Short: DB’s Exclusive, West Virginia

---

(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble all the parts into one cohesive story.)

The four of us piled into Jonathan’s white Dodge Ram and wound our way from Tom’s house to downtown Welch. The sun quickly set over the ridge and left clear black sky in its wake. Brad and David continued their pop culture discussion and I gazed out the window. Windows and the creek alike glittered in the moon light, and for a brief moment I forgot where I was.

“Where are we going?” asked David.

“DBs,” said Jonathan.

“Dude. Why?” David shot back.

“Cause it’s West Virginia classy. Everyone needs to experience it.”

And for the first time I relaxed as I saw my chance. “So, you’d bring your mother?”

“Oh yeah mate, she’d have a blast.”

And then we entered downtown Welch which was nothing more than empty three avenues and a series of alley ways, laid out to form a triangle. No traffic lights or fancy patterns, only seven blocks- a point and then two by three- with a row of old brick buildings beyond them. Jonathan gave a us a quick tour of the area, which consisted of three left turns. Each building was two or three stories, industrial and past their prime. Most were abandoned and sad. And the creek we’d followed emptied into the Tug River on the west side of town, with a rail line running parallel to the river. And beyond the river and rail, piles of slag still visible in the darkness. From there and on all sides of the town, were rows of houses built right into the side of the surrounding mountains, their dim porch lights twinkling like lights on a Christmas tree.

After the tour, we parked in an alley way next to a bank and walked to boring block building with a purple awning and new sign that read WELCOME TO DB’s EXCLUSIVE. Clip art martinis decorated either side of the sign. And just before passing through the entrance a glint caught my eye and I noticed something very strange. Once inside, I felt as though I’d stepped back in time by two decades. To the left of the empty dinning room was a rather well-stocked and long bar spanning the length of the room. The large oak bar was bedazzled with a mirrored back wall, brass fixtures and glaring vanity lights like something from a Hollywood movie set. And across the dining room, opposite the bar, stood an equally large stage with lime green curtains and worn red carpet. The lights were off and made the stage feel more like a cave than platform. A skinny teenage girl with a red sequin vest led us to our wood panel table and handed each of us a laminated menu. The table was topped with folded pink napkins, faux crystal water glasses and paper placemats. And Jonathan grinned as a gawked about the room like a tourist in Time Square trying to drink it all in. And before he could speak, a young man in an ill-fitting tuxedo shirt, tie, and pleated cummerbund appeared.

“Hi,” he said meekly.

“I’m Jacob and I’ll be your server today. Would you like to hear about the specials?”

“Yes,” I said with too much excitement.

“Today we have fish and chips with tartar sauce and chicken marsala with mushrooms and baked Alaska for dessert.”

“Sounds good. What do you think Zach?” Jonathan asked gleefully.

I nodded and pulled my upper lip down into my mouth to keep from giggling.

Brad and David now in on the gag remained quiet as Jacob towered over us with his pad and pen. Finally, Jonathan relented, “We’ll need a minute. Let’s get drinks first. I’ll have a Guinness.”

As soon as Jacob left with our drink order, I let out a forceful breath and pulled my sweatshirt over my head to hide my laughter.

“You ok, mate?”

“Yeah dude. What is this place? Is that front door a time machine? The carpet is brown and the bar has more liquor than a liquor store and we are the only people here.”

Brad and David chuckled and Jonathan shook me by the shoulder.

“This! Is Welch’s finest dining establishment.”

“Oh, is it?”

“Indeed. And that’s the joke. Because it is and it isn’t. You’ll see.”

A moment later, Jacob returned with our drinks and gingerly handed them out, though in no particular order. For dinner, Brad ordered the chicken parmesan and David the pasta primavera. After asking way too many questions regarding the origin of the fish, Jonathan got the fish and chips and I settled on chicken Alfredo. The meal had a certain microwave quality but slurped down every bite and stayed for dessert all the same. Baked Alaska was an old classic and I had to have it. And before dessert arrived I leaned over to Jonathan to inquire about the odd item I’d seen outside.

“What’s up with the cameras outside the building? There’s nothing here,” I said as I panned the dimly lit room. “Does it pop off on the weekend or something?”

The grin on Jonathan’s face disappeared and he slid closer to me with his chair. With both of us facing the back wall, he lowered his chin and motioned to a lone metal door in middle of the wall. A menacing sign on the door read, “DO NOT ENTER.”

“Don’t you think that’s odd?” he asked.

“Well, when you lower your voice and act that way, yes. I suppose it is odd. That door and the camera. But why?”

“High stakes gambling. They say mostly on the weekends and only very late at night. There wouldn’t be anyone back there tonight.”

“Who is high stakes gambling here?”

“The miners still make a good buck. Their houses are cheap or free. And they aren’t taking trips to Italy or Bahamas, so, they gamble.”

“No shit.” I replied as I shook my head in disbelief.

After dessert, Jonathan pushed himself back from the table and smiled as he looked at his watch. Then to the table he began, “We’ve got a big day tomorrow. We’ll all go down to Bluefield for supplies then get ready for the students to arrive.” The mirth now gone, we nodded our agreement. “Alright lads, let’s go.”

---

Short: Back In Time, West Virginia

---

(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble all the parts into one cohesive story.)

Deeper into the mountains, snow covered most of the surfaces, masking the broken windows and sagging roofs. The trees were naked. And the sun dipped behind the western ridge, casting a gloomy gray shadow over the river valley. Brad began to talk about the architecture of the houses and boarded up store fronts. They reminded him of his native New Jersey and I understood. The homes closest to the road were narrow, two story row houses with stubby front porches and steep roofs. Of course, the frozen puddles and pock-marked jalopies did too. While I battled the dreary landscape, Brad smiled and craned his neck to drink it all in. Then he turned to me and said, “I think I’m gonna like it here.”

Around 3 PM, we pulled off Route 52 up the hill to Tom’s massive house. I’d told Brad about Tom, but not too much. Warned him really. No alcohol at the house or in Tom’s presence, and for the love of God, don’t talk about weed. Brad nodded. Good, I thought. He understands. And everything to that point led me to believe Brad would be a solid citizen, the one I knew from years back when he was a teenager.

David met us at the car to help us unpack. And after a bro hug I introduced the two.

“So you’re going to help Wes cook?

“Yeah man, seems like it. How long you been here?”

“Since the summer, when Jonathan got here. I came up a week later from Charlotte.”

“You lived in Charlotte? Where?”

“Fort Mill, really. Off the parkway. You know it?

“Yeah dude. My parents live across the line in Pineville.”

I felt my face and legs begin to freeze, so I asked about my room and went inside. Jonathon sat at the booth in the kitchen pouring over a pile receipts. He took off his glasses and gave me a quick hug.

“You hungry? We’re going to go to DB’s Exclusive for dinner,” he said with a sly grin.

The thing about Jonathan was he was willing to color outside the lines on occasion and the name DB’s Exclusive conjured up images of stripper poles and glittery plastic chairs. I’d not known him to go to a strip club, but I wouldn’t be surprised.

“What do they serve?”

“Oh, your typical steaks and chicken. Normal stuff.”

Just then Brad and David burst through the door, toting our bags and deep into a conversation on music. Jonathan smiled at Brad but Brad kept right on chatting with David as they strolled through the kitchen and down the hallway. Jonathan and I stayed seated and strained to hear the chatter, their voices fading until silence refilled the space. Jonathan chuckled and shrugged. I nodded in agreement.

“So? DB’s?”

“Sure,” I replied, unsatisfied yet stumped.

“Good. Go put your stuff up and meet me down here. I’ll get the boys. Remember, we’re only here for the night. Then all next week we’ll be in Gary.”

A few moments later, I was on the other side of the house, climbing the front stair case to the second floor. My bedroom faced the landing and through the heavy wooden door I found a large, empty room. Jonathan told be the previous owner, a doctor, used the room as an exam room for patients which left the space feeling institutional. The white walls and ceiling had yellowed and chipped, and rather than hardwood or carpet the floor was covered in green vinyl tile. Two single pane windows faced north and east. And in the corner near the door was a lumpy single mattress with fresh white sheets, my green sleeping bag, and a pillow. I slung my duffle onto ground bedside the mattress and rifled through it for my sweats and shoes. My teeth began to chatter and scanned the room for a space heater.

As I slid my sweats over my shorts, I began to laugh and shiver. And then I closed me eyes and drew a frigid breath. My dad had told me about this kind of cold, having grown up in western Pennsylvania. He said he hated it, hated how the wind nipped at his skin and nothing he did was enough to satisfy the chill. I didn’t believe him. I hated the heat and humidity of the South Carolina summer, how the gnats found your eyes and once outside you never felt dry. But, sitting on the that old mattress, with all my clothes on my body, I finally understood. My dad was right.

Before meeting up with Jonathan and the others, I nosed around the other rooms on my floor and found an old space heater. I took it to my room and immediately blew out a breaker. Using the light on my phone, I found the fuse box down in the basement. Inside were three breakers and again I laughed. This is a going to be easy I thought as I held my phone up to the fuse board. The switch on the top breaker was off and I flipped it back on with a hard snap. And because I forgot to unplug the old heater, it immediately snapped right back off.

---

Short: Unprepared, West Virginia

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(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)

Brad arrived on time early the next morning. His eyes were glassy and his little red volkswagen smelled like the inside of a bong. I’d told Brad the rules for the trip and he’d decided to blaze up one last time because- as he put it- it’ll be a while. I glared at him and simmered. “I’ll drive,” I said as I slung my duffle onto the back seat. Then I held out my hand for the key. Brad nearly closed his left eye and cocked his head as he looked at me. He almost began to speak but stopped placing the key into my extended hand instead. A few minutes later we were motoring up 77 and bopping along to Led Zepplin and whatever else he’d loaded onto his iPod.

In Virginia, we pulled off for gas at a truck stop in Wytheville. The Buzzing K is one of those truck stops with a restaurant, private showers, and a lot lizard or two. I’d stopped there many times before on family trips and thought of it as a sort of redneck tourist attraction. When I opened my car door a freezing gust of air smacked me in the face and I bristled.

“Ha!” Brad laughed and pointed to my flip flops and khakis cargo shorts. They were red Tommy Bowham flip flops, the kind that look cool in the store but hurt your feet after a few hours of walking. And I can’t remember why I decided to wear shorts.

“You’re a real boy scout,” he snorted before jogging inside for snacks.

As I pumped gas, I began to shiver. And then I turned away from the gas station and the lights to noticed large white dots on the Appalachian Mountains to the west. And though the day was clear and sunny, dark purple and gray clouds loomed beyond the ridge. I closed my eyes and pulled the bitter cold deep into my lungs. I hope Brad buys me a hotdog or hot slice of pizza, I thought. And just as I finished pumping gas, Brad hurried back with arm loads of snacks and drinks.

“Whadda ya get?”

“Oh man. Dude. Lemme tell ya. They have these nuts, pecans, and they have all kinds of flavors- caramel, hot and salty, and vanilla. I got all three. Here try one. Do want water water or gatorade or Red Bull?”

I took what looked to be a caramel pecan and ate it. It was delicious and warm, and soon I ate most of the bag, stopping only to be polite. Brad hardly noticed. He munched his way through several small bags of corn chips and polished off an energy drink as we crossed from Virginia into West Virginia via the East River Mountain Tunnel. We held our breath as long as possible and I won. Brad coughed and wheezed like an old man. And on the other side of the mountain, in West Virginia, the white dots I saw earlier were now at ground level and the tops of the mountains were purple and blue against the low November sun.

---

By the time we turned off 77 and found Route 52 from Bluefield to Welch, Brad was sober. And our discussion was now more focused and thoughtful. He asked me more questions about our project and responsibilities and I did my best to answer them. And as we passed through the small town of Bluewell, the electronic sign outside Bluewell Community Bank read 23º. Brad noticed too and began to belly laugh.

“I hope you’ve got more than short and flips flops.”

I did not. Not much more, for warmth a pair of running shoes, a pair of sweat pants and my faded red hoodie. No gloves or winter coat. No blue jeans. And the weather would not improve.

---

Short: Prepared, West Virginia

---

(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)

After coffee with Brad, I felt better about West Virginia. And, with a little more than a month before the event, I began to plan a menu for the volunteers. It’s at this point in the story where I need to admit, I’d never been given such a responsibility before, though I was strangely confident I could pull it off. For starters, my roommate Malik, had managed several restaurant kitchens and I picked his brain on the subject of feeding large groups of hungry college kids.

Breakfast was simple- scrambled eggs, bacon cooked on sheet trays in the oven, same for the breakfast sausage and biscuits. And to provide a few more options, we’d also set out apples and bananas, a selection instant oatmeals, and bagels with cream cheese and jams. For lunch, each student would make a sandwich from the provided stacks of ham, turkey, and cheese, then select a snack or two- chocolate chip cookies, potato chips, and more apples and bananas.

The only real challenge was dinner each night. The group would arrive late (after dinner) on Friday evening, then head home after breakfast the nextthe Wednesday. The schedule meant I had to come up with four meals. And on Malik’s advice, I opted to meals with big carbs and plenty of protein. In world of professional cooking, that means potatoes smashed, pasta, ground beef, and chicken thighs. Happy with my menu of spaghetti with meat sauce, chicken noodle soup with grilled cheese sandwiches, lasagna, and roasted chicken with smashed potatoes and peas, I picked Malik’s brain again.

“Hey man, uh, how much chicken do I need for the soup? And the roast?” I asked a week before.

From his seat on the coach he turned to me and took a moment to let the question settle in his mind. Then he chuckled to himself. “Boy, you don’t know shit, do you?”

“Nope. I do not.” I laughed back.

Then Malik explained to me the concepts of yield. I soaked up as much as possible. After lecture on meat which sheds water and fat while cooking, Malik went on about pasta, which gains weight. After the conversation and some quick calculations, I was set.

* * *

The day before Brad and I were set to ride up to West Virginia, I was hit by a waves of doubt and anxiety. Why did Jonathan call me? Who else did he call? And why did they say no? Am I a sucker? And I was most worried I’d munk up dinner every night. That evening, I spent on the back porch with Malik. We sipped beers and talked football. Then he asked for more details about the adventure to come, but I had little to offer. And then I asked him about his girlfriend, which required the rest of the evening to unpack. It was fine conversation, which when combined with a few beers, eased my mind about the days ahead. And while I was thankful for the calm moment, I completely forgot to check the weather forecast for Welch.

---

Short: Recruiting Brad, West Virginia

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(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)

Then we were back into the bright, warm hallway of the second floor, down the switchback staircase, and out the front doors. I stretched my back and turned away from the school toward the train track and the river. Jonathan and Tom stood talking next to the white Dodge truck while David gave me more details of the roof repair. As we stood there, the gray clouds broke and slivers of sunlight nestled onto the mountain beyond the river. And yellow splotches dotted the ridge and chased each other slowly to the crest. Then Jonathan informed me of our plans for the evening. We’d eat dinner at Tom’s house then head to a high school football game.

Both the dinner and the game were full of heart and by standards of quality, mediocre. Dinner consisted of under cooked frozen pizza, while the evening downpour turned the game into a sloppy mess. Still, like a good guest, I smiled and expressed gratitude to the host when asked if I was “having fun.” Midway through the game and fully soaked, I decided I’d better get back to Charlotte. After saying my goodbyes to Tom and David, Jonathan walked me to my car to discuss next steps.

“When can you come up? The JMU group will be here that Friday night. It would be great if you could be here the Thursday before.”

“I’ll have to get the time off work, but it shouldn’t be an issue. Can I bring an assistant?”

“Who’d you have in mind?”

“Bradley Compton? Do you remember him?”

“Yeah. I remember him. He was in your class, right? What’s he up to?”

“He transferred to Queens,” I stammered before I continued. “Um..he’s not doing too great. I’d like him to get out of Charlotte. Coming up here with me could be good for him. And, I know he’ll work hard.”

“Ok. Yeah. I like him. Bring him up,” answered Jonathan. “He’ll be your responsibility. And he’s pro bono if he comes. I can’t afford to pay him for this trip. But tell him, if it works, I can pay him for December.”

“Solid. I’ll ask him.”

“Alright mate, see you in few weeks?” He asked.

“Yep. I’ll be here.”

And with next steps settled, I started back down Route 52 toward Bluefield and I-77.

***

A few days later, I met Brad for coffee near the Queens University campus. The shop on East Blvd was a renovated colonial revival with a wrap around porch. Fashionable for the mid-2000s, it was full of dark leather couches, hardwood floors, and baristas named Fox and Celeste. I ordered a black Americano and relaxed into a couch with a view of the street. Brad arrived five minutes later, his eyes wide in the dim afternoon light. He was dressed in old worn basketball shoes, khakis pants a size too large, a stained white three button pull over, and a Charlotte Hornets starter jacket from the early 90’s. His unshaved face and knotted blonde locks completed the look of a man unconcerned about his appearance. And he reeked of cannabis smoke, no doubt consumed mere minutes before our meeting.

“Hey man. What’s up?” he asked with a smile before giving me a quick bro hug. “Lemme get you a tea. I’m really into chia right now. So good for you. Do you wanna try one?” I declined and nodded to my still steaming mug. “How about a scone? The blueberry scone here is the best.” Again, I declined.

A moment later, Brad came back with his arms full of tea and water and various snacks. He sat down on the couch across from me and and settled into a bag of salt and vinegar kettle chips.

“How’s the semester going?” I asked.

“Oh, you know,” was all he said.

His intoxicated state annoyed and kept me silent. And the silence grew between us. Bradley stared down, suddenly aware of the offense. I drew a deep breath.

“Do you remember {Mr Jonathan}?” I finally asked.

Relieved at the question, he quickly answered, “Yep. Loved his class. Why?”

“He called me the other day to see if I wanted to join his new project.”

Brad sat at attention, his eyes now on me.

“What is it?”

“The project? Something between Habit For Humanity and the Red Cross.”

“How so?”

“They provide disaster relief and remodel homes.”

“Oh. That makes sense. Where?”

“West Virginia.”

At this, the THC took over, and Bradley began to giggle and snicker. And he was doubled over on the couch. His laughter diffused my anger and I laughed too.

“Why?” was all he could squeeze out between breaths.

“Because they need love too,” I replied, still laughing at my high friend who was laughing at me.

My soft yet stern reply sobered Bradley and he sat up on his right elbow, looking me in the eye.

Pressing my advantage, I quickly moved toward my ultimate goal, “Do you want to be my assistant? In the kitchen?”

My question drew him to a full sit, shoulders now square to me, his head up.

“Dude. I’d be honored,” he answered as soberly as possible.

---

Short: The Tour, West Virginia #4

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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.

---

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.

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Short: Tom Martinez, West Virginia #2

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(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble all the parts into one cohesive story.)

Tom Martinez was a short with a medium build and shaggy, silver hair man. He wore faded Wranglers and an old black sweat shirt, both stained by splotches of paint. From behind his large wire- framed glasses, his eyes sparkled and he smiled upon seeing me. And, why not? Jonathan had talked me up, obviously. And, more importantly, I was another foot soldier in the battle to revive the coal fields.

Over that first hour together, huddled in the kitchen, I learned a great deal about my host. Firstly, Tom spoke softly and laughed at his own jokes. And to complicate the conversation, he had a slight mountain draw and often cupped his chin with right thumb while rubbing his mouth with the forefinger. On several occasions I had to ask him to repeat himself, which became increasingly tedious to the point where I stopped asking and simply nodded. From what I could discern, Tom was a self-taught artist, had lived through plenty of rough moments, but managed to hold onto a grand vision for McDowell County, the giant brick house being part of the plan.

After high school, he married his high school sweetheart and moved to Mt Airy, North Carolina. Quite bitterly he said he “never wanted to leave the county” but his wife wanted to “live like the people on TV.” The statement stirred my funny bone, but I kept a straight face.

Over the next two decades Tom worked in various cigarette factories outside Winston Salem, started a family and taught himself to paint. After another layoff, Tom and his wife split over whether he should find a new job in Winston or move. He pined for his home, for the country roads where he belonged. She did not, being the “upitty” woman she was. When the divorce was finalized, he to moved back to McDowell while she remained in North Carolina with their sons.

Back on home soil, Tom worked odd jobs in the small towns of Welch and Kimball, mostly handyman work, until he earned his first artist’s grant. The grant- from the National Endowment of the Arts- commissioned Tom to paint a mural on a water tower next to the main thoroughfare of the county, the Welch bypass. He never mentioned how much he was paid, but it was enough to buy the old Coal Baron’s house and renovate a small corner of its basement containing his bedroom and studio. His vision to create an artists colony out of the home seemed feasible given it’s size and number of room. In the meantime, he continued to earn income by painting government funded murals.

My initial impression of Tom was that he is like most men not given to criminal behavior or drowned in wealth, a mix of hope and disappointment, earnest yet hypocritical. He was in one moment a principled conservative in love with America, yet made his money via government grants from the NEA- a department most Republicans would happily ax given the opportunity. And despite being complicated, he truly loved his home and worked to built a network of people with similar notions.

Tom would’ve talked our ears off if we let him, but Jonathon finally interrupted.“I think it’s time we head up to Gary. You coming?” he asked Tom.

“If you don’t mind. Let me go put up my paints and thinner first,” Tom responded already halfway down the stairs.

“Yeah mate. We’ll wait,” Jonathan called down after.

With the local out of hearing distance, I finally offered my thoughts.

“Interesting guy.”

“That’s one word of it,” chimed David, who’d been fidgeting quietly in the corner of the booth for the duration of the chat.

“He’s a bit odd, that’s for sure, but’s he’s a good guy,” added Jonathan in a low voice.

“I’m glad I met him first.”

“Yeah. He’s a good introduction to McDowell and the type of people we’ve met.”

“Oh?” I asked, wondering if they were all oddballs.

“Yeah. Lots of good people here who just want what’s best for the county.”

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Short: My Intro to West Virginia

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(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble all the parts into one cohesive story.)

When you’re young and insecure, you answer the call from someone like Jonathan Wildson. He was confident to the point of cocky, told a good story, and filled his time with manly pursuits like karate and mountain climbing. And, he dialed up his Australian accent at will, usually around single women. So I was thrilled when Jonathan called me on a late summer day and said he needed me.

“Hey mate, you busy?” he asked.

Was I busy? What a funny question given my status as a waiter.

“No. What’s up?”

“I’ve got a new gig up in West Virginia and I need a cook. You interested?”

Yes, of course, I was interested, beaming that someone wanted me to be part of their gig.

“Yeah, maybe,” I replied as cooly as possible.

“Why don’t you come up for a look about? Get a feel for the place. It’s rough but we have fun.”

“Yeah. Ok. That’s sounds doable. I’ll get the time off and let you know when I’m coming.”

“Great. Can’t wait to see you.”

* * *

Two weeks later I drove north from Fort Mill, South Carolina up I-77 to West Virginia. I was glad to be leaving my routines and boredom. And I knew, if anything, the drive would be worth the effort. Within the first hour, as soon as I cleared Statesville, the rolling hills grew into foothills and then to the west the Blue Ridge rose above them. And though just beginning in South Carolina, autumn was in full bloom in the mountains. Dazzling reds, bright yellows and oranges coated the rock. And the air was clean and cool as I turned off the interstate onto Route 52 near Bluefield.

And there on Route 52, as I wove my way deeper into West Virginia, the glory of fall began to contrast the ever increasing broken fences, cracked windows, and weathered wooden siding. Dilapidated homes and shuttered businesses were caked in mud. Then, just after I passed a sign reading “UNINCORPORATED ELKHORN,” old coke ovens appeared next to the road and beyond them a mix of fallen brick walls and kudzu and sycamores. The roof of a school gym had sunk to the ground, the rims ripped from the backboards. And per the posted price of unleaded, I calculated the filling station closed its doors a full fifteen years before my arrival. From Elkhorn, the drive to meet Jonathan lasted only another 20 minutes but I drove through three more towns of a similar fate. All dead or mostly dead. Then, after four hours of driving, I saw a big blue and yellow sign and pulled of the road into the parking lot.

We choose to meet in the Walmart parking lot because it was easier to find than punching an address into an app. Homes in McDowell County had addresses but Google Maps was of no use this deep in Appalachia. After stretching my legs and a proper introduction to Jonathan’s assistant David, I returned to my car and followed them another fives miles to a massive brick house on a hill, overlooking the river running next to the road. From the road, the house didn’t appear as grand as it was thanks to the surrounding overgrown ash and beech trees. Only when we swung up the drive around the back side of the house did its heft reveal itself. Brick walls rose into a steep slate roof with copper eves and drain spouts. I counted multiple chimneys, four perhaps, and three layers if single pain windows. Those can’t be the originals, can they? I wondered.

Jonathan interrupted my curiosity. “Come on, let’s go say hi to Tom, then we’ll all drive up to Gary together.”

David had gone ahead of us into the house, and I heard him call for Tom. As we waited for our host to come up from the basement, I chatted with Jonathon about the house and studied the kitchen I stood in. The room was cramped by modern standard and in need of a remodel. Due to the location in the back corner of the house, the back and side walls were comprised of large bay windows, allowing as much natural light as possible into the room. And underneath the back wall, to the right of the entrance, was a small electric stove, followed by a formerly white sink, then an L-shaped counter for prepping meals. Next to the counter, sat a wooden booth big enough to seat four people and no more. Opposite the stove sat a newer black refrigerator with magnets and coupons plastered to its face and to its right a heavy wooden door leading to the basement. Judging by the bowls in the sink and contents on the counter- two half empty jars of peanut butter, a bag of cinnamon raisin bagels, brown bananas, and several boxes of supposedly healthful cereal- the current residents of the house assembled meals rather than cook.

“This house is a lot better than our last house,” he giggled. “In the last house closer to Welch, I could take a shit, flush it, then watch it squirt out a pipe into the river. Bloop.”

“Really?” I asked, both horrified and full of laughter.

“Yeah mate. Straight pipe into the river. It’s common up here.”

“So all the pretty trout in these rivers and streams are shit fish?”

“I guess so.”

What a waste, I concluded just as David poked out from behind the basement door, Tom following behind him.

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