and the community, or something like that – but it probably had more to do with the fact that sophomore year was the time people started talking about “college applications” and “extracurricular activities” and “standing out.” Also, in fairness, I should probably only implicate myself in the resume-building motive. My friend was probably much more pure-hearted.)
Anyway, the volunteer job we ended up with involved delivering meals to homebound patients. And while this job probably sounds easy enough, we were pretty terrible at it. I blame two primary culprits:
- My complete lack of direction in neighborhoods I’d never visited before and
- Naked people.
We usually only had four or five meals to deliver each Saturday, and I really don’t think more than two ever made it to their intended destination. I also think we were pretty liberal with our definition of “lunch time.”
You see, as a newly-minted driver it turns out that I was pretty good at driving in Mountain Brook and going to and from my high school. Shockingly, most of the meals we were supposed to deliver were not 1. In the suburb of Mountain Brook or 2. Next to my high school.
In the dark ages, armed only with a paper map of Birmingham, we did our best, but I’m afraid our best was sorely lacking.
“Which exit do we take again?” I said.
“Greensprings,” my friend said. “I think.”
“You think?”
“It could be Green Valley. I’m not sure.”
Without a doubt, I’d usually miss both exits, and even if I found the right one, the side streets after that were nightmares. Many a volunteer run ended with me in near tears saying, “Are we ever going to get home?”
Unfortunately for the poor woman in charge of volunteers, each run also tended to wrap up with the return of at least one undelivered lunch.
Even without the trauma of navigation, I probably wouldn’t have lasted long as volunteer because of the latter aforementioned issue – naked people.
When we finally did find a house or apartment, my friend and I took turns going in to deliver the meals. (Someone had to stay in the car and try to get a head start on how we were going to get to our next destination.)
After knocking at one house, I heard a “come in” and went through the front door.
“Hi,” I said. “I have the meal you requested.”
“He’s in the back,” a young woman about my age said.
With the go-ahead to keep walking through a stranger’s house, I walked through the living room, down a hallway until I came to the first open door on the right. Inside was a very large and very nude man.
“Here’s your meal,” I said, not at all sure how I was supposed to respond in said situation (it, and maps, weren’t covered in the volunteer training), especially when he didn’t seem bothered by the fact that I’d found him naked. (We WASPs generally show great shame when caught without clothes on, so you can see how I would be confused.) I dropped the bag of food on a chair near the bed and high-tailed it out of there.
“How was it?” my friend said when I got back to the car.
“Naked,” I said. From then on, we agreed to go into all homes together.
A week or so later, we finally found our way to yet another house where we were directed to another back room. This time, we found a naked woman sitting straight up in bed.
“We have lunch,” my friend said.
“You seen my kids?” she said.
“Your kids?” my friend said.
“I think they’re out back. Go look.”
My friend (again, I suspect her motives were purer than mine) handed me the bag of food we had and went outside to start yelling for this woman’s children. While she was being a saint, I stared at the walls of the room I was in saying, “Would you like me to get your lunch out for you?” which was only met with, “I want to know where my kids are.”
At no time during this “conversation” did she ever try to cover herself or find clothes.
At the end of that day, I was pretty sure we had to talk to the volunteer coordinator. Only a month in, I was near burn-out level.
“You found a naked one,” she said, shaking her head almost in anticipation of my concerns. “We just have some patients that won’t wear clothes.”
Eventually, we didn’t get very many calls to deliver meals (shocking, I know) and soccer season started, so our tenure as volunteers came to an end. However, one of my most vivid memories of being lost is sailing through the red light where 5th Avenue South divides – one side headed to Eastwood and the other to Woodlawn – with my hands in the air. “Where on earth are we?”
I had no idea what a common part of town I was in or how close that major thoroughfare was to my own home, downtown and many, many businesses. I was just a tired, lost 16-year-old that really wanted a route with more clothed people on it.
Sometimes it can be hard to believe that 15 years later, I live less than a mile from the very same intersection and drive through it at least three or four times per week. (It's a necessary part of my many, many trips to Home Depot.)
I’d like to say I’ve learned a lot in that time, but I think the truth is that the most important info I’ve picked up along the way is that there is a light there, and it’s better to go on your way once it’s turned green.