Part II Day 106: June 5, 2010 (nerves on wheels, mobile home future, and unravelling marriage and debt while dreaming of samosas)

Position: Volunteer

Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 141

Hours Volunteered: 4

EDD Check: $250

Morning:

My hands sweat even more than usual, as I switch from one to the other on the steering wheel while I drive. I blather on about nothing. "Are you nervous?" Etel asks. Yes, I am. "Why?" Because this is my first solo Meals on Wheels delivery day and I'm afraid I might get lost or mix up the orders––say a diabetic gets a regular lunch and a low-sodium gets a diabetic lunch––or I might forget someone's meal and end up with an extra one in the cooler when I'm all done. Unlike delivering for the Pizzeria, people's lives are at stake here. They might literally be starving instead of figuratively. I can't screw this up.

Etel's along for moral support and as a co-pilot/map reader. God, am I glad she's with me. We arrive at the church parking lot, the official rendezvous point, early and read our books, while I continuously glance in the rearview mirror looking for the white food van. When the van arrives, I get the five coolers of food loaded into my car, go over the checklist to make sure every thing's here, then we're off.

Etel reads the directions, but I keep a Thomas Brothers map on my lap, making sure I know exactly where I'm going. The first two deliveries are in a retirement community that wasn't part of my training run, so it takes me a minute to locate the first house. The SUV parked in the carport is decked out in U.S. Marines stickers and license plate frame. I find an elderly man, slouched in a deck chair, reading. "Oh, it must be lunchtime," he says. I take the food inside and place it on the counter, then ask if there's anything else I can do for him. He says no, so I touch his shoulder and tell him to take care.

The man who answers the door of the second place has food stains all over his collared shirt, his face is sunken and unshaven, and the cluttered apartment smells like an ashtray. In a gravelly voice made deep and harsh from years of smoking, he thanks me for the food, and when I ask him if there's anything else I can do for him, he says, "There's plenty you can do for me. But it's not within the scope of your job." Ouch. I laugh it off and say goodbye, before running to the car for the next delivery.

From here on out, it's exactly like my training run from my Part II Day 78 post––the diabetic lady who has a freezer full of our meals; the dying couple in a mobile home (he was alone this time); the little old black woman in the gangsta rap apartments; the legless, mute biker/veteran with the snack-covered coffee table; and the deteriorating housewife widow––with the exception of another mobile home park delivery in between.

"What are these places?" Etel asks. I make the mistake of calling them trailer parks, but then self-correct and explain that they're mobile homes. "You can move them?" I tell her it's actually a major job to move one, that I've seen them on trucks on the freeway, and it looks crazy.

"They split down the middle," I say and point to the seam on one.

Etel falls in love with the mobile homes. "These are great. This is where I want to live when I'm old." To her defense, we're in a really nice mobile home park, complete with a series of meandering ponds and well manicured lawns when she says this. I try to explain that they don't have the greatest reputation in the U.S., but she's right, it's not a bad way to live, especially when you're older. I tell her they're popular among the poor and they're really only a bad idea in the Midwest, where tornadoes have a habit of tossing them around and shredding them to bits.

We make it back to the church around 12:30, only an hour and a half after we left. The truck driver woman tells me I was fast, that I'm the second one back, which makes me feel good and heroic and think my earlier nervousness was unwarranted. No one's going to die. And the truth is, I think most of the people probably have refrigerators with at least some food in them.

Total mileage driven: 47 miles

Afternoon:

Etel and I stop to buy potatoes, peas, and flour so that we can make samosas with the Bhutanese family today (but we can't find raw peas). Etel also buys some yogurt covered pretzels and Gummy Bears for the youngest daughter. When we arrive, the quilt comes out and we all gather on the floor in the center of the room. The youngest daughter already has the Uno cards out and says she wants to play. We play a couple rounds, then I shift to reviewing how to read prices with the parents––$576, $785, $1,200, $2,500––which the mother is learning in school, while Etel has the youngest daughter writing in the past tense.

When we finish, I ask if they're ready to make samosas. They look at me with blank stares. "Remember, we were going to make samosas today but in English? We brought potatoes and flour." They're not prepared, and say they don't have peas or cauliflower, but they can run to the store real quick. "That's okay, we can make them next time." I give them the potatoes and flour.

I've brought pictures of my family, and try to explain who each person is in relation to me. The mother points to one of the bigger group photos I brought and says, "Good people?" Yes, I tell her. In Bhutan, divorce is pretty much unheard of, so they're a bit confused about who my step-mom and step-dad are. I try to explain Alzheimer's and why my step-dad is in a special home. I point to my niece and tell them she was adopted. Adoption, they understand.

This leads to talk about marriage. The mother tells us she was married at 13 to her husband when he was 20. She had never even seen his face before; it was all arranged by the families. Etel and I don't tell them we've both been married and divorced as well, that this is how things go in our country if things don't work out.

At one point, while we're all talking, the oldest daughter brings me a piece of paper and asks me to explain what it means. It's a collection notice, saying she owes the U.S. government $1,460 in travel expenses for her transportation to the U.S., and it says she hasn't registered her new address and hasn't paid. She has 42 months to pay the expenses back in full, with the option of $39 per month payments. "I don't think they know I'm in school," she says. I suggest she calls them Monday and explain her situation. She'll be in school for two years, which would only give her 18 months to pay it back once she has a job, if she can find one.

"That's for the whole family?" Etel asks.

"No. Fourteen hundred for me; twenty-four hundred for my parents and brother and sister (I guess since they're minors); Fourteen hundred for my grandma; fourteen hundred for my grandpa, but he died, so he doesn't owe anything." Holy crap, we think, the family somehow has to come up with over $5,200? We wonder if they understood this before they came. What a way to start your new life: in heavy debt with no job prospects.

Etel decides on the way home we should try to raise the money ourselves, but I'm skeptical. We post announcements on our Facebook pages, but the only response I receive is from a friend who says, "I almost fell for your Ponzi scheme." I tell Etel that people have their own problems, that they probably won't give anything, but she rejects my negativity. "I'll throw my own fundraisers," she says. "People can bring wine and five bucks. We can make this happen." I'm down with her idea, I tell her. (I will eventually post a Paypal button on this blog, so you, dear reader, can give a few bucks if you feel moved to help.)

Before we leave the Bhutanese family's apartment, we're talking about how we'll make samosas when I return from a visit to Fresno, and the youngest daughter comes out of the kitchen holding a classic bag of white flour. We bought our flour at Henry's, so it came, rather suspect, in a clear Henry's bag. I wonder if they'll even use it. "Gold Medal," she says, and points to the logo of her flour, as if it were a real medal, "it's good."