Short: The Tour, West Virginia #4
David hurried to the red outer doors of the former school, both dented and scarred. Then he scraped open the left door and stood aside, like a 5th Avenue doorman. And as I would for anyone holding a door for me, I thanked him as I passed over the threshold into a dark foyer.
Later, I’d figure Jonathan wanted to ask for more than a few weeks of my time. This trip was the first of four he’d use to recruit me to the cause. Jokes on him because he didn’t need to recruit me. Given my low self-esteem, I was ready to jump at any opportunity, including one of little pay, deep in the heart of coal country. Years of waiting tables and slinging beer kneaded me into an insecure mess and I didn’t know how to break free. Like most men, I took my self-worth from my checking account. And in each attempt to venture outside my trade- to inflate my wealth and self esteem- I failed.
Good friends put me up interviews and floated my scant resume with banks, schools, and lawyers’ offices. In hope, I’d iron my best dress shirt and trim my hair. And, per my father’s advice, I’d try to make sure they heard the smile in my voice. Then, like clockwork, the rejection emails and calls came, leaving me to wonder how I might improve my chances.
After a few years of this gut wrenching routine, I stopped asking for help. Interviews had begun to feel like a well rehearsed show and I grew tired of the glazed eyes and insincere questions. In truth, I was never a serious candidate for white collar work. And the setbacks took a toll on my soul, sending me into into the open arms of self-pity and various lusts. I’m too fat. My hair sucks. You don’t have any skills.
I briefly considered taking a promotion to restaurant manager, but decided against when I did the math. (It’s a sad but true reality, most restaurant managers, at least in North Carolina, take home less money per hour than their best servers and bartenders.) Then one summer, I decided to re-enroll at Clemson University only to come up short of the needed funds. Subsequently, as my mid twenties languished into my late 20’s, every avenue of economic advancement felt closed. And I was content to play board games and watch football with my mates rather than meet new people or expand my connections. And, I’d grown tired of the blank disapproving looks of my peers and family.
Paradoxically, if one were looking to move up the economic ladder, I do not advise they to move to West Virginia. And I highly advise against work with any non-profit organization. Unless the person is desperate. Of course, I was desperate. To leave Charlotte. To prove myself. To show the world I’m a good man, one you should admire and honor. If I couldn't make money, at least my work would be important and people would see me as important, I naively assumed. In the years after, I learned. The world hates good men and women. They hate being reminded of their greed and inertia. Men will dismiss you as a “do gooder.” And women will see your goodness and dismiss it. Noble as the work was and maybe, goodwill doesn’t buy European vacations and a new car every five years. It doesn’t buy esteem or opportunity.
“Through this door is where we’ll be bunking,” said Jonathan as we walked through the first door to the left of the foyer. In its original purpose, the room was the old front office, small by modern standards. The plaster walls were yellowed and cracked, the floors covered in grey vinyl tile, worn but clean. And across from the door we entered was a navy blue, chest-high counter with a half door to the left of the counter. Low sunlight brightened the room through what was left the large window to our left. Using the half door beside the counter, we walked through the waiting area to a larger back room containing two newly built bunk beds and two gently used sitting chairs. The welcomed scent of fresh lumber filled the cool room. Opposite the beds was another metal door, and this one led to the toilet and shower. Both meager and plain. The shower nothing more than a PVC pipe poking out of the wall and the toilet was exposed in the opposite corner.
“This is the leadership living space, when the student arrive. We’ll need a place to get away.” Jonathan quipped with a smile in a way to communicate I was part of the leadership group. I was flattered and primed. The thought of being seen as worthy of leadership lifted me from the cold floor and I fought off a smirk.
“So this is what you’ve been working on?” I joked.
“Oh yeah. We’ve had to invest a lot of time and energy into getting ready for Thanksgiving. We’ll be hosting about 60 people upstairs,” replied Jonathan as he leaned against a plaster wall and pointed up.
“What all have you done?” I inquired.
At this, Jonathan and David looked to each other and smiled. David let out a half-laugh and shook his head. Tom, who’d been quiet since we entered the building, was now more attentive. Then, the pair began to rattle off their list of accomplishments.
They’d bought and installed twenty new water heaters to accommodate 30 newly built showers, fixed several holes in the roof- including learning to tar and patch, repaired all the necessary windows on the first two floors, ran gas lines, replaced two ovens in the Home Ecc room, and built and outfitted over 60 bunk beds.
“Let’s take him to the Home Ecc room,” suggested David.
And turning to me, Jonathan asked, “Want to go see where you’ll be working?”
“Sure,” I nodded.
And then we were back out of the bunk room, through the tiny waiting area, and into the main hallway. The long, dark corridor was lined with dusty green locker, as dented and abused as the front doors, covered by the calling cards of vandals. Jake wuz here. Mike loves Tina. And various cusswords. Every ten feet, a fluorescent light fluttered in and out, and Jonathan led us to a stair case across the foyer. Like the mountain roads, the staircase had more switchbacks than needed, before we reached the warm second floor.
The hallway was properly bright and well lit from end to end. The lockers were gone and the space held the gentle heat of kerosene heaters. Then I was shown the bunk rooms, one for guys and one for the ladies. Both former classrooms, institutional and drab. And then we made a stop in the “public room” before heading down to the Home Ecc room. The public room was the size of two class rooms and it contained four large dining tables, five used cloth couches, and stacks of boardgames. Without being asked, I offered, “I’m going to need serving tables and drink stations.” Jonathan nodded his affirmation. From the public room, David led us past the stairs to the far end of the hallway to Home Ecc room. And as before, he held the door open with a smile.
The Home Ecc room looked a bit like a science lab. It was filled with cooking stations and wash sinks, except all the appliances were long stripped away. In the far right back corner were two brown fridges and two new-ish black stoves. Electric stoves. The kind you use to feed families of five. And my task was to feed over sixty hungry college students after a day the most physically demanding work they’d ever do?
“Whadda think?” inquired Jonathan with a lowered chin, the chummy tone gone from his voice.
“Yeah, this could work,” I answered, trying to remain light-hearted.
“It’ll have to,” he deadpanned as he turned for the door.
“Alright, then,” I shrugged and smiled. I knew better than to ask about the old cafeteria on the first floor. The equipment was moved or sold when the school closed. And the project budget didn’t include thousands for convection ovens, a flat top griddle, and six-eye gas stove. It doesn’t do to want for more from the situation. As most do in similar moments, I’d learn to make do with what I had. And rather than bitch about what the setup lacked, I gave my approval instead. As we existed the room, I noted the generous amount of prep and storage space.
