Too Pretty for Him | Dave's Place

Why I Volunteer II

In my volunteer job at Urban Ministries of Durham, that Thursday was a weird day; a tropical storm was headed our way, so a lot of people hadn’t come out. On the other hand, and this happens periodically, street people who don’t qualify for the homeless shelter (perhaps because they drink or take drugs) were showing up in droves. It’s as if they live together, under an overpass or something, and decide together that they want to come in. They get some used clothes from the closing closet, and what we call On the Street food from the food pantry, cans of Vienna sausages and things like that, items they don’t need to cook.

They kept coming in. There would be periods of time when the volunteers were standing around, then another group straggled in.

I had hardly slept the night before, and was feeling anxious, because of a blood pressure reading I’d had. It was apparently the result of defective equipment (though the cuff was in a dentist’s office) but I didn’t know that at the time. When you think your blood pressure is mildly high, like 130/70, and somebody suddenly tells you it’s 210/95, it’s anxious making. So I wasn’t myself.

Wasn’t I wonderful to volunteer after all I’d been through.

A man came in who didn’t seem like the rest. He was, tall, graying, powerfully built, African American; he was dressed all in white, a t-shirt and slacks, and walked slowly with a cane. He was a new client, which meant I’d need to do a fair amount of paperwork. He seemed exhausted and in pain, and when he sat down beside me slumped over and groaned. He said he’d just had a bone marrow transplant and it had worn him out.

People who come in off the street often say wild things. I didn’t see how that could be true. A bone marrow transplant?

But as I interviewed him I found he wasn’t on the street. He had an address.

He showed me his arms, which were large and muscular, but one was swollen, markedly larger than the other. He showed me a place on his back that was bandaged, and where he’d taken the needle. In addition to the place on his arm? I wasn’t sure.

“I also took a 45 slug in my back. You can still see where that went in.”

There was, indeed, another scar on his back, that might have been from a bullet.

When did that happen, I wondered. Were all these things related?

“Are you disabled?” I said. The questions we ask often sound stupid. One of the ways people qualify for food is by being disabled.

“I am. I get a check every month. Small check, but I get it.”

“Do you have proof of disability?”

That question can seem cruel, when the proof is sitting right there. We’re nevertheless required to have proof of disability to provide food on an ongoing basis, every month. We don’t require it for the first visit, since the client might not have known.

I explained all that. He could get food that day, but before he came next month he needed to go to social services and get documentation.

I was looking at his ID as I filled out the paperwork. I noticed by his date of birth that he was 60.

“In two years you won’t have to show proof,” I said. “You’ll be 62, and qualify automatically.”

“I won’t be here in two years,” he said. At first I thought he was pushing back, as if to say, I don’t want to hear about two years, I want to hear about now. That wasn’t what he meant. “I’ve got an incurable form of cancer. There’s no way I’ll be here in two years.”

That stopped me short. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t understand.”

“They’re doing what they can,” he said. “But there’s no cure.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

He was eligible for food, so I gave him a card telling what he could get, and he read it over aloud. “One can green vegetable. One can corn.” It was a long list. Then I gave him the list of clothes he could got. Two pairs of pants, two tops, one pair of shoes. It all seemed paltry in the face of what he’d told me. He was nevertheless glad to get it.

“We’re short on underwear today,” I said. “And socks.”

“Damn,” he said. “Underwear is what I need.”

We were limited by what we got in donations.

An employee named Lola walked by. She’s one of those people, bright, entertaining, funny, gets along with the clients as well as with the other people who work there. She’s as likely to hang out with either group (smoking a cigarette, unfortunately). She also never forgets a name. I don’t know how she does it.

“Hey, Jesse,” she said.

He was startled. “How’d you know my name? I don’t know you.”

“You know me,” she said.

He stared at her.

“You remember when you used to date that pretty little girl over at . . .” She named some street or housing project I didn’t know.

“Oh yeah. I remember.”

“That’s where I knew you. I used to see you there.”

“All right,” he said, standing up to go in and see if we had any clothes he could use. He seemed cheered up by that thought of the past. “I remember her. She was a pretty girl. A little too pretty for me.”

“She was,” Lola said, smiling. “She was too pretty for you.”

On that they seemed to agree.