Short: Gary and David, West Virginia #3
(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble all the parts into one cohesive story.)
I decided to follow Jonathan and Tom in my garnet Honda rather than ride with them in Jonathan’s white Dodge Ram. And David elected to ride with me rather that the gray beard in the truck. We got into my car and turned around in the drive behind the house and waited for Tom to join Jonathan.
“Ha,” laughed David, as he stared out he house. “He always drags out the door.”
David was young and handsome with cropped black hair and matching dark eyes. And he punctuated his conversation with laughs and nervous energy. He’d come to West Virginia with Jonathan back in the spring and seemed to relish the life he was living here.
“Where are we headed, again?” I asked as we waited.
“Gary High School. It’s where our base is. The volunteers will stay there when they come in November.”
“Ah.” I nodded as Tom strolled out the door.
“Finally.”
Over the next half hour, as we slalomed through the colorful mountains from Kimball to Gary, David became my tour guide. He pointed out the only hardware in the area, several “ok restaurants” and the houses of locals he’d met.
“Where do you hangout?” I asked.
“Hangout? Ha. We don’t really have a place to hangout. Sometimes when I’m bored I go to Walmart just to walk around and talk to the employees. Jonathan calls it a ‘loser lap.’ Other than that, we get beers- because Tom doesn’t allow alcohol in the house- and drive up the mountain near Big View. There’s no light up there so we can see all the stars.”
“I like stars.” I replied.
“Yeah? We should go up sometime.”
A moment later he pointed to several freshly painted houses across the river.
“A couple families from McDowell Mission live in those houses.”
“Who are they? McDowell Mission?”
“They are another NGO here. They get funding from the Presbytery and focus mostly on construction projects. Jonathon wants them to help us find projects for the volunteers.”
Once we passed Welch, the conversation steered toward personal facts and details. Like Tom, Jonathan told David about me, but I knew nothing of David and so I commenced to pepper him with questions.
David, a slight young man, not yet 21, grew up in the Bronx and he was the son of a Polish mother and Ecuadorian father. He moved South to get out of the city and met Jonathan while attending community college in Charlotte. Jonathan taught outdoor survival skills and David was one of his students.
“It was the one class I enjoyed. I almost failed everything else. Ha ha,” he stated in his jovial way.
And then we crested a steep hill on the outskirts of Gary. And David pointed to a long brick building, down between the road and a creek, towering mountain ridges to either side.
“There is it. Gary High School. Or, what’s left of it.”
“What’s left of it?”
“Yeah. Ha ha. It’s a closed school. Craig T bought the building a while back. And now he runs used clothing store out of the gym.”
“What are we doing here?”
“Jonathan wants you to see the kitchen and see what we’ve done to the place.”
“Right. Ok.”
Then, I followed Jonathan through a brick archway between the gym and the school, around the back the of the school. The abandoned building rose three stories tall with an engraved cement block above the entrance that read, “Gary High School Est. 1925.” The craggy red brick exterior was decorated with kudzu and graffiti, most of the single pain windows knocked out. And at once, the school represented the former prosperity and the present struggle associated with the coal town. As if to drive home the point, the faded words “Welcome to the home of the Gary High School Coal Diggers” hung onto the dented metal doors leading to the main hallway.
Jonathan hopped out of his truck and smiled at me as I parked beside him.
“Whadda think mate?” He asked through my window and before I had a chance to get out of my vehicle.
“I don’t know. Gimme the tour and I’ll tell ya.” I yelled, trying to match his cheek.
David chuckled, then leaned over as he unbuckled his seat belt and whispered, “I know it doesn’t look like much, but we’ve worked really hard to turn this place into a proper dorm.” His words felt like a bit of a warning as much as an expression of pride. And I knew from that moment forward I needed to be positive and hopeful with my feedback. For when the odds are long and the work is thankless, the last commentary the man on the front line wants is the criticism from an asshole who’s invested nothing in the endeavor.
