I don't know why I wrote this. It must have been some kind of creative challenge for the Labor Day Holiday back in 2010. Honestly? I can't believe I'm owning the story except it falls squarely into thinly veiled allegory.
Just after the full moon that transcended July into August rose, the heat wave began. I had been sweating all summer, but on July 30, I watched the moon rise as sticky salt clung to my body; left from the evaporation of sweat that had come from the intense heat and physical labor of helping one very poor, very confused old woman get her window unit AC in working order. Nobody was there to help me. But that’s nothing new. I’m the manager of a non-profit food bank, and sometimes we do more than fill hungry bellies. However, the full moon and the heat tend to make even the most compassionate self-proclaimed altruist a little pissy. Given the choice, nobody was going to stand in the heat and do physical labor for even the poorest of the poor. Besides. I have unintentionally created an image of complete self-sufficiency that voids any need for help that I might have. I thought about drinking a beer, but I’m smarter than that. A day in the heat means a pesky case of dehydration. Besides, beer is a celebratory drink, and I did not wish to celebrate the coming month.
August. The hottest month of the year. The month that combines that heat with the weirdest, most inexplicable and trying circumstances that poverty can throw at a person like me. I knew that air conditioner was only the beginning. Therefore, I settled for Gatorade – the original flavor – because I’m unoriginal like that – a cool shower and an early bedtime.
By the middle of the next week, I was an expert sweater and seasoned laborer. The warehouse at the food bank was topping at a temperature of 102. Outside, the pavement was adding a few more degrees to the heat, and then the arrival of two loaded tractor trailers full of canned vegetables and baby formula added a few more temperatures to that! The rain that had cooled most of the summer suddenly stopped and traded posts with the sun. Meanwhile, many well meaning volunteers saw those big rigs roll up to our loading dock and decided to announce end-of-summer vacations. Once again, pissy trumped altruism as I trolled the halls of our administrative offices looking for anyone willing to come out and help unload those trucks.
“I don’t want to sweat. I just got my hair done.”
“I can’t lift. I have a bad back.”
“I’m tired of being expected to do everything.”
“I’m sensitive to the heat.”
No luck.
I couldn’t hardly demand that women dressed in office attire should spend the day on the loading dock with me, but it would have been nice if even one noticed that I was, once again, already drenched in sweat, therefore ruining one more pair of slacks and a new blouse. I had stopped wearing make-up years ago because I’ve always worked in the non-profit sector, and I’ve always known that meant I would have to go above and beyond; especially in August when everyone else abandoned that idea. So I entered the warehouse alone. I could literally see the heat wave shimmering in the atmosphere around the exhaust of the first truck. I beckoned the two young men who were there to finish some community service hours and said, “Whatever it was that you did to earn a community service sentence, you’re about to declare that you will NEVER do it again.” One of them groaned a little, and I gave him a look of reproach, and snapped, “Consider it detox, buster.”
By 5pm, I was thinking of just taking my underwear off and throwing them away. They had ceased to absorb sweat in about 10 minutes. So they were well past any redemption. The volunteers kind of drug themselves into the office to get their work logs signed, and I weakly smiled and waved and said, “Thank you.”
If the heat wave and its cruel tasks could have stopped there, I would have still felt sufficiently punished, but that didn’t happen. Three weeks, 8 more semis and 32 more pissy excuses later, I was grateful for the ability to help the hungry, but stretched to my limit. Between delivery 3 and 4, the break room toilet overflowed. Nobody was fessing up, but after some struggles with getting the door off the stall and then wrenching my back pulling the whole pot off its wax ring, I sent an auger down the sewer hole, and I fished out a couple of feminine products that violated the stern sign taped to the inside of the stall door: “NO FEMININE PRODUCTS IN THE TOILET!”
Regardless of what common sense demands, I drank two beers that evening and passed out by sundown. When I woke up the next morning, I had a flat tire on my ¾ ton Ford F150. I called the food bank to let them know I’d be late, and received a curt “fine” but no offer to send anyone to help me.
I mean really. How much can a human sweat and still survive?
I started to cry a little, then got myself together and remembered that my life was incredibly good compared to my clients’ lives. The recession had been especially hard on the working poor in my town. People I had never seen were coming for food assistance. Most had worked for a local plant their entire adult lives, and when it closed they had nowhere to go and nothing to do. I knew most of these people sweated and labored, like I had been doing for the past month, their entire lives, and they would have been grateful to even own a truck; much less deal with its flat tire. So I got my act together, changed into clean clothes and headed to work. It was the Friday before Labor Day.
As I pulled up to the warehouse, I noticed a few unfamiliar cars in the parking lot. I got excited because I was sure a few more volunteers were on site to help distribute food on what was sure to be a busy Saturday. For the first time in a month, my mood was soaring. It was Labor Day weekend, and I would have Monday off to relax. It was rare that I had more than one day a week off. Poverty doesn’t take a day off, so I rarely got one myself. I crossed the lot with pep in my step, and the heat began to produce sweat; even at this early time of the day. I didn’t care. Help had arrived!
I entered the warehouse smiling and shouted, “Today will be a great day, people!” As my eyes adjusted to the darker setting, I began to make out the last group of people I wanted to see. The board of directors. Why were they here? Without missing a beat, I strode over to the dozen or so overdressed community members who claimed to run the show at our food bank. Honestly, none of them had ever helped distribute food, unload a trailer full of green beans, or pulled the toilet in the ladies' room in order to retrieve someone else's carelessness. They only came to the facility once a quarter to gather in the conference room and talk about policies they rarely implemented. I had learned years ago not to point out any irrational components of anything they came up with. After all, they were my bosses. Therefore, I kept my mouth quiet as they shot down any possibility of hiring a warehouse manager to oversee the large deliveries we received regularly and manage our ever changing staff of court ordered volunteers. In their mind, a volunteer coordinator was what we needed. A time keeper. A friendly recruiter. A board member's wife. However, her work time was frequently interrupted by Alaskan cruises and weekend spa retreats, and always, those necessary breaks fell during the hottest time of the year. So a month of sweating and taking on heavy labor to supplement the incompetent nature of my jailhouse crew further fueled my animosity towards the board. But I played it off like a loyal employee should do and warmly greeted the group.
“So good to see you all. We'll have a busy day today, so expect to sweat!”
Everyone sort of shuffled and looked uncomfortable. I tried again.
“Well, we can always use help at registration.”
Still no takers.
Finally, the board president spoke.
“We've decided to turn the food bank into an all volunteer operation. Laurie, we really do appreciate all of your hard work, and we hope you'll stay on with us as a volunteer, but clearly, volunteers can run this organization.”
I was stunned. I don't know why, but I was. After all it was just another example of their hands off irrational thinking. With as much composure as I could manage, I asked, “Exactly how did you come to this conclusion?”
Another board member piped in, “Well, as you know John's wife is your volunteer coordinator.”
Did he really think I was that dumb?
“And he's been impressed with how well this place seems to run even when she's not here! We get great compliments from all segments of the community!”
By now, I was suppressing a wicked smile. Not only was I being fired, but I was being fired by a moron. I figured I had nothing to lose if I gave my two cents, so I went for it, “Well. Since your second hand observation has proven to be so valuable, let me set a few things straight for you.”
Director John spun on his heal and huffed, “I don't have time for this.”
“Tee time will wait buddy. You just fired me, and screwed the pooch while you did it. How many Scotch and sodas had you drank when you had this conversation with your wife? Because no reasonable person takes the word of a woman who spends more time in a tanning booth than on this warehouse floor.”
There was a collective gasp, and that gave me fuel to burn.
“This place runs smoothly because your so called paper pusher manager has ruined more clothes that even John's dear wife can buy while unloading trailers full of food, and fans and air conditioners. This place runs because I pull the toilet to extract feminine clogs and save this place a regular plumbing bill. This place runs because I'm the phantom who travels around the poorest of the poor neighborhoods inserting AC units in rotting windows so that some elderly woman doesn't become a summer time heat casualty statistic. And then you bunch of hands off jerks pat yourselves on the back and call it all a volunteer coordinator's success story.”
“Well, Laurie, we certainly know you've done your part...”
“Screw you, John.”
“That won't be nec...”
“No. It won't. I'll be leaving now.” I turned to leave the warehouse.
“But won't you stay and help us through today?”
I almost didn't stop, but that was the most obtuse thing I had ever heard. So I stopped and turned around.
“Has anyone of you ever gone hungry?”
No one said yes.
“Has anyone of you ever eaten what's in these cans?”
Still no affirmative response.
“Do any of you actually know any of our clients and their stories?”
Again, a rhetorical question.
“You have no idea what suffering is. Today, you're going to find out because I won't be here to help you. You just fired me before three hundred people file in here for food. You will see what hungry is. You will smell what's in those cans, You will hear their stories, and you will feel helpless and insignificant. I'll walk away from here and use my mystery reputation to get a good job with a well run non-profit organization just like this one. But the people who are lining up outside for a bag of food will be here day after day after day, and John's wife will not be here to feed them. The office staff will not be here to help them. And your so called well earned reputation will peel away like your wife's facial mask. Happy Labor Day guys. I'm not sticking around to help you, so you have no choice. Today, you're a working board, so get ready to sweat.”
I left the building, and as I passed through the line of waiting people, one man shouted, “Hey Laurie! Where ya' goin'?”
I kept walking and replied over my shoulder, “I have the weekend off. I'm planting my own garden.”
It was already 95 degrees and I wasn't sure if it was sweat or tears rolling down my face, but I slowed my pace, then I stopped and turned to face the crowd. They were the most genuine people I knew. I walked back to the line of hungry families and found the man who had called out to me. His name was John, too.
“John. Do you like homegrown green beans? Or how about tomatoes?”
“Hell yeah, I do!” he replied.
“Ever grow a garden?”
He grinned and I could count at least 4 missing teeth, “Aw... yes indeed. Had some fine gardens, but a man can't do that livin' in the projects.”
“John. I know a man who has an empty lot near your project, and I could sure use some help growing some real food for some real people. You on board.”
His face lit up and he laughed a hearty laugh while looking around the crowd, “Yes indeed! Count me in.”
And the crowd joined in.
“Me, too.”
“I got some tools I ain't used in a long while.”
“Y'all know how to grow okra? Now you can't mess up no okra.”
“ooooh. I can just taste a homegrown melon. Yes indeed!”
I threw my hands up and said, “We start tomorrow! Early! See you at seven.”
Again the chorus of hungry faces.
“That's right, baby! We gonna make our own way!”
“I'll be there!”
“Thank you, Laurie.”
When I heard that, I turned to see a young man with a small child in his arms. He said it again.
“Thank you, Laurie. Thank you for giving something to work for.”
Our garden prospered. We grew enough to create one of the most successful cooperatives in the state. All of those laborers who had lost their jobs when that plant closed finally felt like they had value. Twenty families volunteered to work that garden season after season, and what we couldn't eat, we sold to pay for seed, mulch, soil, fertilizer and chicken feed.
Two years later, that same young man joined me as I planted squash and pumpkins, and as he smoothed the dirt with calloused hands, he said, “You know. You turned Labor Day into a liberation day for me. That old plant might 'a closed, an' you might 'a got fired, but this sure beats them nasty old canned green beans you used to give me at the food bank!”
I got up and walked over to a cooler near the edge of the garden and pulled out two cold beers. I handed one to the young fellow, toasted him and said, “Here's to our liberation.”