Feeding the Rich

What's the problem with the economy?

2011-06-16T09:37:00.000-07:00

Former Labor Secretary and frequent NPR commentator Robert Reich explains the problem in two minutes and fifteen seconds:

Others Say It Better: May 5, 2011

2011-05-05T09:23:00.000-07:00

I am a liar. I said I would continue blogging, but I haven't. I wanted to tell you about John Winthrop's original vision for his Puritan colony in Massachusetts, laid out in his essay "A Model of Christian Charity," the famous "city upon a hill" speech. How God has made some people rich and some poor so that they could honor God by "dispensing his gifts to man by man [rather] than if he did it by his own immediate hands " and "that every man might have need of others . . . [and] be all knit more nearly together in the bonds of brotherly affection."

But the tornado happened in Tuscaloosa last Wednesday. Normal life stopped. And then people acted out Winthrop's vision, especially the part about a community in peril:

"Question: What rule must we observe and walk by in cause of community in peril?

"Answer: The same as before, but with more enlargement towards others and less respect towards ourselves and our own right. Hence it was that in the primitive Church they sold all, had all things in common, neither did any man say that which he possessed was his own."

This tornado has taught me the lesson that objects lose value when they cease to exist, so the objects that still do exist feel like they belong to all. Door signs––mi casa es su casa––become literal. Wallets open to buy others food, toiletries, and, more importantly, drinks to share stories over. "Where were you?" "What did it sound like?" People say "How are you?" and "I'm glad to see you" and mean it. Trivial enmities cease to exist. Some of the haves become have nots, and the have nots become have even less. People are screwed. But people are also loving and sharing and helping one another like I've never seen before. It's a beautiful moment. Yet moments, by their very definition, are an indefinitely short period of time. But those who were here, who lived through this storm, will live in this moment for a very long time . . .

I don't think I can put this experience into any more words, but there are those who have done so, well: Brian Oliu, BJ Hollars, Michael Martone, and Wendy Rawlings (you have to know what you had to know what you lost).

The Blog Must Go On: March 4, 2011.

2011-03-04T13:04:00.000-08:00

My father recently asked me if I was going to post any more blogs, because he'd been checking in day after day and only saw Fashawn sitting there paused in front of the Hollywood sign. "If you're not going to post anymore, then you need to let your readers know," Dad said.

I've been buried in teaching. It's winter. The experiment is over. What else do I have to say? I had all kinds of excuses not to post. But this week I received an interesting message on Facebook. It came from a girl I met at a small rock and roll club six years ago while I was tooling around southern New Zealand alone. (She was beautiful, super cool, and French Canadian.) She and her friend took me in like a vagrant and fed me a homemade pizza and poured me wine while we watched Madagascar. The next day, we tried to hit the beach outside Dunedin, but the buses weren't running. We parted ways after that with a promise I would possibly visit her in Montreal some day. Which never happened.

Anyhow, she sent me a documentary called Carts of Darkness in her message and said it reminded her of me. The video is about homeless and semi-homeless men in North Vancouver who live off of recycleables they take out of neighborhood bins. In their spare time, some of these men bomb the hills of North Vancouver on shopping carts, breaking speeds of 50 mp.h. and sometimes themselves (thank the people of Canada for socialized health care). The movie reminds me of Ted Conover's book Rolling Nowhere, because it isn't about solving the problem of homlessness but the freedom and companionship, as well as the alcoholism, that can be found there. It's about the people who fascinate me the most: outsiders.

One of the best quotes of the movie comes from a retired old-timer who lives in a trailer and collects empty bottles and cans: "Every time that you put effort into work and you're making a little bit of money, you better have a very good plan of what you're going to do with that money, because you're using up your life. We're not prisoners. We should not be prisoners of the economic system that we live in. We should be free . . . free people."

I have more posts planned. One will tie in with the early American literature course I'm teaching this semester (I will attempt to out-Glenn Beck Glenn Beck), and I will return to hunting for homeless in Tuscaloosa . . .

Part II Day 264: November 10, 2010 (the samsonite man gets called on his life)

2010-11-10T09:20:00.000-08:00

My good friend Jefferson Beavers, who knows me better than anyone, called B.S. on my last post, saying he doesn't buy that I want to settle in Tuscaloosa, and he wants me to get over my idea of having a "normal life" (what is "normal"? he says). Jefferson knows, like the rapper Fashawn from my hometown of Fresno, that I'm a "Samsonite Man" and probably always will be:

Part II Day 259: November 5, 2010 (birthday lunch with the poor, and rolling nowhere . . .)

2010-11-07T16:48:00.001-08:00

Sometime in high school, we were asked what we planned on doing after graduation, and I sarcastically answered, "I'm going to die." It was an undeniable truth, is still true, but it masked the fact that I lacked a plan for living my life. In some ways, I still do. You see, I grew up skateboarding, and our only ambitions included getting sponsored and traveling as much as possible. We admired anti-heros and vagrants (a few close friends even called ourselves "Team Vagrant"), the homeless we encountered around Fresno, and the apartments in San Francisco that housed up to nine semi-squating skateboarders. We slept on fellow skateboarders' floors or in people's garages, waiting for the day it would be our turn to move to SF or hit the road on a real company's skate tour.

I tell you all of this because someone recently asked me why I was interested in homeless people. And since I've been reading Ted Conover's book about railroad riding tramps and hoboes (tramps work, hoboes just ride, bums do neither), Rolling Nowhere, I think he puts it more succinctly than I can, when he writes, "I grew up with a romantic vision of hoboes as renegades, conscientious objectors to the nine-to-five work world, men who defied convention and authority to find freedom on the open road." And in my own way, I've accomplished the same thing, traveling the roads of North America, working jobs without alarm clocks or inflexible schedules, and never living in one place more than two years straight. And what has that gotten me?

Today is my thirty-seventh birthday, and while I've traveled everywhere, I've gone nowhere. I'm working part-time as an instructor at at university (who would have ever thought that could happen?) with no health insurance and no job guarantee, not even for next semester. If I didn't have the savings and family I have, I would be on the edge of abject poverty. Maybe that's another reason I'm interested in the poor (and the rich). So today, I've decided to spend my birthday lunch among the poor of Tuscaloosa at the Community Soup Bowl. (To tell you the truth, I have always felt more comfortable around poor people than the rich. There's no formality, no pretension.)

The scene in the Soup Bowl is similar to my earlier visit, with mostly older black males scattered about the cafeteria tables. An elderly white woman serves me a tray containing boiling hot chicken noodle soup, two packs of Saltines, and an overcooked square of cornbread. I pick a Styrofoam cup of apple juice off the counter and take a seat near an older black man who eats with his right hand and holds a crutch with his left.

Again, I'm struck by the sense of community around the dining room. The effervescent black woman who runs the dining room sits and chats with a man. Each person who enters says hello to a few other men around the room, and they genuinely inquire about one another. "You doin' all right?" a recent arrival asks the man at my table. He nods his head and says a slow, "Yeah." But from my perspective, he isn't. While many of the men wear thrift store-like clothes or blue collar work shirts, the kind for plumbers and mechanics, this man's dirty windbreaker and T-shirt betray his possible homeless state. And he needs a crutch to walk. And bread crumbs, the kind a wife would wipe off an oblivious husband, are all over his face, which looks like a Susan Clayton sculpture. He's screwed, I think, but I'm glad he has a place for community and food.

In Conover's book, a tramp tells him that "a fellow could get along if he simply knew the cities and their free resources," utilizing the "Sally" (Salvation Army facilities), the "Willy" (Goodwill stores), and the St. Vinnie's (St. Vincent de Paul). But while citizens often complain of people abusing our system of charity and welfare, it only allows you to "get along," and tramping or poverty is not a glamorous life that many would want nor choose to live. As Conover concludes,"If we're not going to make room for tramps inside society, we can at least make allowances for their presence outside it. We can repeal laws against victimless crimes such as public intoxication and vagrancy, and we can make sure that no one is denied food, warm clothing, and shelter, all which are basic human rights.

"That these things have not been done already can be explained by the way most of us still see hoboes as a race apart, strangers whom we have no need to know and no way of knowing."

That last part reminds me of what I wrote in my last post about the problem of de facto segregation in our cities and not caring about people we don't know. In opposition to that spirit, I came here today hoping to have a conversation with a few people, but I'm feeling too shy, too contemplative on this birthday I never thought I'd see. (I survived the rock star age, 27, but this is my Vincent van Gogh year.) When I finish eating, I walk up to the counter to speak to Amy, the woman who runs the joint. She doesn't recognize me, maybe because I've grown a beard, and she asks me if I need seconds. I tell her I came by a few months ago to volunteer, but never heard anything from her. I ask if I can help, but she says she has more than enough help, which I think speaks volumes to Tuscaloosa's community, driven by Christian charities.

I leave wondering where I go from here. Like the tramps in Conover's book, "plans [are] simply possibilities," not necessarily "something you made and carried out." My life so far, like this project, has been an essay, an experiment in living. But, as Conover says, "sometimes you can get enough of experimenting. Sometimes you want something normal and dependable." I'm hoping to stay in Tuscaloosa for several years, to build my own sense of community, and work toward those things I know I want: a home; a love/life partner; a published book; a stable job; possibly a post-apocalyptic child; and more wonder and travel . . .

Part II Day 223: September 30, 2010 ("we don't talk about race in Alabama," but we do in Tuscaloosa!)

2010-10-09T10:04:00.000-07:00

Position: Community Participant in a Forum on Race Relations in Tuscaloosa

When we talk about race in America, we are also inevitably talking about economics. And when we talk about economics, we are also talking about education. These were all subjects raised at tonight's community forum on race relations in Tuscaloosa, AL. I was impressed that this town––through efforts from groups such as Tuscaloosa Race Relations Initiative, Just Us, Tuscaloosa Education Network, and One Tuscaloosa––is having this conversation, because when I moved here, I heard an instructor quote a student as saying, "We don't talk about race here in Alabama." I don't know of other communities anywhere having this conversation (I'm sure there are, I'm just too lazy and dumb to look into it), but it should be happening everywhere.

After arriving at Central High School, I was seated at a cafeteria table with an interesting mix of people from the community: A male African American doctor; a white male college student from the New College self-guided curriculum program at the U of A; a white female nurse; a female African American who is a professional in her 30s; a white female retired teacher; a man from India in his 60s, who has lived here for 35 years; a white female graduate student studying education; and a distinguished African American gentleman who graduated from the U of A in the 1960s.

The man who entered the U of A in 1966, when he was just one of six African American students (integration, and Governor Wallace's infamous stand, was in 1963), is a successful man (I didn't catch his career) who believes government cannot solve problems, but, rather, Alabamians themselves can decide to change their state and the problems that plague us by channeling our resources and efforts into positive things. He pointed out that Alabama decided it wanted to be great at football, and now they're number one, because Alabamians pool their resources in order to accomplish this. He said that there's too much concentration on race and not enough on these bigger problems, such as those outlined in the article from the Tuscaloosa news I linked in my last post. He also thinks, as some conservatives will say, the problems begin inside the homes, with the parents. He seems to subscribe to the school of "If I can accomplish this, then so can you."

The difficulty with his arguments are that you cannot legislate what goes on inside people's homes, but you can focus resources on education, which, as it's been shown in the southern state of Kerala in India (scroll down on the Web page for this example), can help alleviate many problems, such as lowering birth rates and improving child health, which are huge problems in Alabama.

But we live in a country where 18.2% of African American males are unemployed (national average is 9.5%) and a state where the African American population makes up 26% of the residents but only 12% of the students at the University of Alabama. Add to this that the poorest and worst performing schools are usually the ones with the tannest children, then you see when we're talking about race, we're talking about economics no matter how much you want to believe everyone has an equal opportunity in this great nation. Read one of Jonathan Kozol's books, such as Savage Inequalities or The Shame of the Nation, and you'll be pissed off about the "education gap" too.

But my friend is correct, because we can choose to change the situation, but only if we pool our resources and pump talented people and resources into our poorest and tannest schools. As the late comedian Bill Hicks once said, "Here's what we can do to change the world, right now, into a better ride. Take all that money we spend on weapons and defense each year and, instead, spend it feeding, clothing and educating the poor of the world, which it would do many times over––not one human being excluded––and we can explore space together, both inner and outer, forever." So to answer my friend, educated people change what goes on inside and outside their own households, and you can legislate and enforce real equal education.

As we moved around the table, the African American doctor said the problem is that white people don't know what it's like to be black. I wanted to tell him, "Hell, white people don't know what it's like to be white, because we've never understood the position of privilege our skin affords us." (Most of us haven't read Tim Wise's wonderful book White Like Me: Reflections on Race from a Privileged Son, where he does a great job explaining white privilege to us.) The doctor said he's had his children invite the white neighbor's children to swim in their pool several times. "You think they've ever swam in my pool? No." He also said he has a white neighbor whom he waves to every day, but the man never waves back. He confronted him one day about his lack of waving, and the man said, "Well, I don't know you."

And there's the problem. There is not enough interaction between the races. Sure, there's a ton more than there was in the 1960s, but, by and large, we still live in incredibly segregated neighborhoods and attend segregated churches. If you're not friends with people who don't look like you, why would you ever give a shit about them? So I raised my hand at the end of the forum and asked if they'll be organizing any informal social events, like happy hours at bars and whatnot (because this is where real change and deals and friendships happen). I said, "You know, I had some great conversations tonight, but I didn't get to speak to those people over there, or the people in the back, and I don't know if I'll see the people from my table again." Because, after the forum, everyone got in their cars and went back to their own parts of town, to their own worlds clouded with their own problems, and we forgot about the bigger problems we face as a culture and community.

Part II Day 221: September 28, 2010 (the "homeless hunter" finds disturbing news in Northport)

2010-09-29T09:13:00.000-07:00

Position: The Homeless Hunter of Tuscaloosa

Before I set out on my mission to find the homeless camp under the Northport Bridge this afternoon, the words from my conversation with the poet Tim Skeen a few days ago haunted me: "Are you going over there alone? You're a brave man." And this is from a Hurricane Katrina Red Cross volunteer and an ex-army M.P. who performed clean-up duty on the German Autobahn; we're talking body recovery and watching people burn to death in their cars.

I put on what my brother Joey calls my "Whitesnake jeans"––my rattiest pair––and pull my driver's license out of my wallet and tuck it into my holey pockets, along with my camera and notebook. I don't want to carry money or credit cards, but I figure it's a good idea to have I.D. in case something bad happens or I get harassed by the police.

The bike ride over the bridge is nerve racking, because, even though there's a protected walkway, the four-lane bridge shakes with the weight of trucks and cars, and the rusty chain-link fence between me and the Black Warrior River below rattles, like it's all going to come apart. I make it across and turn right to head under the bridge. I pass the salivation-causing smells of Dreamland BBQ (the "fake" one, as people call it) and hear what sounds like urethane skateboard wheels clacking over sidewalk cracks on the other side of the raised bike path. For a minute I get excited, thinking maybe there's a hand-made cement skatepark, like Burnside in Portland, under this bridge. But when I reach the bike path, I realize it's just the echo of cars click-clacking over the small surface gaps on the bridge above.

Not only does the fantom skatepark not materialize, but there are no blue tarps covering scrape wood and shopping carts, no barrels for fires, no crates for sitting. No homeless encampment at all. There is only the overflow parking lot for Wintzell's Oyster House and some lawn.

I figure I must be mistaken, and I take the bike path east to continue my search. There's a parklike area and some schools but no homeless camp. I head back west, thinking the homeless must be under the railroad bridge to the west. I find the perfect spot for a small homeless camp––it even has graffitied walls––but there isn't a homeless person to be found.

The bridge continues overland a ways, so I decide to ride into downtown Northport and find the bridge's end, where the homeless camp must exist. I cut down a dirt path under the railroad bridge and onto Main Street, eyeing the bridge behind the industrial buildings for signs of the homeless. Nothing. I turn left on 5th St. and find the end of the bridge. To the south lies thick underbrush, and on the other side of a fence, a park which looks like homeless heaven. Even though it has a wooden picnic table, several "No Trespassing" signs mark the area. I think, If you have to go hunting for the homeless, then the town doesn't have a homeless problem. I decide this is the end of the line and the end of my search for today.

I ride back into Northport, the downtown of which looks something like Andy Griffith's Mayberry. (This is where people move to send their children to good public schools, so I've been told.) The downtown is a mishmash of art galleries, children's boutiques, a day spa, and expensive furniture stores, not to mention the best breakfast place in Tuscaloosa County, City Café.

It's the kind of town where the small hardware store is 101 years old (if these walls could talk, I don't think I'd want to hear what they say) and I expect to see Floyd the barber in the four-chair striped-pole barber shop.

Ironically, in this idyllic downtown, the Tuscaloosa News shouts a cover story from the newspaper stand next to the barber shop: West Alabama Lags Behind in Kids' Health. It turns out Tuscaloosa Country ranks 36th in children's' health, which measured "low birth weights, infant mortality rates, the number of births to unmarried teens, the number of children in single-parent families, children in poverty, and high school graduation rates." The most disturbing of these statistics is the high infant mortality rates; according to the article, Tuscaloosa County ranks 59th out of 67 counties, with 12.5 infant deaths per 1,000 live births, twice the national average of 6.7 per 1,000 live births.

And tomorrow's (September 29) edition of The Birmingham News will carry this cover story about how Alabamians are falling deeper and deeper into poverty. According to the article, "In 2009, 17.5 percent of the people in the state––804, 683––lived below the poverty level, well above the national figure of 14.3 percent and a 13.1 percent increase from 2008. . . . Of those, 340,000 lived in deep poverty, which is income below half the poverty level. " But even the rich aren't fairing well, as the number of people making over $200,000 per year in the state dipped from 2.3 percent in 2008 to 2.1 percent in 2009. That's 9,197 less rich people. So where are the homeless, Tuscaloosa?

Part II Day 196: September 3, 2010 (living in a song, rubber necking on the turkey necks, and locating the homeless)

2010-09-03T12:30:00.000-07:00

I’ve been places in the world––Auvers-sur-Oise outside of Paris, France, where Vincent van Gogh is buried; the sunflower-filled countryside of Pisa, Italy––where I’ve felt like I was actually living inside of a painting for a short time. At the Community Soup Bowl, a free soup kitchen in Tuscaloosa, AL, I feel like I’m living inside of a blues song. I sit between two African-American men whose accents are so thick, the only lines I understand are when the older guy in front of me says, "Man, I’m so hungry today," and when, after saying it again a few minutes later, the other guy next to me says, "You eatin' like a bear today."

The female dining room volunteer stops by and asks the older man how his wife’s doing. "Hard-headed," he says. They have an exchange that I can’t follow, then, as she’s walking away, she says, "I’m gonna hafta come over there an’ talk to her ass." He looks at me and says, "Hospital ain’t nothin’ to be messin’ with." I nod in agreement, and continue eating my meal of chicken salad, peas, corn, Saltine crackers, mixed salad, and a Styrofoam cup of fruit punch. The old guy says, "Don’t tell me I’m gonna eat all this." He pauses. "I ain’t gettin’ no seconds." (People are allowed to get two plates of food, and some do, but you'd have to be really hungry to want seconds.)

When I arrived this morning, the dining room was almost exclusively African-American men of various ages. Since then, a 55-year-old white guy with prison tattoos and his wife came in, a few African-American women, a pair of Latino laborers, a couple of white women who looked like possible meth addicts, and an entire African-American family--tomorrow is the daughter's thirteenth birthday. Surprising to me, many of the people were overweight.

Amy, the kind diminutive white woman who runs the kitchen, was talking about how she couldn't feed kids healthy meals when she was in charge of school children somewhere: "They wouldn't eat the green beans or other vegetables I made. They wouldn't even eat mac 'n' cheese because I made it with real cheese. No wonder we have an obesity problem." When she said that, the man serving the peas and corn turned around and said, "We've got an obesity problem 'cause we're fat." We all laughed.

I called the other day to ask about volunteering, and Amy said, "We're on Greensboro, right between the Piggly Wiggly and Church's Chicken." I've only heard of Piggly Wigglys through Steve Yarbrough's books, but since I arrived at the center early this morning, I decided to check this one out.

Somewhere along my bikeride over here, I passed an invisible color line in town; maybe at 15th St. With the exception of one white customer, everyone in the Piggly Wiggly was African-American. I strolled the aisles, enjoying the air conditioning, and when I reached the butcher's section, the raw meat "family packs" with bright orange stickers caught my eye: turkey necks, neatly arranged in rows; pigs' feet, four or five per pack; and some dark red bits labeled "stew meat" all sat wrapped in clear plastic. I'd never seen anything like it.

When the door of the Community Soup Bowl opened, Amy took me into her office. She said they serve between 100 and 150 lunches daily, seven days per week, but that today would be slow because people receive their Social Security and disability checks on the first and third of each month. "We'll be busy again on Monday." She tells me about a few of the 29 homeless agencies in town, which were mentioned in this article in Tuscaloosa News about the Homeless Advisory Group, who counted "223 homeless people in Tuscaloosa, including 41 children" this past January.

(I've also found out about a strange program that my bank, Albama Credit Union, does called "Secret Meals for Hungry Children," where they surreptitiously stuff food into needy children's backpacks at school. Seriously. You can read about it in this article from Tuscaloosa News. The Secret Meals program says that 20% of Alabama children live below the poverty line. Paradoxically, Tuscaloosa's 8.6% unemployment rate is below the 9.5% national average, as well as Alabama's average of 9.7%.)

But, as I asked in my previous post, where are all the homeless people? Amy says the people not living at the Salvation Army's facility or the VA Hospital live under the Northport Bridge on the Northport side of the Black Warrior River (apparently, I was looking on the wrong side of the river) and behind the Wal Mart on Skyland Blvd. on the south side of town. I'll probably check out the Northport homeless camp on Sunday.

In the meantime, it feels like a tight community here in the Community Soup Bowl. None of these people seems homeless--two guys even wear their flourescent worker vests--but you never know. As when I arrived, there are only African-American men left in the dining room. They all know and greet each other by name as a new person walks in or someone leaves. The old man in front of me says to a tall thin elegant man, who's name would be "Slim" if this were a novel, "Just keep walkin’ like you don’t know no one." When the tall man, wearing a nice shirt and fitted pants and a baseball hat and sunglasses, smiles, the old man says, "What’s up, pimp daddy?”

Not only does the Community Soup Bowl provide meals for whomever walks in the door, the Alabama Retarded Citizens group comes in to wash the dishes every other day. They are a jolly bunch, and their presence and enthusiasm brightens the kitchen. The men in the group all shook my hand when I walked in--one said he hadn't seen me in a long time--and now that they're leaving, one of the men gives all of the women volunteers from various churches hugs and the men, including me, handshakes.

When I finally go to leave, Amy shouts out, "Be sure to tell your students to come here and eat. They can write about it." As she told me before, everyone's welcome. So come on down and meet your neighbors, Tuscaloosa.

Part II Day 184: August 22, 2010 (in search of the homeless of Tuscaloosa)

2010-08-22T11:21:00.000-07:00

Position: Part-time instructor and homeless hunter.

Last night at the Alcove, Dave Madden, the new nonfiction faculty member in the University of Alabama's MFA program, commented on the lack of visible homeless people in Tuscaloosa. I concurred, saying I've only seen maybe one man that looked homeless since I've been here. According to this outdated Tuscaloosa News article, the local branch of the Salvation Army only has 68 beds, and the VA Hospital, which "serves most of north and central Alabama," only has 48 beds in their domiciliary unit. Unlike many major downtowns in American cities, you just don't see many homeless people here.

"They're all down by the river," a local lawyer, protested. "I can see them from my office window. It's a real problem down there."

So this morning, around 8:30 a.m., I headed down by the Black Warrior River (Tuscaloosa is a portmanteau of the Choctaw words tushka, meaning "warrior," and lusa, meaning "black") to search out and possibly talk to homeless people. I assumed I would find a small encampment but didn't. I spotted this one artifact––which could be construed as evidence of a homeless lifestyle, but could just as easily be a lazy man's lunch––near a park bench:

My next mission is to make my way over to the Salvation Army center. Stay tuned . . .

Part II Day 176: August 14, 2010 (jerry's nuts and busing out of town)

2010-08-19T12:15:00.000-07:00

Position: New Tuscaloosa Resident

"I'm pretty sure I saw a boiled peanuts stand back there," I tell my newfound friend Annie, a first-year MFA student at the university. She's driven me to the outskirts of town on Hwy. 82 in order to help recover my boxes I shipped out from California. Greyhound said it would take about 4 days for my boxes to arrive, but that was before they shipped one of them to Illinois by accident. Two days ago, I walked five blocks from my house in blistering heat and humidity to claim my boxes at the downtown Greyhound station only to learn they'd moved to this new location, a BP station outside of town.

When I go into the gas station, I see the Greyhound desk occupying a small area in the back. Outside, a bus is either picking up or dropping off customers, the majority of whom are black. After I claim my boxes, which aren't stored in the back but sitting right out in the open by the gas station's front door, I meet Annie outside. "This is stupid," I say. "Why the hell would they put the Greyhound station way out here? I mean, isn't the entire point is that Greyhound is for people without cars? It looks like mostly poor black people in there. The downtown location would have been much more accessible."

When we turn the car around on Hwy 82, I tell Annie I'm not sure where I saw the boiled peanuts guy. "I love, love, love boiled peanuts, "Annie says. She grew up outside of D.C. and the peanuts remind her of summer family trips down south to the Carolinas. "I think I saw him back by the gas station. I know I saw an old guy putting out several boiled peanuts signs––they said "Ralph's boiled peanuts" or something––but I can't remember where I saw him." Back by the gas station, we see the stand: "Jerry's boiled peanuts."

Jerry is a large older man, sporting a yellowish-gray-haired ponytail, a crimson colored muscle half-shirt that exposes his hairy gelatinous belly, and a pair of shorts and sandals. His blotchy skin is red from the sun, his nose bulbous from drink. His fingernails and toenails are partially split and discolored from a fungal infection. His blue eyes look squeezed together by his baggy eyelids and brow skin. In front of Jerry sit two mucky boiling pots hooked to propane tanks. A single well-used glove rests on each pot. Small Zip-lock bags of what look like dirty wet peanuts are arranged on a cooler.

Annie tells him she just loves boiled peanuts. "Well, I've got regular and Cajun," he says in a thick Alabama accent. "The Cajun ones is a little spicy but not too spicy." Annie tells him she's tried to boil some at home but with poor results. "If you try to boil the dry kind," Jerry continues, "it'll take you about eight hours. You need to get them green. And even then, it takes about two hours." We continue discussing the finer points of peanut boiling, and Jerry says, "I got the same people coming by here a couple times a week; they're eatin' a lot of peanuts. I eat––I do eat my own product, about a bag a day, I'd guess."

We tell Jerry we're new to town. "Oh you're gonna love it here. I been here, oh, about a couple years now, and I love it. I'm really looking forward to football season." I tell him that it seems safe here. "It’s a great town," he says "You could walk around any neighborhood in downtown at night and be . . . well, maybe not every neighborhood, but you could walk around down by the river and be perfectly fine. I plan on staying here.” I mention the stupidity of the Greyhound station relocation, and Jerry says, "A cab ride would cost you eighteen bucks just to get out here. You could easily of jump on a city bus when it was in downtown.”

Annie asks him what brought him from Montgomery to Tuscaloosa. "Well, it was a bit of a relocation situation," he says. He rubs his large rough hands, which look like, at one time, they could have crushed a man like a miniature origami orangutang. But now his pudgy fingers are wrinkled and bent inward with the signs of arthritis. Jerry takes a long uncomfortable pause, the kind a man takes before breaking down and sobbing or admitting something terrible happened in his past. Annie assumes it will be something about prison. "I . . . uh . . . I . . . it was an alcohol problem."

I tell him that can be tough. "When you're down," he says, "it keeps you there." He looks up, and in a tone that sounds like we need convincing, he says, "But my life has completely turned around. Been about three years sober. I don't know what y'all believe or nothin', but the man upstairs helped me out. I mean . . . I wasn’t much of a Bible thumper . . . well, I’m still not much of a Bible thumper, but I know He did this for me, because I didn’t have the power to do it myself." Jerry looks us right in the eyes and his sincerity is heartbreaking. He seems like a character out of a Johnny Cash song, perhaps the "Kneeling Drunkards Plea."

"I'm not making no excuses about drinking. I've had some physical problems, but I'm not blaming that. I was in Vietnam, and I'm not blaming that, either. Up in Montgomery, I had a great spot. Took me time to develop it, but I was making $600 a week. Clearing! Of course, I’m not makin' that kind of money here. I need to develop this spot. I've asked the landlord to move this school bus so I'll be more visible. I think he's going to do that for me." Jerry turns around and points to a mobile home behind some trees. "I live right back there in that mobile home." He used to have his stand on the other side of the BP station, but the gas station manager told him to leave after BP customers complained that he was soliciting them. "I wasn't doin' no such thing."

"You know, you'd think it'd be hard to screw up a boilin' peanuts operation," he says, talking about Montgomery, "but that's exactly what I did. One day, I woke up flat out on the ground looking up at two police officers. I had tucked a wine bottle under my head as a pillow before I passed out. A friend from AA vouched for me, and that's the only reason I didn't end up in jail."

Jerry is exactly the kind of character I was hoping to meet in Alabama, but, like many of the other residents of this area, I'm disarmed by his overwhelming kindness. In Australia, he'd be called a "battler," a guy who constantly has hard luck but battles it our for life, holding on anyway he can. And his boiled peanuts are delicious, especially the Cajun style. "Be sure to tell all your friends I'm out here," he says.

If you're ever out on Hwy. 82, south of Tuscaloosa, be sure to stop and buy some peanuts and have a chat with Jerry. Don't worry, he'll do all the boiling and talking.

Part II Day 173: August 11, 2010 (losing hope and life in tough economic times)

2010-08-11T13:36:00.000-07:00

Position: Part-time Temporary Instructor

EDD Check: $250 per week ($0 left in award balance)

I'm not poor, nor have I ever been. I've lived on couches and felt the burning pain of hunger, but those were by choice, and I always had the resources and power to end those situations. What I can't control is the lack of self-worth I've felt collecting unemployment. You may think it's wonderful to be home all day, doing whatever you like, but you're limited by the sparse income and sudden lack of energy brought on by depression. Your life loses structure.

In these hard economic times, it's no surprise that in my new home of Tuscaloosa, AL, a small college town of 78,000 residents, the suicide rate reached a new record last year––31 dead––and is set to eclipse it this year (20 already dead by July, 31) . While people choose to cash out on life for different reasons, this article in the Tuscaloosa News quotes Dr. Beverly Thorn, the chair of the University of Alabama's psychology department, as saying that "hard economic times could be at the root of some of the cases." Four times as many men in this town committed suicide this year than women, most often by a gunshot wound. The article opens with a man in his thirties shooting himself in the head in his home and being discovered by his parents, but never talks about his economic situation.

While I assume the higher suicide rate among men in hard economic times is due to the loss of one's ability and social/instinctual need to provide, that cannot be proven. And since only seven of the twenty suicides this year left notes, and the article doesn't disclose the contents of those notes, we may never know how poverty or a loss of employment directly correlates to suicide. By reading Urdo Grashoff's strange collection of German suicide notes, called Let Me Finish, I've learned that lost love can be just as responsible as lost wages for suicide and general economic standing doesn't determine the likelihood of suicide. Rich people kill themselves as often as poor people.

What I've also discovered by moving to Tuscaloosa sans personal transportation is that living in a city designed for automobiles can prove unmanageable for those who cannot afford a car. I've only been here less than a week, but riding my bike in 100 degree heat across town (20 minutes each way) to buy needed supplies at Target, such as a pot in which to cook oats and rice, can make anyone feel suicidal. One must rely on the kindness of strangers or new friends with cars in order to survive. At least I have that option. I can also afford a car, so I feel sorry for those who can't. They must feel trapped in their homes.

As you can tell, I'm struggling to find a new angle on poverty here to write about, but that's not the point (suggestions are welcome, though). For me, the point of this "experiment" has been to highlight the plight of the poor in our country and to develop a culture of volunteerism in my own life, which has sadly been lacking until this point. As soon as I get settled and my classes are humming along, I shall begin finding ways to volunteer and continue writing about the poor. Stay tuned . . .

In the meantime, here is some Gil Scott-Heron singing about my life:

Part II Day 163: August 1, 2010 (saying what you have and what you are, before saying goodbye)

2010-08-04T12:06:00.000-07:00

Position: Volunteer

EDD Check: $250 per week ($250 left in award balance)

Hours Volunteered: 3

Money Raised for Bhutanese Family: $1,300

I knew saying goodbye would be difficult before we arrived here, but I had no idea how difficult. I've accepted a part-time teaching position at the University of Alabama for fall, and I must move to Tuscaloosa by the end of this week.

When we enter the Bhutanese family's apartment, the familiar quilt is laid out on the floor, grandma sits in her place on the couch, and the mom squats between the kitchen and dinner table, peeling potatoes over a bowl on the floor. The father disappears into the back room and returns with his note pad, ready for the lesson.

In my absence, Etel has been teaching them the verbs "to have" and "to be." Etel and I run them through the items they have: "I have four children"; "I have a sofa"; "I have a table," etc. After we cover most of the items and people in the room––"I have a husband"––we move on to the expansive verb, "to be." We start with physical descriptions, which, because of our lack of preparation, leads to awkward and funny moments. It's easy to describe the father: "You are tall," followed by, "You are thin." The kids translate the meaning of thin, and we all agree that the dad is tall and thin.

When we turn to the mom, we can only describe her as short. "I am short," she says. The body type for her is a little more difficult. Etel turns to me and says, "What's the word for being between thin and fat?"

I stumble and say, "Normal?"

The mom already knows the opposite of thin, and she announces, "I am short and fat." We all laugh, including the kids, but it sounds awful. "No, no," Etel says, "you are thin," which isn't quite true either. The mom has an average body for a short Bhutanese woman, neither thin nor fat, but she's definitely roundish. The mom laughs and repeats that she's short and fat, and Etel, unlike Cosmopolitan Magazine, assures her she's thin.

We move on to conditional forms of "to be," such as "I am hungry" and "I am warm," which they quickly understand. They struggle for a minute with the negative use, adding in "not," before finally getting it: "I am not cold"; "I am not hungry." The oldest daughter has been in the kitchen this whole time cooking, and I, personally, am very hungry.

When we finish the lesson, we move to the couch and the mom folds and puts away the quilt. The daughter serves us fry bread and samosas and tomato curry paste with cups of water, since we've said we prefer not to have coffee and tea today. Etel, as usual, barely eats anything while I chow down, and the family takes notice. "You don't eat," the mother says.

"I'm not that hungry," Etel says and points to her stomach. The mother tells Etel that she is thin, and then grandma speaks up from across the room. She says something in Nepali, and then points at her belly. We don't understand, so in order to be more demonstrative she lifts her shirt and sagging breasts to reveal her bare, flabby stomach. The kids translate: "She says she is fat and you are thin." We love the grandmother's sense of humor, even though we can't understand her, and we're just glad she didn't expose her breasts.

Etel reminds the oldest daughter again how we've collected money to help her pay the relocation loan. She looks "sigh" again, but is very thankful. Etel hands her an envelope with $100 and says, "This is to make your first payment."

The kids ask Etel if she can help them with the new apartment they're trying to move the family into, because they don't understand what's going on. Etel calls the new landlord and sets up an appointment for the next day. When she's done, I broach the subject of my move. The family looks confused, so I explain I received a teaching job. "But you already have a job with the IRC," the son says. We explain that we are volunteers, that we don't get paid, and he's incredulous. "I thought you got paid by the IRC," he says. "We have volunteers at school, so I know what that is."

I manage to say, "I'm very sad," but can't hold back the emotions. I walk over to the door, sit on the floor and slip on my shoes while staring at the wall, and then walk outside to the end of the apartment walkway. I watch the kids soccer game across the street and try to compose myself, but I can't. A Somali girl bends down at the small BBQ next to me and lifts the lid. Unrecognizable cuts of meat cover the grill. She jams a large knife past the meat and stirs the coals. "What kind of meat is that?" I ask. Beef.

When I get myself together, I return to the apartment. While I was gone, the youngest daughter brought out a map and asked Etel to show her where I'm moving. "It's far," she said when Etel pointed to Alabama on the map. I sit back down on the couch, and the mom stares at me with pain in her eyes. I'm trying hard to hold it together. "It's very sad," the son says.

"Yes, I'm very sad," I say.

When we go to leave, I shake the son's hand, bow to grandma and say "Namaste," shake hands with the youngest daughter, and then hug the mom and oldest daughter, before I head for the door. Damn, this is hard. They make me promise to call and e-mail them, and I say I will.

Tomorrow, Etel will return and take them to the new apartment, where they won't understand why they can't leave their old apartment without a 30-day notice and why the new landlord––who greeted them by saying, "Does anyone speak English here?"––won't hold the apartment until the end of the month for them. It's all so confusing to the Bhutanese family, and the old landlord won't budge. "30-days is California law," he'll say, "and I'm tired of them saying they're moving out, they're staying, they're moving."

What he may or may not know is that the landlord at other apartment they had lined up for $895, changed the price on them at the last minute, saying it was now $1,200, the same amount they're paying. I've never really understood what slum lords are, but now I know. They overcharge for crappy apartments in crappy parts of town and take advantage of people like the Bhutanese and their confusion.

After their failed attempt to set up a new apartment, Etel will drive them back to their old apartment, and the mom will turn to her and say, "I am sad Eric go. I learned so much from him." And that breaks my heart.

Part II Day 148: July 17, 2010 (dividing carrots by streets, and the white shoes that nearly took mine away)

2010-07-27T06:24:00.000-07:00

Position: Soryteller

EDD Check: $250 per week ($750 balance left in award)

Money Raised for Bhutanese Family: $1,300 (only $100 left to reach our goal)

Mexican Interlude Part II:

Theft is the product of desire. As in you have something I want, not necessarily need but want, and I either don't have the means to obtain it or the willpower to avoid the desire. Theft isn't easy to explain. Some people steal glasses from bars, even when they can afford to buy them, their judgement ruined by desire.

But there is also this element of dangling carrots in people's faces, the "haves" creating desire in the "have-nots." In cities like my hometown of Fresno, the carrots are separated from the carrot-less by distance and main thoroughfares––Herndon, Belmont, Hwy 99––and neighborhoods are mostly segregated by de facto. That's why major cities, such as New York, are shocking to me: the people with the most carrots live very near those with the least, though border streets keep them semi-separated (e.g. 110th in Manhattan).

With a large American and Canadian ex-pat population (10-12%), San Miguel de Allende is an anomaly in Mexico. While many parts of the country have descended into a drug war hell of deaths and decapitations, San Miguel remains blissfully high in the central desert. It's retained its colonial luster, and gringo dollars keep the economy moving, beer prices high, and the streets relatively safe. But the strange thing about this town is that while there are "good" and "bad" neighborhoods, many people have built mansions in the midst of poor neighborhoods, ignoring the common courtesy of unspoken segregation. Sure, from the outside many of these palatial spreads look inconspicuous behind their ten-foot high walls and spiked gates, but like tinted windows, we know who's inside: someone with lots of carrots.

Under unfortunate circumstances that I don't want to get into, I end up staying in a beautiful studio apartment in a section of nice San Miguel houses bordering the poor neighborhood of San Antonio, where crime is on the rise.

The first night after being out, I arrive back at around 3:30 a.m. (bars don't seem to have official closing times and it's easy to lose track of time). I take my bar smoked T-shirt off and hang it outside to air out, then sit down at the computer. Though I've heard the story of how a local man mixed up in drugs was recently decapitated (he was the exception not the rule), how a newspaper baron and his wife were kidnapped from here three years ago and he was held for ransom (dangled too many carrots), and how four years ago a serial rapist targeted foreign women (Americans), I feel relatively safe.

That's why when I hear the gate downstairs open and footsteps on the stairs, I think nothing of it. The neighbors must have been out late. And since they stopped and jangled my doorknob, they must also be drunk.

I look out the door window and only see a pair of white Adidas ascending to the third floor (I'm on the second), and my suspicions are confirmed: drunk neighbor. I return to the computer, but then I hear the footsteps descending the stairs. I meet them by my door, and just before I peer out, the metal screen on the window next to the door gets punched in: Boom!

Holy shit! I think, someone's coming inside. I yell, "Órale, vato," and slam the door-like window shut, hoping I crush hands or smash a face.

I hear the white Adidas scramble down the stairs and out the gate while I run to the kitchen window facing the alley and yell, "Policía, policía!" In two seconds, I no longer hear the Adidas slapping the cobblestone rocks of the streets. I grab a full tequila bottle the previous occupant left, and open the front door, looking to smack a head if he returns. I'm too scared to descend the stairs into the darkness and make sure the gate is secure.

I pace and then sit, shaking and unable to calm down. A friend from my school days, a lawyer living in Thousand Oaks, California, reads my distress on facebook, and talks to me through the instant messenger "Chat function" until I can sleep.

Tomorrow night will be worse, as I will anticipate a second attempt and awake every half hour. I will try sleeping with the TV and lights on. I will place a steak knife on the nightstand––to what? Commit murder in Mexico? I speculate on whom the robber was: probably the poor teenager around the corner who watched me move in with my oversized hiking backpack and laptop carrying case.

I grow skittish, and the next day, while I'm reading in the Jardín, a teenager and his friend, wearing white Adidas, will sit down next to me, and I'll want to confront them. Like a missing lunch in a classroom, everyone is now suspect. But white Adidas are just popular shoes right now, because there will be more kids and more Adidas in the Jardín, and any pair could belong to the mid-morning marauder just as easily as they could not.

And this paranoia, this sense that I'm no longer safe, is the price we pay, the carrot holders, the danglers.

Part II Day 143: July 12, 2010 (the story of Sidney, the voice of God, and his life in Mexico)

2010-07-12T13:42:00.000-07:00

Position: Storyteller

Money Raised for Bhutanese Family: $1,175* (see note below)

Mexico Interlude:

Two years ago, my friend Sidney went to Mexico with an engagement ring in his pocket. He didn't do this to surprise his girlfriend on the trip. He didn't even have a girlfriend, nor did he have any prospects of finding one. Though he was a 45-year-old who didn't look a day over thirty, women were not necessarily attracted to him. Some even said he was repulsive. And living with his 80-something-year-old mother in Houston probably didn't increase his odds at finding marital bliss late in life.

Being from Texas, Sidney could be considered a victim of his own racist and homophobic culture. He often says things that the more sensitive among us would find offensive, especially out of the mouth of anyone besides Sidney. You see, there's a child-like innocence about him, a pureness of heart, that makes his statements seem as harmless as the curious white child who inquires if black people are made of chocolate (true story from Bill Riddlesprigger––R.I.P.) or another child who once asked me why my gums were so big (they just are).

When Sidney came to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, two years ago, he brought two main questions along with that ring: 1) Could he find a Mexican wife (he announced his intentions to every Mexican woman we encountered, including the middle-aged bank teller)? 2) Would it be possible, since he is poor, to bury his dear mother in Mexico for less than he could in the U.S. (he inquired at a local casket dealer)? Sidney would often rant about the injustices in the U.S., about how medical bills bankrupted his elderly parents, and how his mother said Americans want to build the border wall to keep Americans in, not Mexicans out. I would listen to his complaints and nod my head.

After a month in Mexico, Sidney's questions went unanswered. But a year later, he received the answer to at least one of them. He returned to San Miguel, and while on a trip to Mexico City, he saw a pretty Mexican girl sitting in the bus station at Queretero. As one version goes, Sidney heard a voice, presumably God's, tell him to go and talk to the girl. He did. Only God knows what was said between them, and they parted ways with a promise to stay in touch.

Though an admitted technophobe, Sidney religiously sent and answered e-mails with his lady friend in Mexico after his return to Texas. Four or five months into their heated e-mail exchange, he asked her to marry him. She said yes. And after proving he was baptized in the name of Jesus, though the certificate was from a Mormon church, a large Catholic wedding ensued in Mexico, attended by all of her family and none of his. Even though he only speaks as much Spanish as she speaks English, which is very little, he moved to Jilotepec, an hour outside Mexico City, to live with her family.

While living in Mexico, his dear mother died last winter in the care facility in which she lived. Unfortunately for Sidney, no one notified him of her death for almost a month. By the time he returned to Texas, their Pakistani landlord had thrown out all of his mother's possessions. This meant he had nothing to remember his parents by. No nicknacks, no grandfather clock, not even pictures of his father, who served in WWII. Sidney felt this action was heartless and speculated about how the Pakistani family was able to afford the building in the first place (illegal arms sales in Pakistan being his initial guess).

Before returning to Mexico by bus, Sidney, who used to deal in antiques, sold off most of his possessions and antiques and resigned himself to a simpler life in Mexico with his pretty, 32-year-old wife. "I like nice things," he said in his soft voice. "Not because I'm homo or nothin'. I just like nice things." But his nice things were gone.

While he rents a decent two-bedroom apartment for $200 a month in Mexico, he hasn't been able to make much of a living. He had a job teaching English at a night school, but his wife objected out of jealousy (she thinks he likes the school's proprietor). "I ain't thinking of no other women or nothin' like that," he says. "She's jealous. That's just how Latina women are." And since his wife's flat stomach is now gestating and bulging with a baby, he must find a new way to provide for his expanding family. He's thinking of moving them to the border town of Matamoros, Mexico, and taking temp work over in Brownsville, TX, commuting daily by bus. I told him that's probably not a good idea.

Despite his troubles, Sidney says to me, "You need to get you a beautiful Mexican girl. Or maybe even just a pretty one. The thing about Mexico," he says, "is that there isn't any shame in being poor, because almost everyone is poor." I think that's what I find oddly appealing about Sidney's story, because I live in a culture where the subtext is that everyone is expected to be rich or famous. And if you don't at least have some modest success, as defined by those parameters, then you're made to feel like a failure.

(*Note: I'm impressed and flattered by all the kind donations we've received to help our Bhutanese family repay their relocation loan. Thank you all so much. I'm touched. We only need about 300 more dollars)

Part II Day 135: July 4, 2010 (the caring manager, downsizing apartments, grandpa's departure, and unpronounceable sounds of good credit)

2010-07-05T11:00:00.000-07:00

Position: Volunteer

Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 170

EDD Check: $250 per week (with $1,250 balance left)

Money Raised for Bhutanese Family: $595

Hours Volunteered: 2.5

The Bhutanese grandmother is out on the apartment complex's balcony when Etel and I arrive. We greet her, and Etel points to her own mouth and asks about the tooth that was causing the grandma pain. The grandmother makes a pulling motion from her mouth, as if the dentist extracted her tooth the old fashioned way, with pliers. "Much better?" Etel says. The grandma smiles.

As we walk into the apartment, we're followed by a man I assume is one of their Somalian neighbors, until I hear him speak. "I want to talk to Nari," he says with a soft voice and American accent. "I'm the manager," he tells us.

Nari, the oldest daughter, emerges from the back bedrooms. The manager says, "The owner would really like to keep you in here. He's willing to work with you on the price." This is the first we've heard about any moves. Nari tells him the apartment she's looking at is $895 a month. "Oh, well, he won't go that low. It's too bad. We really like having you around."

The manager looks at Etel and I and says, "They're probably the best tenants we've ever had. Look at this place; it's like no one ever lived here. They take their shoes off, so the carpet looks like new. But they don't need the extra bedroom since the grandpa died. He was a nice man. It was sad," he nods toward the grandma, "they used to go everywhere together. I never saw them apart." He looks at the daughter and says, "They were together, what, sixty-something years?"

"Did he die of a heart attack or something?" I ask.

"Yeah, a massive heart attack," he says. "I tried to revive him, but he never regained consciousness."

There is a minute of funeral silence. "Do you know CPR?" I ask.

He looks at me as if I've assumed a black man wouldn't know CPR. "Yeah. I was a medic in the army," he says with pride. I picture him bent over the frail, elderly Bhutanese grandpa, blowing air into his unresponsive lungs. I assume the family had no idea what this kind manager was doing to their grandfather. I can only imagine how horrific the scene was for everyone, as the grandfather's body lay still.

We move on to the lesson for the day, which includes reviewing the parts of the human body. The mother is very good at naming body parts––lips, mouth, nose, head––but both the mom and dad struggle when they're asked to write some of the words down. They also have trouble pronouncing some of the sounds they don't have in Nepali, such as the "th" sound in "teeth." I keep putting my tongue between my teeth to show them how they have to lisp the sound. It's as if their tongues won't go into that position. They begin growing a little flustered, so we ask them to tell us some body part words in Nepali in order to show them how hard it is for us to pronounce some of their sounds.

The grandmother, who normally alternates between napping on the couch in the background or sitting in a kitchen chair and staring blankly at our lessons, becomes animated when she hears the Nepali words. She points to her toes, leg, arm, mouth, and hair in rapid succession and says the words, and we try to repeat them. We all laugh. We continue on with the lesson, but grandma keeps naming body parts in the background, until the dad tells her to stop. She returns to silently sitting on the couch.

When we're done for the day, the oldest daughter comes out from the bedroom and asks us to look at an official form. It's a questionnaire for continuing their welfare benefits. I fill it out for them, and we say we'll mail it, since the deadline is tomorrow. It would be unfortunate if their payments––and, therefore, their ability to pursue happiness––were delayed do to the celebration of the Declaration of Independence.

Etel asks me to explain to the oldest daughter that we want to help her with the IOM loan repayment. I tell Nari I spoke with the IOM people, and that if she doesn't repay the loan, it will ruin her credit, and if she ever wants to buy a car or needs a school loan, they will deny her.

"Oh, no," she says, "I don't want to have bad credit." It turns out she completely understands her situation and is going to use the difference between the rent at their new apartment and this one to start paying down the entire family's debt. We explain that we've started collecting money from family and friends to help her pay the loan even faster, since she won't begin working for another year (her medical assistant training lasts two years).

"I'm sigh," she says.

"What?" we say.

"I'm sigh."

I look at Etel, who says, "Oh, you're shy. Say 'shy.'" The daughter tries, but she can't make the "sh" sound. I spell out on paper the difference between "sigh" and "shy," but the "sh" sound isn't in her range. "Don't be shy," Etel continues, "we want to help you." The daughter is very humble and thankful, and says, "I want my grandmother and I to both have good credit." We don't tell her that an 82-year-old woman doesn't need to worry so much about credit; we just act like grandma will live forever.

Part II Day 124: June 23, 2010 (the unemployed philanthropist gets outbid by the girl from brazil, and I eat like a starving artist)

2010-06-30T16:12:00.000-07:00

Position: Philanthropist

Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 159

EDD Check: $250 per week

Money Raised for Bhutanese Family: $370

The IRC's First Things First school, where our Bhutanese family's mother goes during the day to learn English and other life and work skills, is holding a fundraiser this evening. The flier doesn't say much more than the open house at the school grounds will include two sessions, music, and food. I assume we're going to eat some great food, listen to some music, and drop $15 or so in a cash jar.

So I'm a little surprised when we sign in that we're handed auction paddles with a number on one side and a picture of a refugee child on the other, along with a list of items on which we can bid. The items aren't things you take home, but things you can buy for the school. The list includes everything from a $10,000 playground at the top all the way down to $9 worth of diapers, which is probably what I'll end up bidding on. The school has to make $25,000 worth of upgrades and improvements to gain certification as a childcare facility, which will then make them self-sufficient and eligible for reimbursements and other forms of funding. (You can read more about the school and donate here if you like.)

When we sit down, the school's coordinator talks about what the goals are, and then a couple former students, African women dressed in long skirts and black Muslim headscarves, tell their stories about getting jobs after "graduating" from the school. Before the auction begins, the coordinator tell us to help ourselves to the food table, where there's Ethiopian rice, tofu spring rolls, and Indian samosas. It's about six o' clock, and I haven't eaten dinner, so I can't take my eyes off the food table, which is on the opposite side of the event. "You always look so desperate around food. Why is that?" Etel says. I have a reputation for sustained attacks on food tables at parties––well past the point of being full. I don't know what it is about appetizers on tables, but I lose all self-control.

(Here I am caught in the act at Etel's birthday party the very next night)

When the professional auctioneer begins the bidding process with the $10,000 playground, no one is surprised that bidding paddles don't rise. People in the small crowd of about 50 even chuckle. In a reverse move on how normal auctions work, he drops the bidding price to $5,000, then $2,000, then $1,000, then $500, and still no paddles rise. He says, "How about a hundred bucks? Can I get anyone to give me a hundred dollars for that playground?" Etel raises her paddle, being the first bidder. I look at her, surprised.

"What?" she says. "I gave myself a budget of $200." Well, I had no idea. "What did you think, that you were going to come to a fundraiser and not spend any money?" I tell her I thought maybe I'd give ten to fifteen dollars. The bidding moves on, and a young man drops $500 on another item. People begin bidding hundreds here and there, and I'm impressed. I get caught up in the moment, in the spirit of the thing, and want to bid. I peruse the list and think maybe I can bid on an $85 item.

When the time arrives, I hesitate, and someone else bids on the $85 item. The aucioneer asks if anyone else also wants to bid $85, and he'll "move the money around." I decide it's too much, but I see a $50 item (a crib, I think) on the list, and decide that's more reasonable for me. He asks for bids on the $50 cribs, which they need three of, and my paddle raising is met by eight or more other people. I guess fifty was the magic number. Etel leans over and says, "Fifty dollars is pretty impressive for a guy who's unemployed."

Maybe it's not the wisest move for me right now, but in the big picture––where I spend money on much dumber things––I can afford to help the school, which does great work. Plus I feel like I scored some hero points with Etel, who finishes by bidding on bed sheets.

With the auction done, a Burmese man begins playing beautiful music on his saung, a Burmese string harp, and I head straight for the food table. I impatiently wait while some children dish rice and samosas onto their plates. I go light at first––one chicken samosa, one spring roll piece, and a little Ethiopian rice––but when I see a man putting more food out, I return for seconds. I also eat at least two of the small desserts being passed around by Somalian women. Etel looks at me downing my second helping of food and says, "So desperate."

Part II Day 121: June 20, 2010 (banks are for people with money, go out for a long "A," and grandma's bureaucratic tooth pain)

2010-06-25T16:38:00.000-07:00

Position: Volunteer

Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 156

Hours Volunteered: 2.5

EDD Check: $250 per week

Money Raised for Bhutanese Family: $320

Etel and I begin today's lesson with the Bhutanese refugee parents by reviewing the dozen or more places that they've learned in English and asking them what they do at each place. There are small pictures of buildings on the handout. The post office is one. After the mom and dad correctly identify the post office in the picture, Etel asks, "What do you do at the post office?" The mom stares at her. "You mail letters," Etel answers.

"Yes, Teacher," the mom says, "I mail letters."

Somewhere down the list, after "caseworker's office" and "grocery store," we hit upon "the bank," and Etel asks what they do there. The mom stares at her, again. "What do you do at the bank?" Etel repeats. The mom and dad sit silent and smile. "You get money at the bank," Etel says.

"No money, no bank, Teacher," the mother says. We laugh. That's right. The family has had no interaction with banks, yet. They receive their welfare payments for food and living on a debit card. No money, no banks.

When we're done with the place names, Etel and I discuss how best to work on letter sounds with them. I have no idea how to teach phonics, but we decide we'll power through the first five letters of the alphabet, and move on week by week, because the parents are struggling most with reading and writing. They cannot connect the sounds with the letters that represent those sounds.

We start with "A," and I write down three lists: words with one short "A" sound, such as cat, bat, and fat; words with another short "A" sound, such as ball, call, and fall; and words with long "A" sounds, such as cake, bake, and fake, in order to use similar starting letter sounds. The lesson seems to stall in place, mostly due to my phonics incompetence. I think there is a breakthrough on the letter "B," which, out of frustration, I write seven times across the page and say, "How would you say that?" I pause for a second and then answer myself, "Buh, buh, buh, buh, buh, buh, buh. Every time you see the letter B, you just make the sound 'buh.' It's that simple." The mom laughs and says, "Buh."

After the lesson is over and we're ready to go, the son tells us the mom has made something for us. Out come the customary samosas, curry paste, grapes, and over-sugared and over-creamed tea for me and over-sugared and over-creamed coffee for Etel. This is always my favorite time, because not only do I get to eat great food, the formality of the lessons falls away and we can chat. Late in the conversation, mom, sitting behind her son, quietly says something to him.

Half-embarrassed, he says, "Oh, my mom wanted to ask you about my grandma. She has a pain in her tooth." We ask if they have an assigned dentist, and he says yes. He hands us a form from the dentist, which says the grandmother's medical history is unknown and the dentist cannot perform the necessary operation without a doctors approval allowing for the use of a local anesthetic, amoxicillin, and Tylenol with codeine. I explain what the form means, and about allergies, and ask them if they have a doctor they see. They all seem a little confused. "Did someone examine you when you got here to the U.S.?" I ask. They say yes. "You're covered to see a doctor, right?" Yes.

The mom disappears into the back room and returns with a mess of cards and papers, among which I recognize yellow immunization cards. They also have green Medi-Cal cards, Social Security cards, and both Work Authorization and California State IDs. They can't find the grandma's Medi-Cal card. I tell them they should keep everything better organized, like all of each kind of IDs and cards together. I sort them out and place them into separate piles.

We ask them if they have a clinic nearby that they use, and they point out the back window and say it's far. Etel tells them to call on Monday for a doctor's appointment, and then Etel can come take the grandma, so she can get clearance for the dentist, whose office is within walking distance. Everyone seems to understand how things are going to proceed, and I tell the son to be sure to bring all of Grandma's IDs and cards, and the doctors should be able to find her Medi-Cal information. What a nightmare the grandma must be experiencing, dealing with a tooth that needs to be pulled while hoping her family can figure out the bureaucracy of our system.

At the same time, it's funny that I should be sitting here helping the poor when I don't have medical nor dental insurance (haven't had either in almost a decade), and have just signed up for three sessions of cavity fillings that are costing me $1,300. I've been plagued by terrible sinuses, a possible case of sleep apnea, and I still have that spot on my upper thigh I worry is skin cancer. I don't mention all of this to complain or beg for your sympathy but because the system only works for the very rich, who can afford their own coverage (barely, now), or the very poor, who have everything paid for by the generosity of taxpayers.

Before we leave, we get the information about the oldest daughter's resettlement loan, so that I can call on her behalf. I tell the daughter I'll call on Monday (I will, and I'll find out that I can only extend her deadline for three months, even though she's still in job training school and has no income. I'll also find out not paying the loan will destroy her credit, which isn't good for a young person who may eventually need a car or school loan). We say goodbye, hoping the oldest daughter and son will follow through on their promises for the grandma, as we will follow through on our promises to them.

Part II Days 108-119: June 7-18, 2010 (beer bucks for charity, taking away the transportation means of the poor, and the future that could be Fresno)

2010-06-21T17:48:00.000-07:00

Position: Researcher

Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 143-154

Hours Volunteered: 0

EDD Check: $0 per week

Money Raised for Bhutanese Family: $260

I've begun thinking of the world in terms or beer. More precisely, Etel has made me think in terms of beer prices. When I'm being cheap about something, she'll say, "You won't spend $3 on fruit, but you'll pay $5 for a beer at a bar?" When I recently thumbed my nose at a large $10 jar of local honey that would last me months, if not a year, and probably help relieve my persistently bad sinuses, I thought, But I would spend that in two hours (or less) at a bar. But I still didn't buy it. I'm dumb.

My last post was about fundraising for the Bhutanese refugee family we're tutoring in English, asking for donations to repay their relocation expenses, and we've received several positive responses and one negative one ("I almost fell for your Ponzi scheme"). I'm not a natural fundraiser, nor a natural candidate for volunteer work. (My brother Joey recently said, "When are you going to admit we're not programmed for volunteer work?") So I've been encouraged by receiving messages from people saying they admire what I'm doing. The thing is, I have the leisure to do it, since I'm unemployed. I'm more amazed by people like Etel, whose undying commitment to volunteer work in the midst of a full-time job makes them inspirational super heroes.

And I've been really impressed by the donations we've received, from 10 to 50 dollars at a time, not including the money Etel and I have promised to contribute. I would never want to make anyone feel bad for not donating to the Bhutanese family's cause, since I'm a person who has rarely given anything to anyone in the past (and I was very excited to learn, through this writing project, how much and how diversely my parents contribute to social causes), but if you can afford to metaphorically buy the Bhutanese a beer, then we and they will hold up our mugs and cheers you. (I should mention that the Bhutanese family doesn't drink, and they think drinking is dumb. I should also mention we've lowered our target to pay off the eldest daughter's "loan" first, because she will be the first person from the family able to work.) You can contribute through the mail (e-mail me for mailing address: etp05@hotmail.com) or send money to Etel's PayPal account, using her email: etelga@hotmail.com.

Fresno Trip Interlude:

Being on unemployment is not as glorious and freeing as people might think: I'm not allowed to take an unpaid internship at a respected advertising firm as a copyeditor, even if that will eventually lead to a well-paying and respectable job (update––they don't want my services, even for free); I cannot take the Spanish summer school class I want to take in order to improve my chances of becoming fluent and add a valuable bullet point to my resume; I cannot leave the country at all. The EDD doesn't want you to improve your situation, they want you working full-time, now, washing dishes if you have to.

What I could, and did, do these past two weeks was take a trip to Fresno to visit family (congratulations to my nephews for their graduation and promotion) and conduct research for a book I'm writing. (If someone from the EDD is reading this, I also looked for work while in Fresno. Every day. Really hard.) But since I was in Fresno and not at home, I missed the notice the EDD sent saying I mis-filled out my unemployment form and had until June 17 to correct it. I got home at midnight on the 18th, so I may have lost a $500 EDD check in the process. Ouch!

While in Fresno, I came across a story in the news that they were considering raising the city bus fares while limiting services and cutting routes. One of the great things I love about Fresno is the bus service. You can go anywhere in town, with a little added leg work, for $1. Granted, the bus rides are usually a cultural shock to those who never ride them, because they're full of the very people who need them the most: the handicapped, the ethnically diverse, single moms talking about cheating boyfriends, the freaks, the insane, and vagrants. In short, the poor.

I'm glad Fresno has people like Alexander Vallejo, who understands how short-sighted these proposals are, and who is willing to write a letter about it in the Fresno Bee. It's easy to cut services to those who most need them, because they are the marginalized people of society who don't have a voice, who don't attend city council meetings. (How could they with the bus services as infrequent as they already are? Some are every half hour and others are every hour, and when a bus driver decides not to see you, as one did to me when I was there, you lose a half hour of your life waiting for another bus. If I was depending on that transportation for my job, I would have been fired for being late, again.) Raise the fare if you must––$2 for a cross-town ride would not be unreasonable––but don't hurt the people that need the service the most.

The point I would make, when it comes to the poor and the future of cities, is one Thomas L. Friedman makes in his book Hot, Flat, and Crowded: cities need to quit subsidizing the wrong, short-sighted things––highway expansions, traffic lights, city halls that look like Star Wars spaceships, etc.––and invest that money in the city's future, creating a green economy and "green-collar" jobs for the unemployed and under-served communities, which the Feds would probably be willing to pitch in on––see Alexander's letter to the Bee above. (The mayor of Fresno can contact Green For All in Oakland to find out how this works.)

Cities, such as Greensburg, KS, which was destroyed in a 2007 tornado and decided to rebuild "green," now calling itself "Green Town," are leading the way into an economically viable future where they don't have to make ill-advised cuts in budgets. Not only is the city planning to be carbon neutral by 2017, they have become an eco-tourism destination, have put people to work, are trying to attract green industries, such as a bio-diesel plant, and will eventually be able to outsource their expertise to other cities for even more cash. They are hoping to retain the cities most valuable resource: it's youth, who have been leaving the city because of the lack of jobs.

As Van Jones, Green For All's founder, says in Freidman's book, "In a real green economy, you don't have any throwaway resources––you don't have throwaway species and you don't have throwaway neighborhoods and you don't have throwaway kids either . . . I have not met a white person who would not support [this kind of approach] if they thought it could work. A green agenda brings us all together again, because the hope at the core nourishes everybody."

I wish my hometown would take the lead. The people there sure do need leadership and a brighter, cleaner future, especially if they want the violence and waste and throwaway people and neighborhoods to stop, not to mention better air. OK, I'm off my soapbox now. You can return to your regularly scheduled lives.

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

2010-06-07T11:41:00.000-07:00

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."

Part II Day 100: May 30, 2010 (Bhutanese photo exchange, does this one make me look fat? and trading in your low-carbon lifestyle for an American one)

2010-06-02T08:26:00.000-07:00

Position: Volunteer

Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 135

Hours Volunteered: 2

EDD Check: $250 per week

We bring the beach day photos to the Bhutanese family's house, and they each take a turn riffling through them. The photos prompt them to bust out a small photo album of their own. We go page by page, and the family explains who each person is in the various group photos, taken mostly in Nepal. "This is my grandma's sister and her daughter," the youngest daughter says. I tell her that would make the woman her mother's aunt, and the daughter her mother's cousin.

In many of the photos, the youngest daughter has really short hair and the brother has his hair combed down over his dot-marked forehead, not spiked up like he wears it now. In some pictures they stand in a lush, green forest of broad-leafed plants and sparse, tall trees, or they stand by their refugee camp houses. The mother points to the wall of the house in the photo, and says with embarrassment, "Our house, um, bamboo."

"That's cool," I say, trying to make her feel less embarrassed, but also projecting a long-time simpler-life fantasy of my own. "I would rather live there."

As we flip through more group photos, the mother says, "This sister––New York," and then points to another woman, "Her––Chicago." Etel brings up the possibility of the mother visiting the sister in New York, where her parents will soon arrive from Nepal. "No, Teacher," she says. "Daughter in school. Son in school. I no English. No, Teacher." She smiles only because she's uncomfortable speaking English, but inside her heart must be crushed like ours. "Someday, maybe," Etel says.

The older daughter comes out from the back bedroom and sits down to look through the album with us. She looks beautiful in the photos, as she does in real life, but she points to a picture of her and a friend and says, "I was fat then." I ask her if it's because she ate a lot, but she says she doesn't know why she was fat. Maybe just growing pains, since they ate pretty much the same diet there, minus the Cokes and Flamin' Hot Crunchy Cheetos.

I still can't help but wonder if they weren't better off in Nepal, even if they lived in camps. They had their family, which the mother may never see again now that they're separated in America. No one looked to be starving in the pictures––the oldest daughter was even heavier than she is now. Not only was the landscape beautiful, but they had a planted ornamental garden between the bamboo houses that the youngest daughter said is where they would sit and talk. Like most immigrants, they want a better life for their children, whatever that may look like.

Maybe it's because I've been reading books on sustainability, such as Auden Schendler's Getting Green Done and Thomas L. Friedman's Hot, Flat, and Crowded, but in the Energy Climate-Era, as Friedman calls it, moving people from low-carbon producing lifestyles to an American lifestyle, where our carbon footprint per person is 20 tons of CO2-equivalent per year, or 5 times the rest of the world's average, just seems short-sighted. Overall, we want the trend to go the other way, if we are to survive as a species. (Bhutan, according to this article, is struggling to stay "carbon neutral"––but they're also the assholes who booted the Nepalese from their country.) What is it they say? The road to hell is paved with good intentions?

I don't want to minimize the suffering the family endured in being moved from Bhutan to Nepal and living in a refugee camp, but the suffering they have endured and will endure here––not only from living in abject poverty and being separated from the rest of their family, but from the loss of respect the parents will endure from their children, who, during our intense game of Uno today, slapped cards out of their parents hands and treated them like children––may not be an even trade.

Part II Day 92: May 22, 2010 (refugee beach day, food lost in translation, and fear of a fake blond planet)

2010-05-26T07:42:00.000-07:00

Position: Driver/Beach Goer

Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 127

Hours Volunteered: 3.5

EDD Check: $250 per week

We had agreed that no one would bring food, that we'd all eat before we went to the beach, so we could easily make it through the afternoon. But that's not what happened. Today is the official IRC beach day, when tutors and their families will all spend time together at Coronado beach. Last night, Etel stayed up until 2 a.m. with her Brazilian friends making vegetarian empadinhas––miniature pot pie-looking pastries filled with palm hearts, olives and cheese––and Argentinean tortilla made with eggs, peas, potatoes, and carrots. I am in charge of buying apples, waters, and Cokes, which I do.

When we arrive at the Bhutanese family's apartment, not only am I surprised to see the mom dressed in new jeans, a button up shirt, and a jacket (Western clothes), she has a backpack stuffed with their own Cokes and food. Down at the cars, we decide the women will go with Etel, the men will ride with me. Our ride is mostly silent, while Johnny Cash's older, American V voice croons about lost love and God. (I hit them with the more upbeat Cuban sounds of the Buena Vista Social Club on the way home.)

As we drive over the Coronado bridge, the father and son strain to get a good look at downtown San Diego and the massive aircraft carriers idling at the Navy base. Seen through their eyes, the world looks new and amazing, even to me. "Pretty crazy how big those ships are, huh?" I say. Then, I'll try to imagine what it was like, especially for the grandmother, to board the plane to America, not knowing if you'll ever see your country again and knowing you must adjust to this new one. (On the way home from the beach, the son will tell me he's never been to downtown San Diego, and I'll promise to take him sometime.)

As soon as we get the quilt spread out at the beach, the grandma, sitting cross-legged, points to the ocean and puts her hands together in prayer. "I think she wants to go pray in the ocean," I tell Etel. When we first met the family, we asked them if they'd ever been to the beach, and they told us they had, because when the grandfather died shortly after their arrival in America, they needed to immerse themselves in water to pray as part of the mourning process. In Bhutan and Nepal, they would have done this in a river.

Etel and the father gingerly help the grandmother to her feet and walk her into the ocean. I run back to get my camera and I miss the prayer and the throwing of gold coins into the water, but I shoot some good pictures of Etel, the grandma, and father reemerging.

Once we're settled back on the quilt, the Bhutanese mom hands us warm Cokes out of her backpack and then breaks out flat fry bread and curry paste and puts them on plates for us. Etel says she's not yet hungry, but I dive in. The food is excellent, as always. While the grandma, mom, and I are eating, Etel pulls out her South American food and says, "I made this for you. It's from my country, Brazil." The mom smiles as we push the plastic Snapware containers of food toward her and the grandma and encourage them to try it. They have clearly never see anything like this. They both slowly remove empadinhas from the container, examine them, and then take a small bite.

Their faces immediately go sour, but then they smile, trying not to betray their distaste for the empadinhas. We laugh and Etel tells them they don't have to eat them. They pretend they'll continue eating them, but Etel sees the mom dispose of them on the sly. The grandmother, feeling adventurous, I guess, even tries the tortilla, which she says she likes, but she only eats one small cube. I devour the empadinhas, which are dry but super tasty, and the tortilla.

All around us, spread across a small section of beach, Vietnamese, Somalian, other Bhutanese families and the American tutors share food. Etel decides she should take her fare around for the others to try, and I join her. The Americans, our palettes used to exotic foods, love Etel's empadinhas.

A relative of our family (everyone seems to be a "cousin"), calling us both Teacher, invites us over to their blanket to share food. They say they'll try Etel's food, but every one of them has the same reaction after the first bite, like they bit into a poo sandwich. We laugh and tell them it's okay, but one of the fathers, who speaks decent English, says, "No, Teacher. I like it." We laugh, but he insists on finishing the whole thing while the others spit theirs out. They feed us vegetarian samosas in return. One of the daughters, who spit out her empadinha, eats Flamin' Hot Crunchy Cheetos, which seems to be a favorite American junk food of the Bhutanese.

I spend the rest of my beach time playing football with our family's son and his cousins. I enjoy showing each one how to grip the ball to throw it with a spiral. Some get it, some don't, but we have a blast. The son of our family struggles with throwing a tight spiral, but he catches everything I throw at him, even doing dramatic jumps when catching easy passes, like I would. That's it, I think. You get it.

Around one o' clock, right after the sun comes out, the families begin packing up and heading for the bus. We drove our family, so we tell them we can stay as long as they like. They pack up, anyway. In the car on the way home, the youngest daughter asks Etel if the yellow-haired people at the beach are real or fake, meaning she isn't used to seeing blond hair. It makes sense; outside of relief workers, she wouldn't have seen many blond people in Bhutan or Nepal, and where she lives now and attends school the children are everything but blond.

It's great seeing these small revelations: the specific palette of the Bhutanese, which embraces Flamin' Hot Crunchy Cheetos and Cokes but rejects empadinhas; the grip that suddenly makes a football spiral rather than flutter; the 19th century seriousness with which they pose for pictures; and the fear of a fake blond planet.

Part II Day 86: May 16, 2010 (learning Hinduism through metal figurines and belly buttons, a walk to the store, and free food for the rich)

2010-05-18T14:29:00.000-07:00

Position: Volunteer

Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 121

Hours Volunteered: 3

EDD Check: $250 per week

For today's lesson, we decide we'll walk the Bhutanese refugee family to their local store and name food items for them in English. But before that, while we're waiting for the son to get home from his Christian church, we decide we'll go around and ask each other questions in English. Etel and I begin with basic questions, such as "how are you today" and "how was your week," to which the father answers "good" but sounds like "goot." We tell the youngest daughter to ask her father a question in English, and she blows our minds by asking, "How much chicken do you want?" Her father, going along with the role playing, his daughter being the butcher, says he wants two pounds of chicken.

This leads to a discussion about meat, and the parents say they don't eat chicken, only goat, sometimes. "But I saw chicken in your freezer," I say. They tell us it's for the kids, that they like chicken, but that none of them will eat beef because it's sacred in Hinduism. The daughter begins an explanation, which is as frenetic and enjoyable as a Jimmy Hendrix guitar solo, of their religious beliefs. (Sorry, I'm listening to Hendrix while I write this.) She runs to the bedroom and returns with metal figures of gods and their goddess spouses, shouting out their names, which I can't follow. Her descriptions are so quick and confusing, we think cows are god, or a representation of god, and people are born of dots on their foreheads or through their belly buttons. The parents don't know enough English to clarify what the daughter is saying, but they keep nodding their heads in agreement with her descriptions, anyway. This we know: married women wear a dot on their hairline. I think.

The son returns from church and, after some discussion, decides he'll come with us and the parents while the little sister stays home with the grandma. As we walk down the street, I point to things and say the words, which the parents repeat: cars, sidewalk, fence, etc. Once we're in the small, cramped store, I point to items, and the parents easily identify them: oranges, tomatoes, lemons, bananas, and even avocados, which they say they have in Bhutan. The mom knows "milk" but shrugs when I show her a rectangular block of packaged cheese. I soon realize I'm blocking the aisles for the local customers, who are mostly Somalis, and bumming the Middle Eastern store owner out by touching everything for our lesson. While we're naming items, the son picks out three small bags of spicy potato chips (flaming Cheetos and "fire" chips are their favorite) and the dad picks out a large bottle of apple juice, which he says his mother loves, and six, 35-cent packs of Wrigley's Juicy Fruit gum. We tell the son that chips are bad for him, and he says his teacher tells him the same thing. He buys them anyway.

Lesson failed.

When we get outside, I ask the dad, who is holding the receipt, how much everything was. The son puts his hand on the receipt and says, "Two hundred and thirty-eight dollars left." I lean in and realize the receipt is a balance of some kind, possibly of their monthly welfare account. I tell the son that corner stores like that are more expensive than grocery stores, which is a revelation to him. "We go there because it's close." I said I know, that's why they call them convenience stores, but they charge for the convenience.

Back at the house, we're all seated on the quilt overlaying the floor, and we talk more about food. The mother says, "I'm sorry, Teacher, but I don't like shopping." She describes, in her broken but understandable English, that she prefers the old way of picking and gathering crops as opposed to going to stores and buying it in packages. (Turns out, she knows what cheese is––she used to make it herself––but it was completely unidentifiable in rectangular plastic.) "We don't have stores," she says. I announce that I hate shopping too, but must admit I'd be lost without them. The parents tell us about all the animals they had in Bhutan, and how the father sometimes traveled to India to work on farms.

"You're a farmer," I say. The dad nods, and everyone smiles. Then what the hell are they doing in San Diego, we think, landlocked in urban hell? Etel and I can't help but think they would have been better off settling in Nepal, somehow. Last week, it came out that they have another daughter who ran off and married in the refugee camp without their permission. She now lives with her husband in Denmark, and I assume they'll never see her again. (When we ask them how many children they have as part of our lessons, they always say three, not four.) It will be tough enough getting reunited with the mother's sister out in New York, where the mother's parents are arriving soon from Nepal.

We talk about possible jobs in the future, and the mom says she wants to care for children, to be a nanny. I think about possible connections in San Diego for nanny work, but everyone I know lives up north near me, which is 24 miles and hours of bus rides away from City Heights, where the Bhutanese family lives. I appreciate our country's attempt to help these families, it even makes me a little proud, but this whole situation is crazy and screwed up, the transition nearly impossible. When they get cut off from welfare, the mom will have to single-handedly earn enough money to support five people, because the dad's going to stay at home and care for his ailing mother. Even living in the poor part of San Diego, paying rent and eating would be impossible for a nanny who speaks limited English.

When Etel and I put our shoes on and get ready to leave, they say, "Wait, Teacher," then bring out a plate of pea and potato samosas, some fried flatbread, curry vegetable paste made of tomatoes and cauliflower, and coffee for Etel and tea for me––"since you don't drink coffee, Teacher." We watch an Indian movie, partly in English, partly in Hindi, while enjoying the food and drinks. Of course, Etel and I feel terrible for eating their food, since we assume they have so little. But this is what makes their culture great: they share what little they have. They even pack a plastic bag from the 99 cent store with the leftovers and add more from the kitchen before we leave. We protest, but they insist.

When I get home, keeping in the spirit of the gesture, I share the leftovers with my brother, my roommate, and the neighbors while we watch hockey on T.V. They all agree the food is pretty damn good, even cold. I feel like I've been transported out of time and space, into this different reality where I live, twenty-four miles from City Heights. It's discombobulating, but my memories from today, the mutual compassion we shared, and the food smells filling my house are what keep us connected. Namaste.

Part II Day 78: May 8, 2010 (rolling with Mr. D, diabetic lunches, last meals, and a one-legged candy lover)

2010-05-12T17:45:00.000-07:00

Position: Volunteer

Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 113

Hours Volunteered: 1.5

EDD Check: $250 per week

I arrive at the Oceanside Presbyterian church early, so I walk around to find the bathroom and the spot where the Meals on Wheels truck rendezvous with the route drivers. I'm to ride along with Mr. D today to learn the Oceanside route and begin subbing next month. By the time I find the truck in the large church parking lot, Mr. D has all his food loaded in his red pick-up and is ready to roll. He looks like a computer programmer in his mid-forties, sporting a thick '80s mustache and a salt and peppered, parted, regular guy hairdo. We ride to the first house in awkward silence, with not even the smooth sounds of soft rock to break the tension.

We arrive at a mobile home park and head right to number 123. Mr. D half-knocks on the screen door in the carport on his way in, comfortable with his route of twelve years. Mrs. C is ready, seated at her low kitchen counter end, which is covered in mail, prescriptions, newspaper, and whatever else old people keep on their counters. Mr. D is moving quick. He's got the fridge open and pulls out what looks to be a fat plastic pen and a Diet Pepsi. He hands the pen thing to Mrs. C, and then pulls out a glass and fills it with the Diet Pepsi. "Whoa, your meals are stacking up in here, Mrs. C," Mr. D says when he sees four or five frozen Meals on Wheels meals inside the freezer. Mrs. C seems confused and ignores him while she fiddles around with a prescription box before extracting what looks like a small, clear plastic, syringe head holder. The diabetic label on the food we brought should have clued me in on her condition and what the pen-looking thing and syringe head are for. He asks about her son, wishes her an early Happy Mother's Day, and gives her the standardize Meals on Wheels Mother's Day card. We're out the door, and Mr. D is inside his truck and starting it before I can even get in.

We whip around the corner to another mobile home in the same park. Mr. D makes me help him check the food, then we're into the house without knocking, since the screen door allows the residents to see our presence, and Mr D loudly announces "Meals on Wheels" at every door before he barges in. Once inside, Mr. D is putting the meals on the counter and introducing me to a husband and wife in their eighties. The husband stands near me in his white T-shirt and shorts or underwear, but doesn't reach out to shake my hand. He smiles. He's thin and not only is his skin loose and marked with liver spots, his forehead has a crusty skin barnacle. His wife sits on the couch reading the paper, and since she's wearing shorts, I see her exposed legs, which look like loose skin draped over bones. The mobile home is tidy but has the smell and feel of the grim reaper's impending arrival. He might be coming this week, but at least the couple will go out together.

Once we're back in the truck and speeding up what Mr. D calls "the expressway" but is only Highway 76, I ask him if we should be concerned about Mrs. C's meals stacking up in her freezer. He tells me it's not a problem, because Mrs. C's son is her caretaker and comes by daily. But she looked so alone and sad, I thought.

After a short time on the expressway, we cut through a few streets in coastal Oceanside into a predominately Mexican neighborhood. The streets are lined with weekly yard sales that include clothes spread over dying lawns and tables with toys and bags of pork rinds, or chicharrónes, in clear bags. We pull into a the parking lot of a large, run-down apartment complex, park, and get the food out. We walk into the middle of the complex, where a Snoop Dogg song bumps from a neighbor's apartment. The note says the resident we're delivering to is hard of hearing, but I'm sure that even if she can't hear Snoop Dogg's dirty lyrics, she can feel his beats.

An elderly black woman in a well worn nightgown and hole-riddled head sock cracks open the door. Mr. D asks her if she wants us to bring the food inside, but she either doesn't hear him or doesn't want us inside, so we hand her the food through the small opening she's allowed. She thanks us and says it's good work we're doing, which, of course, makes me feel useful and my time well spent.

On our next delivery, Mr. D pulls into the parking lot of a nice apartment complex and says it's a nightmare to park here. He leaves his truck in a red zone and says, "We'll be out of here in no time," and he means it. We power right into the man's apartment, and Mr. D has the food in front of the man before I can even realize the guy is sitting in a wheelchair, has one leg, and looks like a gray-bearded, pony-tailed, Vietnam Vet, biker dude. Mr. D hastily introduces me while I stare in amazement at the man's pile of candy and snacks on his coffee table, which is clearly his main post-up spot. The man says nothing to me, and Mr. D turns and is out the door before I can really say hello. "I think he recently had a stroke and can't talk," Mr. D says once we're outside the man's door. "Jesus," I say. "Yeah," Mr. D agrees. We're back at Mr. D's truck, which he's again started before I'm even inside, when he tells me, "I've been cussed out at this place before for the parking situation. 'I'm trying to deliver food to your neighbor,' I tell them. But they don't care."

"Old people," I say, like that explains it all.

Mr. D powers on, gunning it up streets and testing his brakes at stop signs. The man is on a mission, and I admire his determination. Our route is short today, since half of the ten customers have posted a "Do Not Deliver" message to their address page. For our final delivery, we pull into a solidly middle-class neighborhood where all the houses are decent sized and the yards are all well maintained, except the house we're delivering to. The walkway is dirty and weedy and there are old, dusty bits of cardboard here and there. An elderly white woman, looking like she's dressed for church in her light-brown pantsuit, answers the door and says, "I thought maybe you got lost," which is the kind of lame thing I'm used to hearing while delivering food to the rich. Her stairs and floors are bare, in the midst of being re-carpeted, but Mr. D has the food on the counter and is out the door before I can ask about the remodel.

On the way back to the church, Mr. D asks me if I'm comfortable with the route. I lie and say yes. The truth is, I'm still a little shaken up from what I saw, and the breakneck speeds at which Mr. D maneuvered the route and the houses has me wondering if I can match his feat. But, quite honestly, the job seems much more important and meaningful than delivering pizza to the rich. I just hope the elderly are understanding if their food isn't so hot.

Part II Day 71: May 1, 2010 (tagging household items, a partial home tour of the poor, and lunch in Eritrea)

2010-05-02T12:45:00.000-07:00

Position: Volunteer

Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 106

Hours Volunteered: 2

EDD Check: $250 per week

When Etel and I arrive at the Bhutanese family's house, they already have the quilt we used last week to sit on laid out across the floor. The oldest daughter enters from the back room, walks into the kitchen, then presents us with a tray containing two mismatched coffee cups of warm rice milk. It's delicious, something like warm horchata, minus the cinnamon.

I ask to use the bathroom, and this is the first time I see any part of the house other than the front room. The bathtub is home to large plastic containers filled with wet clothes, which, I assume, means they've been doing their laundry in here. A small cup sitting on the old sink holds the family's toothbrushes, which are well-used and worn out. While we're mostly here to tutor the family in English, seeing objects like the frayed toothbrushes makes me want to share what I have, to use my own money to buy new toothbrushes, but I don't know what the protocol is for such a gesture.

When I come out of the bathroom, we jump right into the first activity, which is having the family members––except grandma, who watches from her perch on the couch––write down the household item words they know on Post-It notes and stick them to the item. For one of his turns, the dad writes "soup" and then walks off into the back of the house. Later, the younger daughter brings out a bar of soap on which the dad placed the "soup" Post-It. I explain the mistake, and now it's the daughter's turn to disappear into the back bedrooms. She returns with an unopened instant Ramen noodles in a Styrofoam cup. "Yes, that's it," I say, and we show her dad. The Post-It note idea is a hit, and by the time we're done the T.V., radio, couch, oven, walls, and several other things, including the soap and soup, have been tagged.

For the second activity, Etel works with the children using the portable dictionaries we bought them, and I sit with the parents at the kitchen table having them draw small pictures of household items I name. We use the pictures to play a form of bingo where I describe an item and tell them a number, and they have to put the drawing on the bingo space with the corresponding number. While we're doing this activity, I notice a small cockroach crawling on the wall. Then, another one, followed by two, ant-sized, baby cockroaches. My instinct is to smash them, but, like the parents, I ignore them and continue with the activity. The family doesn't seem to share our same abhorrence of cockroaches, because a few weeks ago the kids asked Etel what cockroaches were, and when she pointed out one on the wall by the T.V., the kids shrugged and said, "Oh," like their familiarity made them friendly.

At one point today, I'm trying to explain the difference between the oven and the stovetop, that there are two words for these different sections of the oven, so I walk the parents over into the kitchen. They stare at me blankly, then smile. I open the oven and pretend to put something inside. "For cooking food," I say. "Hot." The mother nods and smiles some more, and I notice that spiderwebs span from the oven door to inside the oven. They obviously aren't using the oven.

I move on to the stovetop, where an empty, dented green pot sits with the residue from our warm rice milk. I point to it and say "pot." Next to it is a pressure cooker, which I also simplify to "pot." Sitting on the counter is the most used item in the house, where they do most of their food preparation: the rice cooker. Between the rice cooker and the refrigerator, a microwave sits unplugged. The couple knows to say "micro" to describe the microwave, so I have them write out "microwave oven" on Post-Its and put them on the appliance.

Before we leave, the oldest daughter tries to give us the usual Cokes, but we thank her and say we're fine with the rice milk. She seems confused and leaves one of the two Cokes for us. When we're all done, I put the Coke in the fridge, where a handful of vegetables and a semi-wilted bunch of lettuce sit among the empty shelves. Since I did a quick, impromptu lesson with the younger daughter earlier, describing the difference between the refrigerator part of the fridge and the freezer, I know the freezer contains only two miniature, frozen chickens and a tray of ice cubes. Again, I think how strange this world must seem to the refugees––the freezer, the oven, the microwave––and how crappy it must be to have no means for making a living, to completely rely on the kindness of strangers. But there's also something appealing to me about the simplicity of their diet, since I've spent my own time eating an oats-rice–salad daily meal routine, have given up on microwaves (not necessarily by choice, but I don't miss it), and I'm more horrified by overstuffed fridges than sparse ones.

After we leave and are driving back toward University Heights, we decide to stop and eat at an East African restaurant Etel's been wanting to try. It's called Asmara Eritrean Restaurant, and the food is from the little-talked-about country of Eritrea, which is sandwiched between Ethiopia and Sudan. Similar to Ethiopian fare, the veggie sampler platter is served in small mounds of different items––"lentils cooked with onions, tomatoes and hot peppers, a tumeric-scented cabbage, a carrot-and-potato mixture, and a velvety stew of collard greens and spinach"––on a large, spongy, and mostly flavorless, pancake bread. You can read an accurate review about the place in this San Diego CityBeat review. Etel and I sip Ethiopian beers (they were out of the Asmara beer from Eritrea––the server/owner said it's hard to get) and snack on the sambusas, spicy "triangles of flaky pastry that hold a lentil, onion and jalapeño filling," while three white women, who speak in San Diego-ease ("totally") and have adopted African children, sit at a nearby table and say borderline offensive things to their one-year-olds, such as, "Does this smell remind you of home?" making me wonder if the adopting of African-children-trend started by Angelina Jolie and Madonna is more helpful or harmful for the kids.

Etel and I talk about a possible move to New York City and what that would mean for us. Thinking about all the interesting places there are to eat and see in New York, Etel comments on our recent rash of San Diego adventures, saying, "I've never had so many stimulating experiences like I've had lately with you." She knows I'm down for anything, and I love that she it, too. Yes, New York might fit us just fine.

Part II Day 64: April 24, 2010 (Somalia Diego, feeding English to the Bhutanese, and underground tacos)

2010-04-26T14:03:00.001-07:00

Position: Volunteer Tutor and Taco Lover

Number of Day Officially Unemployed: 99

Hours Volunteered: 2

California Economic Development Department Check: $250 per week

Morning:

If we hadn't just left my girlfriend's apartment and driven east on El Cajon Boulevard from University Heights, I'd swear this wasn't San Diego. City Heights isn't the neighborhood tourists or transplants or residents come to "America's Finest City" to experience. In other words, it's not Seaport Village, Mission Bay, nor Pacific Beach.

Dark African women––dressed in colorful, flowing Muslim gowns that hide their heads and even their feet––seem to float down the streets. Old black men wearing taqiyahs, the round, embroidered Muslim hats, sit on crates and loiter in front of markets. The stores along this stretch of El Cajon Boulevard and the parallel University Avenue are a mishmash of Mexican carnicerías, Vietnamese Phở shops, Chinese salons and markets, and a couple African restaurants.

Etel and I arrive at the apartment building of the Bhutanese family we're tutoring in English, and I feel like I'm reliving a scene from Blackhawk Down. The two-story, orange-beige building is run down, the cement steps crumbling, and Somalian refugees walk the courtyard hallways or peak out of their apartments at the foreign visitors: us. When we came last week to meet the Bhutanese family for the first time, the International Rescue Committee, whom we're volunteering through, sent a Somalian woman to serve as our facilitator, though she didn't speak Nepali or Bhutanese. It was a nice, seventy-degree afternoon in San Diego that day, but the apartment was closed up and stuffy, feeling like, as my girlfriend described it, a "curry sauna."

Today, the window is open and the apartment is much cooler, though the smell of curry still dominates. The father, always sporting a beanie, and his fifteen-year-old son sit at the kitchen table and scoop a spicy rice dish from silver bowls into their mouths by hand, while the mother busies herself in the kitchen. A chubby man they say is a cousin sits next to the father and son but doesn't eat. The 82-year-old grandmother, her nose pierced by a small, golden sundial-like piece of jewelry, sits on the couch near another cousin, age 7, and nods and smiles at us. The oldest daughter, 21, who has inherited her father's crossed-eyes and speaks the most English (but lives elsewhere), has stopped by to say hello and eat. The son, 15, and youngest daughter, 11, will be participating in our tutoring sessions. By looking at the family side by side, you would swear that no one in this house is related (grandma and dad are taller and thin and almost look Afghan; mom is short and looks Native American; the oldest daughter, Indian; the son and younger daughter, possibly Latino).

The story of Bhutanese refugees is as confusing as the family's genetic expressions. The refugees are ethnically Nepali, and they historically moved from one small country sandwiched between China and India––Nepal––to another one––Bhutan––in the 1800s. Even though Bhutan is often listed as one of the happiest countries on earth (they even rate their wealth by a Gross National Happiness scale instead of a Gross National Product scale), the Buddhist majority decided they'd be much happier without the Hindu minority ethnic Nepalis, whom they imprisoned or sent to Nepal, a country who also doesn't want them. Enter refugee status. And Western efforts at resettling them.

The family has been here eight months, and while the children are in school and learning English quickly, the parents are struggling. (That's not to say the kids have it easy; the fifteen-year-old boy is experiencing the awkwardness that is high school, times ten. Even though he's handsome and dresses in hip clothing, he says kids make fun of his accent and can't understand him.) Etel and I decide she'll work with the kids while I work with the parents. I push them through two hours of awkward phonetics––they know the alphabet but not the sounds letters make––while Etel creatively has the kids doing word puzzles and playing a game naming body parts, animals, and other items based on a chosen letter: "L" leads to answers such as "leg" and "lion."

Though the family seems to have an endless supply of Cokes (they kindly offer us each one when we visit, and the dad has two today), the sparse furniture of their house speaks to their poverty. It's hard to imagine two worlds more different that the valleys and mountains of Bhutan, where the family had over 30 cattle, and the outer city of San Diego with their Somali neighbors. While we haven't bothered to ask the family if they have everything they need food-wise and whatnot (Etel and I decided they need a dictionary), they rely on their bond as a family to see them through this tough transition, and there's something very moving about that.

Afternoon:

Last weekend, while at a fortieth birthday party for one of Etel's Mexican friends, the family told us about an illegal restaurant a Mexican woman runs out of a home. And would we like to go sometime? How about "hell yeah" we said.

After our morning tutoring session with the Bhutanese family, Etel and I make the necessary arrangements to meet her friends at the house that "serves the best tacos in San Diego." While the east San Diego neighborhood is clearly poor, each house having a low chain-link or wrought-iron–fenced yard, people's perceived fears far outweigh the reality on the ground: it's not that bad. When I ask Etel's friend, who is from Mexico City, what neighborhood we are in, exactly, she whispers, "I don't know. We just call it 'the ghetto.'"

Though Etel and I park out in front of the house, we have to walk down the street and enter through a graffiti-tagged alley where an old black man and his younger, tougher-looking buddy work on an SUV's running board. Rob, the white husband of Etel's friend, meets us in the alley and walks us into the carport area, which is protected by a sliding, slatted chain-link gate. Inside, a Mexican family eats at a long picnic table. Rob ushers us into the back patio area of the house, where two more tables are shaded and hidden by worn, blue tarps that raise and lower in the soft breeze. Etel's friends speak a mixture of Spanish and English at the table, lending even more authenticity to the experience: it feels like we've crossed the border and are having lunch in Mexico.

Rob's sister-in-law gives us the rundown. We can order tacos, tostadas, sopes, or enchiladas with either potatoes, chicken, beef, or shrimp, and each costs only $1.25. The sister-in-law also tell us why, even though people bug the woman of the house to open a real restaurant, she prefers to keep her business off the grid. Besides the hassle of getting a business license, dealing with the health board, and paying taxes, payroll, and rent, she prefers to cook at home and keep the prices of her tacos inexpensive. She says she doesn't want her tacos to be $3 each, which she thinks they'd be if she went legit. She wants her food getting to the locals, the poor, and her ability to feed the neighbors has kept them quiet about her busy little home restaurant (sometimes there can be up to a 45 minute wait).

A few weeks ago, two cop cars rolled down the alley, and the woman became very nervous. She told everyone eating that if the cops should come inside, tell them it was her birthday party. And who wouldn't want to celebrate this place? The tacos and tostadas are wonderful, served watery with spoons, which Etel's friend claimed was "real Mexican style, spoons only!" I had already crammed most of my deep fried (duro) taco down with my hands before I realized the watery broth was there to soften the shell and cause you to use the spoon for eating.

It's a weird experience, because I want to proclaim the greatness of the food to everyone, to brag about the matron of the house being the Harriet Tubman of the underground taco world, but I have to keep the location secret and just admire this woman's ability to earn a living to feed her family while feeding the poor. Amen.

Part II Day 57: April 17, 2010 (the First Lady blesses the garden, famous Somalian refugees, and distinguishing between what does and doesn't get in)

2010-04-19T15:36:00.000-07:00

Position: Volunteer

Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 92

Hours Worked: 2

This morning, my girlfriend, Etel, has brought me to New Roots Community Garden in City Heights for a regularly scheduled volunteer day. The garden was set up by San Diego's chapter of the International Rescue Committee on 2.3 acres of city-owned land for local immigrants and refugees, and it's worked by 80 immigrant farmers. Each family gets its own, small plot to organically grow whatever crop they want, ranging from prickly pear cactus, or nopales, to strawberries and other foods from around the world. I'm excited, because it's been a lifelong dream of mine to learn organic farming, and I'm thinking that volunteering at the garden might not only serve to help immigrant and refugee families but will help my own education.

Etel and I arrive a little late, so we miss most of the garden tour, led by Bilali Muya, a Somalian refugee who works at the farm as a part-time educator. Muya is beaming this morning, fresh off of being the tour guide for Michelle Obama's visit on Thursday as part of her national campaign against childhood obesity. When he finishes our tour, Muya shows some people yesterday's Union-Tribune article, in which he's pictured with the First Lady, and says, "I'm famous," in a thick Somali accent.

While the First Lady's visit was meant to highlight healthy food alternatives for poor children, it also highlighted the gap between being an important, rich woman and a poor immigrant or regular person in the United States. As you can read in the Union-Tribune article, to protect Michelle Obama, her visit was an invite-only event, and many immigrants and neighbors were kept out of the garden and practically locked in their yards by the Secret Service (which has its own interesting history). Hardly a good lesson in true democracy, but, nonetheless, a great lesson in American timocracy.

This morning, there must be close to fifty volunteers, consisting mostly of white people, ranging from children to old men, and a few young Mexican-American men that are part of a MAAC project program. The development coordinator has us break up into groups of ten and move off into different parts of the garden. At least two of the volunteers in our group belong to a Meetup.com group called "Do-gooders Who Drink," composed of people who head to a local watering hole for a beer after they volunteer.

Muya leads our small group out of the garden and into the neighboring area, where a small stretch of natural grasses and trees border a creek. He takes us over to a large mulch pile in the field, which, he explained earlier, helps keep snails and other unwanted pests out of the garden. When he talked about the mulch, he took on the role of the snail and twisted and squirmed as he explained how the sharp edges of the mulch particles would stab into his body and make it unpleasant to slime across. He tells us to weed a small area between the mulch pile and the garden's Cyclone fence, so we can spread the mulch and connect it with the other area, covered in an older layer of sun-faded mulch.

As with every group project that's not well organized, instructions are sketchy and misunderstood. Our group of ten quickly rips through the entire area, weeding the strip from the mulch pile clear out to the road. The dusty, herbal smell of the pulled weeds takes me back to my childhood of weeding our yard in Clovis, and shoveling the mulch later will remind me of shoveling horse manure out of our old barn for twenty-five cents a wheelbarrow full. Though it's hot, it feels good to perform some manuel labor out here, to get close to the earth and its smells.

While Etel and I carefully remove the black and white striped snails we find and throw them out into the brush toward the river as we weed, a teenager nearby has interpreted their "pest" status as a call to genocide. Every time he, his brother, or his mother finds snails, he gathers them into a small pile and crushes them under his oversized tennis shoes. Since ladybugs' diet of aphids makes them beneficial to the garden, they receive the same teen's admiration and careful transfer. He's learning the important distinction of what we want kept out of the garden and what we want to let into the garden.

As we continue pulling weeds and spreading the mulch, we encounter earwigs, pinacate beetles, and a large cockroach in the mulch pile. While these bugs are unpleasant and make some people squeal, I'm more worried that someone's going to accidentally find a rattlesnake in the deep grass we're tromping through.

While we weed, Muya tells us that he's from the minority Bantu tribe in Somalia and how they're recent immigrants to the U.S., and how he was a farmer over there and misses his land. It's strange to think about how people from all over the world––"Somalia, Cambodia, Burma, Uganda, Congo, Kenya, Mexico, Vietnam, and Guatemala"––and from different backgrounds––farmers, shepherds, etc.––have been plopped down in urban San Diego and are now sharing this small wedge of land and the neighborhood of City Heights.

After we spread most of the mulch and many of our volunteers have disappeared, I take a short break with Muya, whose been working his way around to the different groups, and we search the nearby, oversized bush for bee hives. We don't see any, but the bees are buzzing in and out of two areas within the bush.

When we're almost done spreading the mulch pile, the development coordinator comes out and sees what we've done. She's incredulous, telling us she only wanted a four-foot wide mulch path between the garden fence and the field. "I can't believe they did this," she says, as Muya, looking like a scorned child, turns to survey the mulch spread thin over the entire weeded area. The five of us volunteers that are left spend the next half hour or so grumbling and raking up the mulch and shoveling it into a trash can and wheelbarrow, then hauling it over to the fence to create the path.

While I'm shoveling mulch into the trash can, I have my back to the bee-infested bush. I feel a bee land on the back of my neck. As someone who has harvested honey, I would think I could control my natural reaction, which is to freak out and swat at the bee. I hurry away from the bush and continue brushing my shoulder with panicked swats. I finally calm myself down, even though I can still hear the bee on my back, and I calmly ask the snail crusher's brother if I have a bee on my back. "No," he says. The problem is, I can still hear and feel the bee on my shoulder, which means it's inside my shirt now. I'm waiting for the burn of the inevitable sting, but rip my shirt off over my head anyway. The bee flies off, and both of us are left mutually unharmed.

By now, Etel and I are sweaty, dirty, and possibly sun-burned, so we're ready to go home and clean up for our afternoon visit with a Bhutanese refugee family, whom we'll be tutoring in English and cultural adjustment. While we haven't had any direct contact with the "poor" we're helping, except Muya, it feels good to volunteer. Our task today may have been menial, but it was necessary, and it allows the refugees and immigrants to concentrate on the important work while they're in the garden tending their crops. I need to get further involved, so I can learn more about organic farming and crops while continuing to help feed the poor.

Part II Day 49: April 9, 2010 (lying about hunger, starvation by the numbers, and distinguishing between need and want)

2010-04-14T12:37:00.001-07:00

Position: Conference Attendee

Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 84

I'm spending the week in Denver to attend a writers' conference, and my friend Jake and I find ourselves smoking cigarettes outside of an Irish pub on this Friday night. I don't normally smoke cigarettes, and I don't inhale, but we've had a few beers and I decide to join Jake for a smoke to keep him company.

We're standing here, appreciating what Steve Almond calls Denver's "fancy, barren downtown," when we're approached on the sidewalk by an overweight black woman showing no signs of inanition––exhaustion from lack of nourishment. She tells us she and her daughter, who is not present, haven't eaten in two days, and she asks if we can give her money for food. While her story is almost plausible, since, according to this ABC Channel 7 News report, 60 percent of the homeless in Denver are families with children, Jake and I say we don't have any money for her. She says she's pregnant, too, but then asks for a cigarette. Jake says no.

I ask her what kind of homeless shelters they have in Denver, and she says, "Not very good ones. They've got nothin' for women." I tell her I find that hard to believe, because many cities have shelters set up especially for women and children. She says that's not the case in Denver. But the truth is, even though the Denver metro area has a slightly higher estimated homeless population than San Diego––9,091 to our 7,892––they have several "soup kitchens," including Food Bank of the Rockies, Metro Food Bank, Rose of Sharon Food Bank, and Thornton Community Food Bank, and they have at least twenty-one homeless shelters or services, such as the Denver Rescue Mission, The Father Ed Judy House, and several that specifically serve women and children, such as The Gathering Place, The Family Tree, and The Women's Bean Project, all of which can be found on The Homeless Shelter Directory (who knew it existed?).

While I'm tempted to tell the woman an interesting fact about the human body––it can survive 4 to 8 weeks, and even up to 25 weeks considering her body fat, without food––I tell her I have Clif Bars in my backpack that I'd be happy to share with her. She refuses and walks off. I guess she is either caught up in the euphoria that can come through starvation or she wasn't all that hungry.

Jake says, "Man, you handled that well. She obviously wasn't looking for food." I tell him I've been volunteering at a homeless shelter and there are usually resources for the hungry in cities like Denver. I tell him about how the San Diego facility stresses independence, that you're not supposed to give residents smokes or money, that they have to earn it. And I tell Jake that I haven't seen many homeless people who look like they're actually starving.

I can't even find reliable statistics about any people starving in the U.S., though different sources peg it anywhere from 1-120 per year (you can find an interesting forum about the subject over at, oh, God, Fox News's Sean Hannity page––don't say I've never sighted a conservative source). Even worldwide starvation death statistics vary widely, because, according to World Hunger Notes, many deaths attributed to starvation are also counting undernutrition as the underlying cause in deaths from diarrhea, malaria, pneumonia, and measles. Which I guess they should. According to this United Nations report, entitled "The Right to Food," 826 million people suffer from malnutrition, the worst areas being Asia (24%) and sub-Saharan Africa (34%). "Most of the victims suffer from what the Food and Agricultural Organization calls 'extreme hunger', (sic) with an average daily intake of 300 calories less than the minimum quantity for survival."

The report doesn't define what the minimum number of calories are for survival, but during my own 4-day low calorie experiment I mentioned elsewhere in this blog, where I got down to around 700 calories per day, I experienced nausea, euphoria, and, according to my friends, I looked "gaunt." I had the privilege of stopping my experiment and eating whatever I wanted, so I can't imagine the feeling of continued, abject hunger and starvation. I know this: it's nothing to take lightly, and it's nothing to lie about. And the next time you're on the phone with the pizza guy, don't tell him you or your children are starving and need pizza, tell him you're a little hungry and want pizza. He'll understand. It'll be there soon.

Part II Day 36: March 27, 2010 (Holden Caulfield learns how to feed the meat eating generation)

2010-04-06T09:25:00.000-07:00

Position: Volunteer

Days Officially Unemployed: 71

This morning I drive out to Vista to attend a Meals on Wheels orientation. Besides volunteering at the homeless shelter, I want to explore other ways to feed the poor, or those in need, and Meals on Wheels seems like it most closely mirrors my job delivering pizza and pasta to the wealthy. About a dozen of us file into a nondescript commercial office building, and the wonderful woman running the place asks for our driver's licenses and proof of insurance for their records.

The majority of the attendees are older, retired people and have come for various reasons: Christian duty; the boredom of retirement; a mother who wants to spend time building her relationship with her daughter by volunteering; people who just want to help other people. When the introductions get around to me, I say, "I've spent the last thirteen years delivering pizza on and off, and I thought it would be more interesting to finally deliver food to people who need it instead of want it." The woman in charge says, "But here you don't get tips," to which I reply, "Sometimes, tips aren't worth it."

The woman in charge runs through the process of delivery and gives us facts, history and statistics, most of which are surprising. Meals on Wheels began 50 years ago when two women realized some of the elderly parishioners weren't making it to church because they were homebound. They wondered how those same people were getting food. And so it began.

I thought it was a free service for low income elderly people, but that's not really the case. The clients pay $7 per day, which gets them a lunch, a dinner, and a drink. It costs Meals on Wheels $14 to provide the food, so they subsidize every client with donated money and fundraising. They will also adjust their fees based on income level, so no one goes hungry.

The meals look like frozen TV dinners from the 1980s, complete with a meat portion, some mashed potatoes or other starch, and vegetables, such as mixed peas, carrots and corn. They provide for specialty diets, such as "low sodium" and "diabetic," but when I ask if they have a vegetarian option, the woman laughs and says, "Maybe in ten to fifteen years, but the generation we're dealing with doesn't have many vegetarians." The average age of their clients is between 80 and 81, everyone is over 60, forty-two percent are over 85, and their oldest client is 103.

Once the logistics and facts are out of the way, stories arise about the clients. There was the man who was such an asshole to the volunteers, they finally had to cut him off. And there was the woman who fell and broke her hip on a Saturday afternoon, lay on the floor all through Sunday and Monday morning, and said she only had hope because she knew her Meals on Wheels volunteer would come Monday at lunchtime (they don't deliver on Sundays but provide those meals with their Saturday deliveries). Then there is the story, and this is when the woman in charge pauses and says she always becomes "becleft" (I think she means verklempt) when she tells the story of the man who cared for his bedridden wife for five years, feeding her every meal they delivered. The woman in charge is now in tears, trying to finish the story. She continues, "He said . . . he said . . . taking care of her was the thing he was most proud of in his life." We're all a little teary eyed now.

When I think of all these stories, I realize this is why I'm here. Like a superhero, I want to feel useful and needed by people; I think we all do in some way, and that's why I was so upset yesterday at the homeless shelter when I felt superfluous. I want to save the woman with the broken hip, calm the man with the bad attitude, and finish my life feeding frozen dinners to the woman I love.

It all reminds me of the scene from J.D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye when Holden Caulfield describes what he wants to do with his life:

"Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around––nobody big, I mean––except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff––I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy."

It's not so crazy . . .

Part II Day 35: March 26. 2010 (wasting time and food, competing for work with the homeless, and rethinking my approach)

2010-03-27T06:41:00.000-07:00

Position: Volunteer

Days Officially Unemployed: 70

Hours Worked: 2

Wastefulness is one of my least favorite aspects of restaurant work. Garbage cans full of uneaten food (including filet mignon), stacks of unused and non-reusable napkins, glasses of unconsumed sodas and beer dumped out, all seem to be an extra part of human consumption in restaurants. Things are no different at the San Diego homeless shelter, even though the people eating this morning are all residents and not from the public homeless population.

Emptied tables are strewn with unused napkins, packets of sugar, salt and pepper. I clean the tables and leave the napkins and packets, thinking maybe someone else will use them. But they don't. One man loads up on twelve of the single serving butter pieces and leaves seven of them unused. Those go in the trash. Some residents fill up three Styrofoam cups of juice rather than returning for refills.

Maybe it's because I'm tired this morning, or maybe it's because my friend Lisa joined me to volunteer and scored the premium job serving eggs while I was once again sent out into the dining room for busboy duty, but the waste is extra upsetting. I'm just sick of human beings right now, which isn't the best attitude to have while working here.

When the head cook walked me out to assign my job this morning, he told me I would be collecting the dirty red trays and dropping them off at the dishwasher's window. Cool, I can do that. But when I started doing this job a biker-looking dude with a gray handlebar mustache yellowed from years of smoking, said, "I got these," protecting his job of tray clearing. I mostly left him to it, clearing trays only when he wasn't paying attention.

Again, there are four of us performing the busboy duties, which means we have about four tables each if we divide the dinning room evenly. And I'm the only volunteer, the rest are residents who are compelled to work here. I feel like a waste.

I didn't drag my ass out of bed at 5:30 a.m. and drive down here to compete for busboy duties or to feel unnecessary, but that's how I feel today. If I'm not needed, then why am I here? To feel good about myself because I'm volunteering? For me, that's supposed to be a side effect of volunteering, not the reason. And maybe it's my perception, but everyone else around here seems pissed off today too, and I'm receiving commands––"we need more bread; there's no bread"––rather than compliments.

Breakfast this morning consists of eggs with cheese, bacon, Cream of Wheat, two choices of cereal, bread, juice and coffee. Much of the Cream of Wheat goes uneaten and sticks to the trays when residents bang them on the garbage cans. When I clear the trays, I get the stuff all over my gloved hands.

A female resident working with me, who looks like amphetamines ruined her life, says, "You want something to do?" when she sees me standing by the railing and staring at the tables. This is the same woman who asked me to help her fold up a table a little bit after I got here, prompting another resident to ask, "Y'all closing up early this morning?" Nope, this lady just can't settle down, poor thing. She sets me to re-filling the utensil containers with plastic forks while she does knives. After I do the first one, she tells me I'm doing it wrong, then says I have to stack the forks before putting them in. I do, and she tells me they look better.

Ten minutes later, she comes back over and tells me I should stop doing the utensils and start sweeping the floor. I'm pretty sure she's supposed to be sweeping the floor and doesn't want to, preferring instead to wander aimlessly around the room. On my first day, a co-worker resident told me I needed to mop up a spill, while he stood around watching. Some like to pawn their duties off on the volunteers, which just ends up making me feel like they're taking advantage of me. This time, I ignore the amped up lady and continue with my silverware job. She returns a minute later and says, "The ladies will do that later. We really need to focus on the floor." I tell her I'm focusing on the silverware right now. "But we really need to focus on the floor," she repeats and points at the idle broom and dustpan. "Someone will do the silverware later."

I take up the broom and dustpan and begin sweeping up salt and pepper packets, bits of eggs and cereal, and avoiding the Cream of Wheat droplets on the floor. Breakfast ends at 7:30 a.m. sharp, and the security starts harassing people to get going. After folding all the tables and sweeping up everything we can, the crew––volunteers and residents––mop the entire cafeteria. With so many of us working, the whole job is done in about fifteen minutes.

I'm starting to think I should volunteer for the education program tutoring adults for GEDs. At least my work will have a measurable impact on someone's life and I won't be wasting my time. After all, maybe it's more important to feed the minds of the poor than their bellies.

Part II Day 37: March 18. 2010 (the undeserving poor and seeing the light)

2010-03-18T15:43:00.000-07:00

Position: Volunteer

Days Officially Unemployed: 62

Hours Worked: 1.25

I'm in Fresno to visit family and attend Susan Orlean's reading and book signing tomorrow at Fresno State, so I decided to return to Casa Pobre for my first day of volunteering there. I arrive at 8 a.m., and the head cook walks me into the back room, points to a box of green bell peppers, and tells me to cut them "fajita style" and place them in a five gallon bucket, then he walks away. I look at the two people chopping onions, and then around the room, not seeing a chopping block or a five-gallon bucket. I walk back into the main kitchen and tell the cook I have no idea where anything is. He tells me Charles will help me.

Charles gives me a cutting board, hunts down a five-gallon bucket, and selects a suitable knife from the wall magnet. The head cook walks back in, takes up the knife and says, "Cut them fajita style, like this," as he deftly slices the bell pepper into long, thin slices. Having a bad history with knives––a sliced palm, a cut finger––I have a reasonable fear of them. My bell pepper cuts are slow, deliberate, and awkward. The room is cool because the back door remains open to alleviate the pungent onion mist permeating the air. A man complains about the door being open and shuts it. As the onion mist builds, causing a complex chemical reaction that creates sulfuric acid when combined with my eyes' moisture, my eyes water and my cutting task becomes more and more difficult. I'm tired, and as I try to slice, the knife slips off the bell pepper's waxy skin several times and slaps on the cutting board.

Super sensitive to onion mist, my eyes eventually water so much, I can't see at all. I walk out of the back room and into the kitchen to wash my hands and get a paper towel to wipe my eyes. The head cook comes in and says something about the onions, then looks disappointed when he peers into the five-gallon bucket and sees my lack of progress. He grabs the knife and swiftly cuts five bell peppers in half as I tell him about my sensitivity to onions. He hands me back the knife, and I have an overwhelming feeling I wouldn't do too well in a prison environment or high-paced kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, I'm relieved when they ask me to man the breakfast line, which is really the job I came to perform; I want contact with the homeless. As they told me during orientation, you never know who you'll see volunteering in this place, and today I'm surprised to see a girl I used to work with in Fresno State's writing center. She's now attending Fresno City College's kitchen management program, and volunteering is part of her major.

We line up to serve plastic trays with a plain scoop of oatmeal, a fruit cup, and a large muffin. I get the less-than-glorious job of putting the pre-rolled plastic cutlery on the trays, then passing them to a girl who plops a spoonful of oatmeal on them. Just like in San Diego, the trays aren't completely dry, and I want to wipe each one down, but don't have time.

I strike up a conversation with an older volunteer, whom I'll call Jim. He asks me if it's my first time, and, after telling him yes, I eventually talk to him about the facility in San Diego. We discuss the merits of religious institutions, who sometimes make people listen to sermons before they give aid, versus non-profits, who receive government grants and, therefore, can't make those seeking help listen to religious messages as a prerequisite to aid. Jim says the Fresno Rescue Mission falls into the former category, and though they provide temporary housing, they require sermon attendance, which causes many homeless to refuse their services. Jim, who has volunteered for eight years at Casa Pobre, says, "Jesus didn't say, 'I'll show you the light if you jump through hoops'; he just showed it."

I'm disappointed by the lack of contact I have with the homeless today, even though I'm manning the food line. The window where the homeless receive their trays is small, and I'm too busy rolling plastic spoons into napkins to notice the people in the window. There's only one resident who stands outside the window and slaps a cup on the trays before handing them to each homeless person and yelling out, "Two drinks. Two cartons." He's shouting about the small milk cartons, but he sounds like a prison guard or marine drill sergeant.

Anyhow, when I do look at the people passing through the line, I think many of them look young, able-bodied, and capable of work. It's people like this that we tend to pass judgement on, but I don't know their individual stories, so I reserve judgement. As Casa Pobre's newsletter says, "Implicit in the debate about the deserving poor is the expectation that to qualify, they must be utterly victimized, have had no character flaws or foolish behavior that have led to their destitution, and that helping them will somehow get them back on their feet." This isn't always the case, and Casa Pobre's policy is to help both the "deserving" and "undeserving," or more precisely put, to not make fine distinctions between the two.

Last night, a relative of mine made a comment, I think most people would agree with, that if someone is out there on the streets and is able-bodied but on drugs, then they made a poor choice and are undeserving of compassion or help. The Casa Pobre newsletter also sheds light on this situation: "What we know about addiction explains part of the mystery. Once the body has acclimated itself to a substance, it physically craves it to feel normal. The mind follows the body; rationalization sets in, and a young addict is on his way to becoming an old addict."

I love drinking, but I've always been functional and am able to turn it off at will––like now, for Lent (I'm guilty of counting down the days, though). But I understand what the newsletter goes on to describe: "For an alcoholic, sobering up is a terrifying prospect, because sobriety would force him to face the meaninglessness of his life without the mediating effects of beer, wine, or vodka. In his warped way of thinking, sobriety doesn't promise sanity, [sic] but terror and despair."

I want to attribute a paraphrased quotation (I can't locate it right now) to Mother Teresa that speaks to not worrying about the recipients of your charity, that you should give and do these things because they are right. If you're being deceived or taken advantage of, that goes on the soul––if you're a Christian––of the deceiver. As volunteer Jim says, you've got to just keep showing the light.

After feeding the homeless, I help wipe down the counters and sweep up before leaving. When I pull out of the lot, I decide to circle the block, realizing I'm unfamiliar with this area of Fresno. Well, sort of unfamiliar. When Mike, the first one of our high school friends to get a driver's license, asked where we wanted to go, we all decided to head downtown to see what prostitutes looked like. We spotted some and laughed at them.

I drive back toward the freeway, cutting through an area that's slated for redevelopment, but I see only empty storefront after empty storefront and a handful of homeless people. I pass someplace with an old, burned out metal and neon sign, called Happy Liquor Store, and I think, Only ten more days until Palm Sunday, the end of Lent, and a return to "foolish behavior." I can see the light.

Part II Day 31: March 12, 2010 (hands of the homeless, looking for dates in line, and dreaming of the road)

2010-03-12T13:26:00.000-08:00

Position: Volunteer

Days Officially Unemployed: 56

Hours Worked Today: 2.33

I arrive at the San Diego facility a little after 10 a.m. and head directly to the kitchen on the other side of the street, where they feed the public lunch along with the residents. After signing in and putting on the required hair-net, plastic apron, and plastic gloves, I'm told I'll be manning the juice station out in the dining room. I walk over to the juice machine and I'm greeted by a jolly black man, I'll call George, who's a little shorter than I am and much rounder. "You helping me with the juice today?" he asks. I say yes. "Cool. Ring some of those towels out and place them by the trays for wiping up spills and whatnot." He asks me if it's my first day, and I tell him I worked over on the other side last week.

"How many people you get over there?" I tell him not many, maybe 50-100, that it's mostly resident families. A younger white guy, I'll call him Jacob, comes over to join us. He asks me what volunteer group I'm from. George asks me the same thing later, and they seem surprised when I tell them I'm not volunteering with a group, that I'm here on my own. I'm actually surprised to find out they're both residents. They are normal, healthy guys with good senses of humor.

Each one of us stands at the long table in front of the juice machine with a silver tray and three juice choices in pitchers: orange, grape, and George's mix of cranberry and apple. Many of the homeless people will ask what the red stuff is, or just say, "Give me the red stuff," but George lets them know it's his special cranapple mix. Before the homeless are let in, George tells me to prepare to pour about two thousand drinks. "We get about 1,500 people coming through the line, plus residents. I'm gonna get you a new girlfriend today," he says. I laugh. "I'm gonna get you the raunchiest one coming through the line," George says and laughs. He looks at Jacob. "You too. I'm gonna get you both new girlfriends . . . I have this old woman, probably seventy-one, coming through here and rubbing my belly," George says as he rubs his belly. "She says she wants to f**k me." I laugh. "I'm serious. You'll see some crazy shit in here. There's always drama. Some woman tried to beat a man up yesterday. Drama, man. Always drama."

When the homeless people start coming through, the first thing I notice is their hands: various hues; long, yellowed fingernails; short, dirty fingernails; crusted over fingernails; sketchy, faded tattoos between thumbs and forefingers; scabs; blood stained palms; and severely dry skin. Someone should pass out lotion and nail clippers.

When I pour the juice, several people say thank you like they mean it. And not just thank you for the Styrofoam cup of juice, but thank you for volunteering, for helping. And that makes me feel good. Sure, some people push in or point their cup toward a pitcher without saying a word, but that's counterbalanced by the people saying "God bless you" or "have a wonderful day" to me. That kind of thanks and acknowledgment didn't come from feeding the rich. In general, I felt more like a servant or a piece of tolerated furniture, though there were several exceptions, of course.

George hits on several of the females, mostly residents. He keeps saying things to me, like, "Did you see that Latina girl, man? Damn," or, "You see that one, how she's built? Damn." He also has an older black woman, with tattoos on her neck, hollering out her phone number at him. "Write it down, girl," he says. While I've pointed out in past posts the disproportionate number of beautiful (and tall) rich people, I can say the homeless, in general, are not a good looking lot (though some are tall). The pretty Latina girl George commented on, and a fairly handsome younger white guy, both residents, did come through the line, but I also saw the ugliest white woman in my life. No one's winning beauty contests around here, but that's not the point.

Many people come back for seconds or thirds or more on the juice. I see several people reenter the line for a second tray of food. This may be the only meal they get today, so they stock up. A couple people have me fill their water bottles with orange juice, which I didn't realize I'm not supposed to do. They could use it for mixing with vodka when they're outside. I see a few familiar faces from last week when I was in line, including the human cigarette machine.

As other people come through the line, I think, This could be me. While I've admittedly never been close to homelessness, I've thought about the possibility ever since I was a young skateboarder. Some friends and I used to even call ourselves Team Vagrant. Life was about traveling and skateboarding and seeing new places and meeting new people, with no thought of the future. Some of the homeless guys look like people I used to skate with; one dude even wears a skateboard logo sweatshirt. And every time I read a vagabond story, whether it's On the Road or Into the Wild or Travels with Lizbeth, I feel the pull of the road.

I've been feeling it again lately. But now farther places are calling for different reasons: Afghanistan for volunteer work; South Dakota for teaching Native children; Japan for teaching English; India for pure travel experience. Even if I decide to hit the road again soon, I don't think I'll ever end up homeless, though it doesn't seem as bad as being successful and dying in your house alone, like this week's sad story about South Carolina's first black female lawmaker, Juanita Goggins. Stories like that make me want to live as much as I can now.

After a couple hours of serving juice, I tell George I'm going to eat. "Go on ahead, man," he says. I enter the line, which now only contains about five homeless people, and wait my turn at the counter. They hand you a recently washed and not completely dried plastic tray with the food already on it: a spoonful of spaghetti with a chicken friend steak and marinara sauce on top. I turn around and am handed two end pieces of white bread. The vegetables they were serving earlier, a mix of peas, carrots, and corn, are gone.

I sit down at a cafeteria table near a tall black man. After I'm seated, a young, bearded white guy sits next to me and says hello to the black man, who replies, "God is good." The white guy says amen to that, and then the black man says, "We've got to stop sabotaging our blessings." And that hangs in the air while we eat. It seems I've spent much of my life doing just that, sabotaging my blessings. But no more. I'm going to get living, to experience new things and places.

Part II Day 24: March 5, 2010 (toothless co-workers, poor man's buffet, and everybody knows that "snitches get stitches")

2010-03-07T12:30:00.000-08:00

Position: Volunteer

Days Officially Unemployed: 49

I arrive at the San Diego homeless facility at 6 a.m. to serve breakfast. After signing in, the head cook walks me over to put on a disposable plastic apron, plastic gloves and a hairnet. A few stereotypical “lunch ladies” move around the large kitchen preparing breakfast. After I’m all suited up and hyped to serve breakfast, the head cook tells me I can go out and assist in the dining room. Huh?

I spend two hours not feeding the poor but, instead, cleaning up their garbage and wiping down their tables. My “co-workers” consist of a tiny white woman, a large white woman, a Pacific Islander missing his front teeth, and, later, a quiet black guy who says, “Another day,” when he arrives. They all turn out to be very nice, but don’t bother introducing themselves to me. Apparently, they are either residents or part of the court ordered community service crew, since they don’t wear a volunteer badge like me, but real I.D. badges instead. I haven’t yet figured out what the different colored badges mean.

The Pacific Islander guy seems to be the self-appointed shift supervisor, and he mostly tells me what to do. The tiny lady gives me my first introduction to the job, saying, “We stand around a lot.” When I laugh, she says, “Well, we do.” She tells me they’re overstaffed, and she’s right. There are maybe twenty tables in this cafeteria setting and about as many residents. Even at the busiest time, there are no more than forty residents eating breakfast at once.

My co-workers stand around talking about the behavior of the residents––“they waste coffee and food”––or talking about their own lives: “I either fail classes or ace them. I’m just not a C student.” One of the residents is a woman, easily in her sixties, and she wears an oversized T-shirt that says “Snitches Get Stitches” in a huge font across the front. Another resident says, as she fills up her coffee mug, “I’m off to the boringest class on the planet.” I ask her what that might be. “JSS,” she says, “Job Search Skills. They teach you how to make a resume and write cover letters and all that. Look, I’m fifty-six years old, if I haven’t learned that by now there’s no hope for me.”

What impresses me most is the food variety at breakfast. Today’s hot breakfast consists of thin French toast and a side of country ham. The residents can also choose to have Cream ‘o Wheat and/or three varieties of cereal––Cheerios, Chex, or Corn Flakes. Over by the cereal, apples, oranges, and bananas fill three plastic bins. My Pacific Islander friend tells me the residents get most excited on days when they serve bacon. “People love bacon. They go crazy for it.” Near where the work crew and I do our standing around, sits a popular coffee machine and a milk machine. None of the residents wants for hunger.

When people get up to leave, I wipe down their tables, taking my time to do the job right, getting all the syrup and stains with the wet towel. Even though this is menial work, it still feels good, like I’m a small cog in this machine that’s turning people’s lives around. Sometimes, working for free for the benefit of someone else seems so much more satisfying than working for yourself.

The heartbreaking part of the morning is seeing the children in here with their parents. They range in age from toddlers to teenagers, and I can’t imagine how difficult life is when you’re being raised in a shelter. At least they’re in a really nice shelter that provides the framework and infrastructure for overcoming this adversity. The charity seeks people to help mentor the kids, but you must commit for longer terms (6 months to a year), because, as the director says, these kids need stability in their lives.

Breakfast ends promptly at 8 a.m., which seems early to me. I help clean and then fold the tables as each one is abandoned. Folding the round tables by yourself is a bit of workout, because you have to press a lever underneath and then push the edges hard to get them to fold. The tiny lady compliments me, saying I’m pretty good at it for a first timer. After I move all the tables to one side of the room and sweep half the floor so my buddy can mop, I head out.

As I pass through the courtyard, several of the residents from breakfast sit on benches along the wall and sun themselves. I smile at them as I walk by, and a kind looking black woman says, “Thank you for volunteering.” That makes the whole morning worth it right there.

Part II Day 23: March 4, 2010 (free lunches, the human cigarette machine, and praying with Saint Francis)

2010-03-05T13:07:00.000-08:00

Position: Homeless Man

Days Officially Unemployed: 48

I decide that before I begin my volunteer work, I'd like to pass through the San Diego facility as a homeless man to see what the experience is like from the other side of the counter, especially since we're not supposed to fraternize with the clientele. I park my car at my girlfriend's place and ride my bike downtown this morning. I pass by a couple homeless men close to her apartment in University Heights, and realize they must make it hustling on their own. While cruising down Park Blvd., down past San Diego High School and City College, I spot some high school aged kids smoking a bong in a closed car garage doorway. Not a joint but a foot long bong. When I near the homeless facility, I see several homeless people beginning to converge on the charity and line up.

I ride around back and look for somewhere to lock my bike up, before riding back out front and locking it in plain view of the line inside the gate. I stand outside the gate and loiter next to a streetlight and wait for the doors to open. Men and women sit or lie down with their bags within the roped off, safety-coned lines, while others mill about outside by me. I have on my black hooded sweatshirt and keep the hood over my head and a scowl on my face. With my scruff, I think I can easily pass as the jobless man I am.

Just yesterday, after a week of trying, I finally managed to do the impossible. I got ahold of an actual person at the EDD––only because I found the interview phone number in my cell phone's old dialed calls––to ask them where my unemployment checks are, and they said it showed one authorized in the system, but it never went out. I applied a month and a half ago. I spoke to my mom last night and said, "If I didn't have any savings, I would have been screwed. How would I pay rent?" And she said, "That's how people end up homeless."

So here I am, posing as a homeless man but actually jobless. I move from my place by the streetlight to closer by the gate entrance. A short, portly Latina woman stands next to a taller, thin black man right at the entrance. While I'm watching the scene, a man approaches the black man and hands him two bucks. The black man, wearing a beanie and heavy coat, reaches into his pocket and slyly produces a pack of Marlboros for the other man. Then he does this for a woman. Then another woman. They guy is a human cigarette machine, working his angle. He unfolds a wad of ones, straightens them out, then refolds it before putting it in his pocket. A couple of other men wandering in and out of the gated area carry whole cartons of cigarettes, and I get the feeling smokes hold almost the same currency here as in prison.

I'm trying to stand here and mind my own business, so that no one will talk to me or ask me my story. But I'm a magnet for attention. A resident chaplain beelines it out of the gated area and right toward me. In an Irish accent he asks me how I am, if I have a place to stay, and how my strength is. I tell him I'm staying with a friend up by the park, a half-lie, and that I lost my job in January, the truth. He tells me my health is the most important thing, then he asks me if I believe in the Creator. I'm extremely uncomfortable with public discussions of religion, but I sheepishly tell him yes. "Do ya believe in Jesus Christ?" Without thinking of the connotation he implies––that Jesus is a form of God and the Messiah and Savior, dying for me on the cross––I answer yes. "So you're a Christian?" he says. I tell him sort of, or at least I'm trying to be, in the sense that I'm trying to follow Jesus' example. "Would ya like to pray with me?" he asks. I shrug, almost say no, then answer, "I guess so."

He lays his hand upon my shoulder and asks God to help me stay healthy, to find a job, and to meet the right people. My head is bowed and my eyes closed, and I appreciate everything he asks in my name, since I would never ask for it myself. When he finishes his lengthy prayer, I shake his hand and thank him. He says, "Would you like to pray for me now?" I stammer and say that I'm not comfortable with public prayer and that I will remember him tonight in my prayers. He tells me his name, and I begin asking him questions about where he's from. He says he's a retired missionary and has been in the U.S. for about 15 years, and, no, he hasn't been back to Ireland for a long while. That makes me sad for some reason. He asks me if I know who Saint Francis of Assisi is, and then tells me I look like him, especially with my sweatshirt hood and scruffy beard. I tell him I wish I were St. Francis.

When the cafeteria doors open, I walk inside the gate and sit on the curb at the end of the long line. They only allow a dozen or so people in at a time, so the line moves slow. The majority of the people standing in line are white and over forty-years-old. Black people are second in numbers, followed by a few Asian men and a couple Latinos. I would expect more Latinos because of the overall demographics of San Diego and its proximity to Mexico. Their underrepresentation here makes me hypothesize about the nature of families within our various cultures. I think white people are the most likely to be isolated from their families, though this is only speculation. Could be that they're more willing to accept handouts, dating back to the Great Depression––the old soup line photos show mostly white men and a few black men––who knows?

I spend my time in line staring at the ground, looking up every once in a while to observe the faces or to see who's telling the story about how he's looking for work and an apartment. A young Asian guy, who wears a black Henry's Market beanie and appears to be in fantastic health, stands next to me in line. He keeps looking at me and sizing me up, probably thinking the same thing I am about him: what are you doing here?

An unshaved, fat white man with a worn out, black ball cap and a silky, black windbreaker enters the line behind me and starts complaining to his lady friend about how they wouldn't let him in through the handicap line. He said he asked where R is, because R always lets him in. The man takes pains to outline how, even though he seems quite capable, he isn't supposed to stand for more than fifteen minutes at a time, and that even the handicap line takes more than fifteen minutes to get through, while this regular one can take an hour. I realize he's holding a fluorescent, laminated card. I look around and see other people are holding these too.

I turn to the guy behind me and ask if you need a pass to eat. "Yeah, you get them at the office," he says, pointing to the front of the building outside of the gate. I walk over there and enter. The young black man minding the front desk ignores me while I stand at the counter. After several seconds pass, he finally looks at me and asks what I want. I tell him I need a pass to eat, and he says I have to go around the block to another building and get a special I.D. card there. An I.D. card? To eat at a homeless shelter? The place in Fresno doesn't ask for I.D. "Won't take but five minutes," he says. I really just want to leave at this point, since I'm feeling guilty for even trying to eat lunch here.

But I walk up the sidewalk. Then stop. I walk back to the building and get my bike, then ride up the street to see if I can find the other building, which has the word "day" in its name. When I turn the corner, I see many homeless people, in a less secure setting, wandering the streets or standing with their shopping carts on the sidewalk. I ride up to the gate of the place that issues I.D.s and the courtyard looks like what can only be described as a homeless prison yard. Apparently, it's an area that provides daytime relief to the homeless. I don't have the nerve to enter through all the tents and rough characters, plus I worry about having to face an interview and lying about my situation. Looks like I'm going to have to experience the place purely as a volunteer. I turn around and head up the street toward my girlfriend's apartment, satisfied with my attempt to get a free lunch. And I vow to return in the morning to feed the poor.

Part II Day 21: March 2, 2010 (orientation, gentrification, and living with the poor)

2010-03-05T11:50:00.000-08:00

Position: Volunteer

Days Officially Unemployed: 47

I leave my girlfriend's house and attempt to drive into downtown San Diego toward a well-known charity, which is hosting an orientation for volunteers tonight. I accidentally get on the freeway headed the wrong direction, north, and by the time I get off and meander through the streets of downtown, I'm almost late. Unlike La Casa Pobre in Fresno, the streets immediately surrounding the charity aren't filled with homeless people. There are a few, but there's no encampment to drive through before the gate. I think the reason for the absence of homeless people is the different nature of the two charities.

While the charity in Fresno feeds the homeless three meals a day, without question, and allows a limited number of drug and alcohol addicts to obtain residency to help them overcome their addictions, the San Diego charity provides semi-long term living quarters, focuses on getting the homeless off the streets, and only serves one public meal a day.

One of the coordinators walks us through the San Diego facility, which encompasses several very nice multi-story buildings in a one or two block radius. They house each group separately: families; single women; and single men. Each group has their own floor or more of rooms and, as I understand it, every person is afforded a two-year timeline to make it out on their own. There's a nice courtyard playground for the kids, along with a children's education center and daycare on the ground floor of the main building. Upstairs, in the other central building, there's an adult education center and computer labs. Everything is designed to give the residents full access to improving their situation until they can get on their own feet again. They serve the residents three meals a day, while the public homeless population is offered one lunchtime meal a day and free access to downstairs showers.

The residents live under strict rules and a point system, which are there to help them. Too many points and you're booted. Bring drugs in and you're gone. While the facilities are nice, especially compared to La Casa Pobre in Fresno, the coordinator explains that the living situation isn't easy, especially since you have four men living in each single males room. The residents sometimes have disagreements and fights, and they often tell on one another if someone's breaking the rules.

Across the street, beyond where the charity's founder lives, there's a large low-income apartment building that the charity also owns. The founder's main goal right now is to get more affordable housing in downtown, because, as the coordinator explains, it's really difficult for people to make it out on their own when they can't afford the high rents of San Diego. I never really understood the process and problem of gentrification, which took place with the Gas Lamp District's expansion and then the addition of the Padres' Petco Park downtown, but poor people have nowhere to live. Many of the old, affordable motels in the area were bulldozed with the arrival of the ballpark, and luxury condos took their places. The poor got pushed farther and farther out, making getting to work downtown more and more difficult.

Just like in Fresno, fraternizing with the residents or lunchtime homeless people is discouraged. The coordinator echoes what was said in Fresno, that this is not the place to find your next date, though it happens. And with the emphasis on self-reliance, the coordinator tells us we're not allowed to give anything at all to the residents. "If you're by the soda machines and someone is just a dime short for a soda, don't give it to them. If you're standing out in the area where people tend to smoke and someone tries to bum a cigarette from you, don't give it to them." The charity operates on the old adage that "it's better to give someone a fishing pole than a fish." Well, they give them fish to eat while they're teaching them to fish, I guess. In contrast, to continue the metaphor, La Casa Pobre, in Fresno, functions mostly to give out fish and only a handful of fishing poles, which would explain why they're are so many people encamped just outside the gates.

As I drive away from the San Diego charity just after 8 p.m., I go under the freeway underpass and both sides are completely crammed with homeless encampments of shopping carts and tarps. I guess the situation here isn't that different than in Fresno; the homeless encampments have just been pushed a little farther out to the periphery of a gentrified downtown.

Part II Day 20: March 1, 2010 (how conservative instincts keep me from feeding the poor)

2010-03-01T10:22:00.000-08:00

Position: Volunteer

Days Officially Unemployed: 46

I'm slacking on feeding the poor. Well, the various charities to which I'm volunteering are slacking. Tomorrow night I have my first orientation at a canter in downtown San Diego, and this Saturday I have an orientation in Oceanside. I've also contacted a charity that delivers food to homebound elderly folks, and even though they were quick to respond by e-mail, the coordinator never called me. Today I received an e-mail saying she's going on vacation soon, and they don't train while she's on vacation. I never thought feeding the poor would be so difficult or, more accurately, require so much effort on my part.

Last week I thought maybe I'd walk down by the Cardiff laundromat and buy some homeless people lunch and ask them about their lives. But I haven't put out the energy, and I wonder why. Even though I'm still waiting for my own government cheese to show up (in the form of my first unemployment check), I can't justify my lack of effort to feed the poor.

And then I read this seemingly unrelated CNN article about liberalism, atheism, male sexual exclusivity and higher IQ scores. I wasn't so much concerned with the study as I was about this telling statement:

"'Liberals are more likely to be concerned about total strangers; conservatives are likely to be concerned with people they associate with,' [James Baily] said.

"Given that human ancestors had a keen interest in the survival of their offspring and nearest kin, the conservative approach––looking out for the people around you first––fits with the evolutionary picture more than liberalism,' [Satoshi] Kanazawa said. 'It's unnatural for humans to be concerned about total strangers.'"

And I think that's my problem: feeding the poor doesn't necessarily concern my day to day life, while I was monetarily rewarded and could pay my rent and take trips, for feeding the rich. I need to switch off my instinctual, conservative brain and start listening to my compassionate, liberal heart. I'm hoping, as backcountry rangers are "rewarded with sunsets," that I'll be rewarded with feel-goodedness from feeding the poor.

Part II Day 8: February 17, 2010 (you can have this Lent in my pocket)

2010-02-17T14:11:00.000-08:00

Position: Volunteer

Days Officially Unemployed: 34

I've decided to stay in San Diego for now rather than run back to my hometown of Fresno. While I was in Fresno, I attended a Greek Orthodox church service with my mother, and the priest spoke about Lent (which begins today), the need for personal sacrifice, and the importance of helping others. He quoted Matthew 25:31-45, where Jesus sits on his throne of glory judging all the people, separating the sheep from the goats. He tells the sheep people, who will enter the kingdom of Heaven, "I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me." The sheep people, who had never encountered Jesus before, asked him when they did all of this, and he responds, "Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me."

The Greek Orthodox priest then encouraged members of his flock to volunteer during Lent, to help those in need, as well as making self-sacrifices (I decided to give up alcohol for forty days and am fasting until sunset today). I only tell you this because the establishment I contacted yesterday, here in San Diego, to begin volunteering this week, called me back today to say they needed an advance notice of at least a week if I want to volunteer. They also said that on the weekends they have so many individuals and groups volunteering, that they book them a year in advance. A year!

With all these people wanting to help the poor, it begs the questions: why are there still so many poor people? And why do people want to help them?

I think the first question can be answered by a quotation from Joseph Campbell's collaborative book, The Power of Myth, where he says, "People ask me, 'Do you have optimism about the world?' And I say, 'Yes, it's great just the way it is. And you are not going to fix it up. Nobody has ever made it any better. It is never going to be any better. This is it, so take it or leave it. You are not going to correct or improve it.'" It's the same response William T. Vollmann received in his book, Poor People, quoted in an earlier post, when he asked, "Why are you poor?" and one woman echoes many when she says, "Just destiny."

Sure, war and poverty are part of the human experience, but I think you can work in your town, your job, your neighborhood, and your family to make things a little better, right?

As for the second question, I always assumed it arises for many people from what I would call Christian longing to be a sheep rather than a goat, to enter the kingdom in the afterlife rather than hell. In other words, out of self-preservation rather than a basic longing to do the humane, or right, thing. But I'm sure people's reasons are as varied as the religions of the world, so I will be posing that question to my co-volunteers at the San Diego Center for the Poor (name changed to protect privacy).

Part II Day 1: February 10, 2010 (feeding the poor)

2010-02-11T09:55:00.000-08:00

Position: Volunteer

Days Officially Unemployed: 27

It appears my expulsion from the Garden of Rancho Santa Fe is permanent. After two phone calls with the pizzeria owner and no definitive return call from him, I'm moving on to phase two of my project: Feeding the Poor.

I arrive at the orientation for Casa Pobre (name changed to protect privacy) in downtown Fresno ten to fifteen minutes early. When I pull up to the compound, I'm a little shocked to see the blue tarps, camping tents, shopping carts, piles of wood, and other debris along the sidewalk that denote a homeless encampment. Men stand about or sit chatting. While Casa Pobre's mission is to feed, clothe, and provide assistance––medical, dental, drug rehab, and daytime shelter––to the destitute, I didn't expect that the homeless would actually set up camp right outside its gate. Warm-clothed homeless people wander like slow-moving zombies through the street inside the open gates. Outside the fence, kitty-corner from the homeless encampment, people sit along a low wall smoking and staring at passersby.

I hesitate at the stop sign, then make the left turn into the middle of this scene. I roll through slowly, see the sign for Casa Pobre's parking around back and think of getting the hell out of here. Holy shit, I think, I've never seen anything like this, except maybe a homeless encampment in Los Angeles. I follow the signs, trying not to return the stares of the loitering homeless people, and pull into the alley behind the main building. I find the guarded volunteer parking lot and ask if this is where I park. Yep. When I get to the back door of the building, a sign says to leave cell phones and cameras in the car (they don't want the distraction nor people taking pictures and posting them on MySpace and Facebook). I return to the car and put my cell phone under the front seat. Now I have no way of telling what time it is.

I enter the building and wander around the front two rooms, which look like a mix between what you'd find in a 1970's classroom and a prison cafeteria: a series of round tables with chairs; a few bookshelves; pale yellow walls in one room, red walls in the other. A handful of men with green badges shuffle tables around and prepare for opening the front doors while a black man finishes feeding his young daughter; she holds a doll with the same skin tone as her. I'm told by a green badge man to wait on a bench for the coordinator.

I sit for ten minutes or so, while the homeless and destitute come walking into the pale yellow room. Mostly a diverse group of men (old, young, crippled, black, white, Latino, Native American––the baseball cap with embroidered, multi-colored feather's a dead giveaway), and a few women, file in and take seats at the tables before being told to stand so the green badge men can move the tables out of the way for a circle of chairs. Many people wear heavy coats and beanies or hoods. Volunteers aren't allowed to wear beanies. The people mostly sit in silence or have quite conversations with someone next to them before a woman enters the room and tells the new people they have to stand and tell everyone why they want to join the group. I stand up, getting looks from those around me, and walk over to the woman to tell her I'm here to volunteer. A green badge man walks in at the same time and tells me to follow him, that I'm the only volunteer here for orientation.

I'm walked to Esperanza's (not her real name) office and she takes me through the volunteer guide before walking me around the building. She explains that the green badge men are "residents" who live here and are part of the drug rehabilitation program. The red badge workers are "community service" volunteers, which means they're working off court ordered community service in lieu of jail time or fines. Volunteers such as myself wear blue badges.

When we enter the large kitchen area, I notice some of the men have prison-style tattoos: not well planned or executed designs scattered around their arms and up onto their necks. They nod as we pass by. One prison tattooed guy chops white onions with deft knife movements, while a dorky, average white guy about my age wearing running shoes and a blue badge seems uncoordinated with his knife. That's going to be me, I think.

Esperanza shows me the oversized walk-in refrigerators, the donation area (all expired food is given to a farmer for his livestock), and tells me about the temporary, "hard-shell housing" out back that replaced their tent city, and how people can't live there for the long-term. She says some people are discouraged from living there because they don't allow them to drink or use drugs on the property. Casa Pobre doesn't judge people, either, she says, and they offer their services to everyone, even me. (I might have to use the free clinic services.)

When we arrive back in the red room to finish the tour, maybe a hundred people have gathered in the dark to stay out of the cold and watch a movie on the large screen TV. Pulp Fiction is today's featured film. I thank Esperanza for her time and tell her I'll be back to volunteer soon.

As I drive out of the compound and into what my dad would call "the demilitarized zone," men across the street sitting on the low wall cup their hands in a way that makes me think they're sharing a crack pipe or weed. When I reach the corner, a person wearing a jacket and hooded sweatshirt passes by doing the zombie walk while holding a paper bag containing a 24 oz. beer can. He walks toward the homeless encampment where a large woman sits on a crate and a tall black man and a white trucker-looking guy stand before her by their wood pile and tents, talking. It's only 10:30 in the morning and will be a long, busy day around Casa Pobre.

Day 249: February 5, 2010 (armed robbery, cowboy greg, and the great big wallop)

2010-02-06T14:24:00.000-08:00

Position: Unemployed

Days Officially Unemployed: 22

Life looking for work isn't going well. I've applied to everything from local restaurants in Encinitas to teaching gigs in South Dakota and a beverage rep job in San Francisco. The search continues as the economy sags. I have about exhausted all my contacts and filed for unemployment. After wading through the bureaucratic paperwork of the Economic Development Department, I now find myself in Fresno, where I grew up. The bad economy has intensified the violence in this town. Right near Fresno State's campus, where I write this post, there were three cases of armed robbery in November, one on January 7, and another two weeks later. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I think I'll be moving in with my brother in Clovis at the end of the month, where I'll squat in his soon-to-be-foreclosed house with him.

My main reason for coming to Fresno, besides dropping of a resume at Fresno City College, doing book research and testing the job waters here, is to offer emotional support to my mother, who placed her husband and mother in an Alzheimer's care facility in the past week. I spent the day over there today, and we sang songs with Cowboy Greg, an old, tall, slim country singer who is unapologetically patriotic and very Christian.

Before Cowboy Greg showed up, we warmed up our vocal chords with some sing-along Karaoke, while the Black, short-haired, bubbly activities director bounced around the room, encouraging the residents to sing while offering them warm hugs. She's great. Once Cowboy Greg got going singing classic country songs, he told corny jokes––"I was driving with my wife and we saw a jackass out in the field, and I asked her if it was one of her relatives, and she said, 'Yeah, through marriage.' Ha"––and ended by singing hymns ("Amazing Grace" and "Can the Circle Be Unbroken?") before walking around the room and thanking each resident with a handshake or hug. It was a gesture that made up for Cowboy Greg's simplistic insistence that we "wallop" our enemies in the current wars and pay for the damage later, like we did in WWI and WWII.

The point is, Cowboy Greg was a first-class entertainer for his elderly audience. And during the show, several of the workers circulated around the room and sat or held hands with residents. There was a sense of family and safety about the place, especially since most of the residents were homogeneously white. The world outside, rainy today, didn't exist, and we were all going to a perfect heaven that Cowboy Greg painted for us with words and obscure John Denver songs. But if you knew what the monthly rent was in this wonderful place, you'd wonder what kinds of hell on earth other, poorer people with this same disease end up entering Heaven from. I'm thankful my family has the resources for this kind of care and entertainment; I just wish everyone could hear Cowboy Greg and buy into his vision, by and by, Lord, by and by.

Days 227-241: January 14-28, 2010 (state of the unemployed address)

2010-01-28T09:22:00.000-08:00

Position: Unemployed

Days: 15

I have been cast out of the Garden. Thursday, January 14, was supposed to be my first night back at work after my trip to South America, but I received a surprise, late morning call from the owner informing me my services were no longer needed in Rancho Santa Fe. I've appealed the decision, and I await in exile.

In the meantime, I've begun looking for work elsewhere. I'm applying to long-shot teaching positions for the long-term and restaurants and unskilled labor positions for the short-term. My house painter friend, who is usually a guarantee for some work, doesn't even have a position. As I ask around at restaurants, using all my local connections, I'm hearing the same story: sorry, we're just not hiring. I'm being faced with the reality of this economy; my Rancho Santa Fe bubble has been popped.

I've also begun a third semester Spanish class at the local community college, where I hope to teach English. I ran into a student named Barry (not his real name) who works with his mother's Rancho Santa Fe real estate company. I asked him how things were in the "biz." He said things are bad, but he believes we've seen the bottom. He added, "Foreclosures are unheard of in Rancho Santa Fe, but we currently have sixty-six distressed properties." I asked him if the prices dropped dramatically, like in other parts of the state. "Oh yeah," he said, "I've seen properties that were bought for nine million dollars that are now worth four million." Those numbers astound me. While I've known family and friends whose homes lost tens to hundreds of thousands of dollars in value, I can't comprehend how it feels to lose five million dollars. The stakes are much higher when your rich.

If you'll bear with me, I'll continue posting blogs, updating you on my search for work in this economy, and let you know if I'm admitted back into the Garden to feed the rich. Stay tuned . . .

Days 212-220: December 30, 2009-January 7, 2010 (even in death the rich will have it better than you, sort of [photos included])

2010-01-20T12:56:00.000-08:00

Position: Tourist

Destinations: Montevideo and Colonia, Uruguay, and Buenos Aires, Argentina

Total Spent on Buses/Boat: $253

Total Hours Spent on Buses/Boat: 33

After an overnight, twenty-hour bus ride from Florianópolis, Brazil, to Montevideo, Uruguay, my girlfriend and I spend New Year's Eve with her second cousins. They break out Johnnie Walker whiskey (whiskey is really expensive in South America––an $18 bottle Jack Daniels ranges from $58 in Brazil to $26 in Argentina), liters of beer, bottles of wine, various meats piled on a cutting board (and eaten with shared forks), mixed nuts, and a stack of these wonderful, thin, crustless sandwiches, called sandwiches de miga.

Though Uruguay is supposed to be a poor country, they know how to celebrate. The young residents of Montevideo hit the streets midday New Year's Eve for a street party. People play drums and shout and sing. Almost everyone carries a green plastic bottle of inexpensive cider, which they drink and splash on each other, and then throw the empty bottles at buildings or into the streets (you can see pictures on this blog––be sure to scroll down through all the pictures). Also, when you're walking down the sidewalks, residents dump buckets of water from buildings onto unsuspecting revelers and tourists alike, washing or baptizing you for the New Year, I guess. And the streets are littered with people's daily calendars, which they've thrown into the street like parade confetti. In late afternoon, everyone goes home and the streets look abandoned.

Then, at midnight, the city explodes with fireworks ( fuegos artificiales). It's not like the U.S., where people sit around watching an isolated, choreographed fireworks show or light off a few firecrackers and Whistling Petes, though that's done as well. It's more participatory, and everyone lights their own skyward bound fireworks around the city, which has an incredible war zone effect. The explosions last a straight fifteen to twenty minutes, during which time some residents emerge from their homes and burn their wall calendars in the streets. Such a cool, symbolic gesture.

A couple days later, my girlfriend goes to visit her grandmother and uncle in Trinidad, and I head for Colonia del Sacramento, then Buenos Aires. Before I leave Uruguay, I email Daniel Chacón (books by this author), a frequent Buenos Aires visitor, to ask him about cool places I can check out. He emails back, telling me I can just come visit him and his wife, Sasha Pimental Chacón (book by this author), because they're in Buenos Aires right now. I'm telling you all this because when I meet up with them they take me to Cementerio de La Chacarita where the contrasts between the rich and poor couldn't be sharper.

Just past the neoclassical entrance to the cemetery the visitor is greeted by a neighborhood of wealthy family tombs, complete with sculptures and yellowish, brick sidewalks. It's unquestionably beautiful, but, as Sasha points out, a little excessive for the dead, who don't need these elaborate coffin houses.

After being reprimanded for taking photos by a security guard, Daniel says he's not interested in this section of the cemetery; he wants to show me and Sasha "the Bronx" of the cemetery. So we walk. Through a park-like section with white crosses, tall trees, and mosquitoes that attack us (the suburbs); then through what looks like a strange park with cement ventilators sticking out of the lawn and staircases leading into a post-apocalyptic underground section. Down here, we wander through hallways of semi-rusting, filing cabinet-like walls that house coffins (I guess this would be the lower-middle-class apartments).

When we emerge, I photograph the coffin elevator, which looks to be out of service for now.

We keep walking toward the back of the cemetery, where we take time to inspect the partitioned "Berlin Wall" that houses family ashes.

These less expensive and smaller apartments for ashes are in various states of disrepair, some you can't even read anymore, and there's a whole section of the wall supported by wooden braces. Pigeons rest in the apartment doorways, and some marble wall tablets are broken, revealing wooden boxes of ashes and spiderwebs inside.

We follow the wall to the right around the edge of the cemetery, and finally arrive in "the Bronx": a completely unkempt area of hilly dirt, littered with weeds and broken crosses. This is where the poor have come to rest, in death as in life.

The only consolation for the poor is that they've been returned to the earth, while the wealthy hover on shelves above or below the ground, never quite returning to their source. What they don't realize is that everything fades, even red velvet chairs and ornate coffins. Their money might have bought a little more time above ground, but, as you can see, everything eventually turns to dust.

Days 198-211: December 16, 2009-December 29, 2009 (lobster on your salad?; compare and contrast, Brazilian style)

2010-01-19T09:51:00.000-08:00

Position: Traveler

Destination: South America

Drinks on Plane: 4

Round-Trip Airfare: $100

Total Time Spent on Planes (RT): 26 hours

I've taken a month off to travel to Brazil, Uruguay, and Argentina to see the countries and meet my girlfriend's family. As you may remember from my day 28 post, my brother is a pilot for Continental Express, and I get his travel benefits. While this is great, I spend half the day in San Diego trying to catch standby flights. I arrive in Houston and anxiously await at another Continental gate to find out if I've scored a seat for my ten hour flight to São Paulo, Brazil, where my girlfriend's parents and brother live.

I'm ecstatic when the gate agent hands me a ticket with seat 3K on it. First Class. I'm even more excited when I settle in, order a Jim Beam and ginger, and then realize no one is even going to sit next to me. As the coach passengers file past, I get that weird privileged feeling again, thinking the passengers must be speculating about my occupation and ability to fly first class. In my mind, I usually pretend to be a famous author, but I know when I walk through first class to the coach seats, I don't think anything about the first-class passengers except that they're wasting money.

I get the usual perks of first-class (the hot towel, the free Heinekens served with a real glass, the real silverware, plates and cloth napkin with dinner) but this time we're presented with a restaurant-like, four page dinner menu that spells out the five-course meal, and includes four main course choices (I choose the Southwest stuffed chicken breast). During the salad course, I'm asked if I'd like lobster on my salad. Of course I would. After the main course, they present me with a cheese and fruit plate, then, get this, roll out a metal dessert cart with all kinds of ice cream options. Even though I'm already stuffed, when they announce all the available toppings for the ice cream––sauces, nuts, whip cream––I say, "Yes, please." The flight attendant also asks if I'd like a cognac with dessert. Why not? Pass the Courvoisier. The downside to all this overindulgence is that my sinuses are three-quarters stuffed, so I'm only experiencing food textures (the lobster wasn't such a good idea), an occasional strong taste, and I'm now totally bloated. Which means I can't sleep almost the whole flight, am too tired to read, and end up watching The Time Traveler's Wife and flight data between cat naps.

I also experience a fair amount of flight anxiety, not about the flight itself or the idea of crashing, but from knowing when I land I'll be in a foreign country, thousands of miles from home, where I've been told it's dangerous––my only reference point is City of God––and I don't speak the language. I experience this feeling even when I return to countries I've been to before, like Mexico and Italy. And when I land, I'm usually fine. (Strangely enough, the only time the anxiety never went away was when I landed in a place that I do speak the language: Australia. But that had more to do with my recent divorce at the time than the country itself).

When the plane turns for its approach into São Paulo, and I see the size and extent of the city, my anxiety kicks up a notch. But when I land, like in Mexico or Italy, I instantly feel relaxed and fine, and my girlfriend and her mother are there to greet me. After spending almost two weeks in this massive, traffic-choked city, I realize something. People here are living out the human tragedy/comedy the same way they do all over the world. People fall in love; they make wedding videos; they divorce; they eat meals (especially meat, lots of meat); some people are rich, many are poor; people go to hospitals for hurt fingers; that woman is sleeping with that other woman's husband; people die from natural causes and car crashes and murders; some people rob other people; a man spreads his seed, and when he dies he leaves children all over the continent . . .

In a massive city like São Paulo (population, 11-19 million), though, life is altered by fear of violence, and the contrasts are magnified. Those with money hide behind taller fences, gates and armed security guards; those without live in shanty towns (favelas), their houses constructed of pallets, scrap wood and tarps. Those with money don't usually flaunt their wealth like in the States, instead choosing to drive modest, compact cars. Those without money take whatever they can from those that have money, usually by force. This makes the rich prisoners of their own wealth. But like anywhere else, the everyday people are kind and generous and gracious, and they live out their lives walking the streets to work, relaxing in the parks, or eating (lots of meat) at one of the many restaurants.

While I spend a short amount of time in a wealthy man's house, a business friend of my father's, I never spend time in a favela; I only see one or two from the highway. But I learn something very interesting from that business friend; he says many earnings reports in Brazil are fictions, and it's unwise to invest money here. Own a business, fine, but don't invest, because he's been at board meetings where the financial officer went around the room asking the executives their expenditures for the year, and that's what the financial officer reported as their earnings. Cover what you spent. The rest isn't the government's business. They do nothing for us.

America has it's own business fictions, such as Enron, Arthur Anderson, and the recent bank failures, and I sometimes feel investors are unwise gamblers at the mercy of wrongly motivated executives, many of whom are more interested in their own wealth than the company or country's economic health. And even those these types of fictions and corruptions are just magnified in Brazil, they're coming up as a country (not to mention they have the Soccer World Cup in 2014 and the Olympics in 2016).

I also spent time in a young couple's nice, high rise condo, where I ate a wonderful pasta meal and sipped red wine a few blocks away from a favela. And that young couple, their son asleep in his crib, had an infectious optimism and sense of hope for the future. My girlfriend says this is the spirit of the Brazilian people, that no matter how bad things seem or are, they have hope. And they keep on living . . .

Day 196: December 14, 2009 (keeping up with the Joneses holiday spirit, the fat man and his enabler, and the end of life)

2009-12-15T13:59:00.000-08:00

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 8

Sales: $273.45

Tips: $41

Hours: 3.00

Total Wage: $21.67 per hour

One of the cool things about my job is getting to see inside people's houses. Out here, every night is like one of those fancy home tours people pay tens of dollars to attend. And this holiday season hasn't disappointed. I've seen some of tallest, most elaborately decorated Christmas trees in my life. I've seen teams of immigrant men stringing lights around trees and houses. I've seen homes where every square inch inside has some decoration, be it a nearly full-sized reindeer, a Santa, wreaths, ribbons, or what have you. I've seen a beautifully carved ceramic nativity set that looked like it costs over a thousand dollars. I think these people would probably pay to have Jesus in their houses if he weren't already dead. Their holiday spirit can't be questioned.

Not to be outdone, our Jewish friends have created their own displays: the pizzeria's neighbor had a Chanukah party in the parking lot tonight with a ten foot tall, tinfoil-wrapped Menorah and speakers blasting a mix of hip-hop and traditional music. And, of course, a man gave a maudlin speech about miracles.

In the ultimate show of American religious fusion, I saw in the foyer of a house tonight a snow-flocked, Christmas tree with large, blue ornament balls and miniature Menorah ornaments throughout. Happy Chris-hanukah!

But sometimes it's not that cool to see inside people's homes. Like the time in Encinitas when I was called into a house with the front door open. The floor was stripped of its carpet, and the residents appeared to be remodeling. I assumed that's why they called me inside––they were stuck in the bedroom painting or hanging drywall. Instead, I found the most overweight man I've seen in my life practically squatting in a room with only a bed and stacks of papers and magazines. He wore sweatpants and a dirty white T-shirt. I suddenly felt bad for delivering a large pizza and a 25-pack of chocolate chip cookies to this lone man. I felt like an enabler, like I was giving crack to a crack addict. I'm not even sure the man could fit through his door. On my way out, he called to me and asked if I would grab the newspaper out front and deliver it to him. I did. I've never been able to shake that scene.

And tonight, I deliver to an older couple, by no means elderly. Maybe they're in their early 70s at most, but the scene inside their house disturbs me. Within the side door, where the man disappears to sign the credit card slip, they have two, faded La-Z-Boy recliners crammed into this small room, facing the television. On the wall hangs one of the most beautiful, vibrant paintings I've seen––a house and tree, all bright blues, oranges, and whites. It's clear this is where they spend their time, nesting among the T.V. and the painting. Along the floor, and lined up on the wooden T.V. tray (you knew there'd be one, right?) are bottles and bottles of prescription pills, vitamins, and dietary supplements, like the couple can't be bothered to put them in the cupboard. Here they are, living in one of the richest neighborhoods in the world, and their lives have been reduced to this single room, these bottles, this T.V., that painting. It depresses the hell out of me. Better to die young, I think. At least they're together. For now.

Day 194: December 12, 2009 (the economic grinch rears its ugly head this holiday season)

2009-12-15T12:57:00.000-08:00

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 10

Sales: $445.07

Tips: $58

Hours: 3.42

Total Wage: $24.96 per hour

It's easy to live in a bubble in Rancho Santa Fe, even for me. While sales drop off earlier in the night, between 7:30 and 8:30, we still have good, early rushes and some big orders. When I arrive at the pizzeria tonight, the manager clocks me in early and gives me a $172.05 order. I haven't had a big order like this in some time, so I'm excited.

I arrive just before the scheduled 6 p.m. delivery time. The tall, gray-haired man, wearing a festive, red sweater, takes the items in bunches––the 16" salad bowl and dressing containers, then two trays of pasta, then another tray of pasta and a tray of garlic bread––and walks them into the kitchen while I wait at the door. When he returns for the final time, looking serious, he pulls out a money roll. My eyes widen as he releases a twenty from the wad and hands it to me, saying, "Happy Holidays." I return his holiday greeting, but am upset when I realize it's a five dollar bill, not a twenty. I think maybe he's going to tip the rest on the credit card slip, but he hands it back with a signature and a blank tip line. Happy Holidays, Mr Scrooge.

It's crazy, because some people have been holiday tipping lately: one lady gave me ten dollars for a $38 order and said, "For gas," and another man gave me $15 on a $25 order earlier this week. But just as many people have been giving the tip stiff-arm this holiday season, and I feel like I've been earning less and less this fall. It's going to be a long, cold winter if this keeps up.

I tend to forget, working my cushy pizza job in Rancho, that there's a real economic recession out there. Sure, many stocks have recovered, since companies are cutting costs and becoming more profitable, but unemployment is still above ten percent. And one of my closest friends lost his adjunct teaching job at Fresno State and is fishing around for work, trying to piece enough together to pay his mortgage come spring.

I've thought about substitute teaching for extra cash and a way to transition out of the food service industry, but when I called the local high school district about next semester, the woman told me they had 130 people at this fall's "guest teacher" orientation, and she's still processing them. When I went to this same orientation last year, there were maybe 30 people. I'm thinking about getting a teaching credential, but the programs are super impacted because of state budget cuts, meaning they're accepting fewer and fewer students. And when I called San Diego City College to check on the adjunct instructor pool down there, the department head told me she has over fifteen current instructors without any classes to teach for spring, so they're "about a year or two out from hiring." Times are tough, indeed. I feel like an ungrateful ass for complaining, but that's what life in the bubble does.

Day 188: December 6, 2009 (delivering to the other house, boarding the stoner with grandma, Steelers' super fan, and the toothbrush man)

2009-12-08T14:43:00.000-08:00

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 14

Sales: $422.37

Tips: $68

Total Wage: $23.56 per hour

On my third run of the night, I end up with a triple-bagger. The first one is in Rancho Pacifica, the second one is on Quarter Mile Drive, two miles away, and the third is farther away on Mango Drive. When I arrive at Quarter Mile Drive, no one answers the door. I call, and a woman's voicemail answers. I leave a message saying I'm outside, but I'm splitting for my third delivery if she doesn't call back or answer. The townhouse looks dark in the upper windows. I call the manager, and he tells me to hit my third delivery and stop by on my way back. I do, and the scene repeats, including a voicemail that I'm now leaving for good. When I turn the corner on San Dieguito, the manager calls and says he got through on the phone, and they're in Rancho Pacifica, not Quarter Mile Drive. They own the place on Quarter Mile, though. This happens more often than you would believe (see Day 177). Wealthy people around here own multiple properties and can't be bothered to confirm the address attached to their phone number when we read it back to them. It's been an hour and fifteen minutes, and the manager called them, not the other way around.

When I get to the house gate, I sigh to see it's one of my least favorite customers. The guy who usually comes to the door looks like a college basketball player, and he refuses to put away his Pit Bull, even though I tell him every time I don't like big dogs, and stand by my car. Tonight, a high school aged kid comes outside, while the rust colored Pit Bull barks through the window. The kid signs the credit card without saying a word to me. The silence is super awkward. No "sorry you went to the wrong house, twice, and here we live on a street you delivered to on this same run earlier. Gosh, we're idiots." I get out of there as quickly as possible, and I later find out the man actually called to say his food was cold and the pizza was a little smashed (I had to slam on my breaks at a stoplight with camera enforcement). I have a hard time mustering any sympathy.

Two runs later, and I'm stuck at a gate with the wrong gate code. I dial the last name on the call box, and the lady seems baffled by my presence. She lets me in anyway, and when I turn left, she's standing on the porch, waving me in. Turns out the food is for her son, or grandson. I can't figure out their relationship, but the pasty kid who comes to the door has a sparse "soul patch" on his bottom lip and drug dealer eyes; you know, they look painful to keep open and he speaks in that labored "hey, bro, thanks" way. I can't tell if he's been shipped to grandma's house to shape up, but someone in this house has a big job ahead of them. The kid is clearly a mess.

My next delivery is to the Crosby, and when I get to the guard gate, a new, husky/nerdy guard with thick glasses asks me for the delivery address. I tell him, and he confirms the last name from inside the booth where I can't see him. He comes out and launches into a man-talk non sequitur: "Fuckin' Steelers lost tonight. But they deserved to lose. Oakland's going to be a good team next year." He walks around to write down my license plate number, which is something only newer guards do here. "Chargers' fans don't believe me, but they (Oakland) beat the Steelers and Cinci." He walks back to the booth, and then hands me the pass, while I nod my head to his monologue. "I think the Chargers will fall short. Unless they can get past the Colts. But I don't see that happening."

I like football, but it doesn't rule my life. I don't have a fantasy football team, and I'm not going to criticize the twenty million people who do. I understand why people turn to sports for entertainment, or to fill a void in their lives. At the end of the day, the outcomes of games don't affect anyone's lives except those involved in playing them. I oblige the guard, and say, "It will be hard for anyone to beat the Colts."

As I'm about to drive off, he says, "Bring back any extras, man," then disappears into the booth. I make the delivery and leave through the other Crosby gate to the south.

On my last delivery of the night, I end up at gated apartments with no gate code and no last name. I want to drive back to the pizzeria and call it a night, because if this guy can't remember he lives in a gated community, he doesn't deserve to eat tonight. I call him on my cell phone, but a resident who pulls up behind me opens the gate, and I cruise in. The guy who answers the door is probably in his late twenties or early thirties, sporting a few days worth of dark scruff. And get this: I can't really give him crap about the gate, because he spends the whole transaction at the door with a toothbrush in his foamy mouth. He signs the credit card, and says "thanks" with that gargled, I can't understand you because you have a toothbrush in your mouth voice. I feel . . . not violated but disgusted. What kind of grown person answers the door while brushing his teeth? And how's that pepperoni and jalapeño pizza going to taste?

Day 181: November 29, 2009 (dealing with mistakes on both ends)

2009-12-01T12:31:00.000-08:00

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 11

Sales: $427.86

Tips: $70

Total Wage: $25.81 per hour

On my last delivery run of the night, I deliver to a nice man in The Farms. The bill is $32.03, so he hands me two twenties and asks for three dollars in change. I thank him for the five dollar tip, jump in the car, back up, and am almost out of the driveway when he comes hopping out the front door in his socks, yelling, "Hey. Hello?"

Now, as a driver I can tell you I don't want to deal with mistakes. No drivers do. First, there isn't much we can do about it. If we forget a salad or a dessert, sure, we can take it off the bill at the door or tell them we'll send it right out. At the other extreme, I've known drivers who have dumped a pizza and still presented it at the door as perfect, and then split before the unsuspecting customer can discover the mess, which usually looks like regurgitated pizza. That's not cool. But, as a general rule, after the delivery is complete, you get out of there as quickly as possible.

The man in the socks special ordered one of his pastas with penne instead of the usual spaghetti noodles, and he added eight shrimp. When he came outside hollering, I assumed the pasta type was wrong, or he counted the shrimp and there were only seven. I'm half-tempted to pretend I don't hear or see him. When he gets closer to the car at the end of the driveway, he says, "I wanted to give you a couple more dollars." He holds out some folded ones. I take them, and give him elated thanks. While I'm driving away, I unfold the money to see he's given me all three ones back. While paying me, I heard his wife in the background asking how much it was. I think she shamed him into tipping me the other three dollars. Thank God for generous wives; I hope there are nine shrimp in her pasta.

Day 180: November 28, 2009 (why they need to offer more logic classes in school)

2009-11-30T15:24:00.000-08:00

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 7

Sales: $387.63

Tips: $49

Hours: 2.33

Total Wage: $29.03 per hour

He looks like a computer programmer. By that I mean he's tall, white, hunched at the shoulders from leaning his head toward the computer screen all day, and dorky. He answers the door wearing an old, poorly fitting T-shirt. I tell him whoever took his order got the credit card number wrong, so if he still wants to pay by credit card he'll have to call the manager and sort it out. He says, "Can we just pay cash?" I tell him, yes, that would be even better. Before he walks away, he turns and says, "Well, I want to make sure my card doesn't get charged, though." I tell him we can't possibly charge his card, because we have the wrong number. "Oh," he says and walks off to find cash.

I hear him asking his wife if she has any cash. She, a short Asian woman, runs by in aquamarine sweatpants and matching T-shirt, says hello, then bolts up the stairs. "I have one," she shouts, before running back down and handing him a twenty. He shows back up to the door with two twenties, enough to cover the $36.53 bill and tip. I thank him for the cash, but he wants to say something more. "So, should I call and make sure they don't charge my card?" I look at him, incredulous. He probably went to a good university, has a great job that bought him this nice house, and he even figured out how to find a woman who would marry him. But this stumps him.

"Like I said, we don't have the right number, so how can we charge your card?" He looks shamed, but still doesn't seem to get it. He closes the door, having to trust in the logic of a pizza guy.

Day 177: November 25, 2009 (happy no-thanksgiving, spending time at the ranch house, and the cowboy and his asian wife)

2009-11-30T10:14:00.000-08:00

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 10

Sales: $384.86

Tips: $55

Hours: 3.63

Total Wage: $23.15 per hour

It's the night before Thanksgiving, and on my second run I score a three-bagger that includes an order for $115.33. Woo-hoo! I pull up to the development, which consists of four mansions within the main gate, each with their own driveway and walkway gates inside. Once I'm buzzed in through the main gate, I ring the buzzer to their house gate. "Are you at the walkway gate?" a voice asks through the speaker box. He lets me in, but I still have to ring the doorbell before they open the door. Once inside, I pass through a dining room with the largest Thanksgiving setting I've ever seen: a long main table with ten to fifteen place settings, along with two more picnic type tables with at least another ten settings each. I say hello to the three women setting up the tables, and follow the man through to the kitchen.

The kitchen opens up into one of the largest family rooms I've ever seen. There's a family room set-up over there, with couches and a big screen t.v., but between that and the kitchen is a visiting area created by two quarter circle couches facing each other, like a circle of trust. Three men sit talking and drinking beer. The home owner is friendly, and signs the credit card receipt with enthusiasm and flair. He slaps me on the back and says, "Thanks, buddy. We really appreciate it," and I say, "Thank you very much, and happy Thanksgiving." He wishes me a happy Thanksgiving, and walks me toward the door. Like the village idiot holding a golden ticket––I assume, given the holiday spirit and size of the place, that's he's given me a huge tip, though I don't look––I tell each lady "Happy Thanksgiving" on my way out. It's not until I'm outside and the door is shut that I look down to see he's given me a five dollar tip (4%), which leaves me less than thankful.

It's okay, because I have two more deliveries on this run to make up the difference. I arrive at the second house, and use the gate code on the ticket to get inside. A man with a thick English accent answers the door and looks at me dumbfounded. "We didn't order any pizza(r)," he says. (British people always add an "r" onto words ending in "a"). I confirm the address, but he can't figure out why I'm there. I ask him if someone else inside may have ordered. "No. It's just my wife and I here. What kind of pizza(r) is it?" I tell him the pizza is half pepperoni, sausage, mushrooms and bell peppers, and half pineapples, Canadian bacon and bell peppers, and he says, "Well, we're vegetarian. Sorry." I guess he was thinking maybe he would like some pizza, were it not for the meat. While we're talking, three tall, skinny, furry dogs wind about his legs. They look like Greyhounds with long coats.

When I turn to leave, I see the dogs have found a way outside and are hustling toward me. I hesitate for a second. "They're fine," the man says. "They won't hurt you." They follow me to the car, bumping their lanky bodies against me. When I place the pizza back inside the bag, one noses his long neck into the car and almost into the bag. I push back until he stops. I get the door closed and myself inside, before the dogs head back over to their master.

I call the number on the ticket, half expecting to hear an English voice say hello, but an American woman answers. "Oh, you went to our ranch house. We have a couple of renters in there." I tell her they were surprised to see me, without mentioning how unnerving it is that I had the gate code and let myself into the ranch (those could have been loose Rottweilers instead of Greyhounds). "We're out in the Crosbies. Do you know where that is?" She goes on to blame our phone girl, saying she had the correct address and she doesn't know how I ended up there. I tell her it's going to be awhile, because I have another delivery and I'm not really near the Crosby development. I call the manager to let her know what's happening, and she says the lady must not have paid attention when the phone girl read back her address. When I arrive at the correct house twenty minutes later, a pretty, youngish woman answers the door and apologizes for "the confusion." It takes all I have not to say I think the confusion is all on her part. After all, the customer is always . . . well, wrong half of the time.

My last delivery of the night is a single-bagger for $52.90. When I arrive at the door, a short, stocky Asian woman with an accent answers. She says something about her husband being gone, then walks off with that slouching, inconvenienced walk that's reserved for bored housewives in the mall, where everything is within reach. She pulls out a house phone, then a cell phone, and tries to call. She walks off again and returns with another house phone and dials her husband. "Where are you? Hello . . . hello? Where are you, pizza guys been here five minutes already. Stop saying hello. Hello?" She apologizes to me, saying he went to the bank. Their handsome, mixed-race children walk by. The boy, who appears high school aged, takes his little sister under the arms and does curls with her. "Wheeeee," she shouts, "do it again." He obliges.

While the mom tries to call him again, I begin speculating on their relationship. Too young to be a Vietnam vet's wife. Her English is too good and she seems too well assimilated to be a mail-order bride. Why am I even thinking this stuff?

"Hello?" she says into the phone "Where are you? Pizza guys been here ten minutes already. What you mean you'll be here in a few seconds? I don't see you. What are your few seconds? Don't be a dipshit . . . where are you?" Just then, headlights illuminate the gate. A large, black SUV comes hurrying up the driveway. "Don't hit his car," she says into the phone.

The man jumps out wearing an Indianapolis Colts hat and jeans. He's maybe in his 40s and has a country accent. "Sorry about that," he says. "I went to the bank in Rancho, but the ATM was busted, so I had to drive over to Del Mar." I don't ask why he didn't just pick up the pizzas in the first place, since Rancho is much closer to the pizzeria than his house. He gives me three crisp twenties, and I leave them arm and arm in their doorway, happy that there's hope and love (if strained––she did call him a "dipshit") for two people from opposite sides of the world.

Day 174: November 22, 2009 (the beautiful exit, and the frustrated entrance)

2009-11-23T09:43:00.000-08:00

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 11

Sales: $380.67

Tips: $45.50

Hours: 3.78

Total Wage: $20.04 per hour

My first delivery is to an old couple. The man invites me inside and directs me to the kitchen. "You busy tonight?" he asks, as he hobbles behind me toward the kitchen. I turn around and ask him what he said. "Are you busy? Are you making a lot of money tonight?" he says.

"Oh. I just got to work. We're not that busy yet, but hopefully it will get busy later," I say.

The man has to be at least eighty. He hunches over the counter to sign the credit card slip, then turns to me in that stiff way old people have to turn their whole body just to turn their head, and he says, "I hope you make a lot of money tonight." He's put down a five dollar tip on an $18.72 order, so I'm well on my way.

"Thank you very much, sir," I say. "Have a good night." While I wish all my deliveries were to kind elderly people, the encounter makes me think of my girlfriend's volunteer work with people in hospice care. How most of them are bedridden and in pain, and while they enjoy her visits, they say they're ready to die, to be done with the thing. I think I relate more to elderly people because they've lived their lives, mostly lost their blind, exploitive ambitions, and they just want to exit life without suffering too much more. At thirty-six, I've lived a full life, experienced everything it has to offer, except having children, and I could easily die in peace tomorrow. God, that's sad but liberating. I drive on to my next delivery.

When I arrive at the Rancho Pacifica Gate, the effervescent African-American guard says, "Sorry, man. No one called for you." I think he's just joking around, one of those bantering small-talk jokes, like the "you got an extra pizza in the car?" type. Then I realize he means the residents didn't call to let him know I was coming, so he doesn't have the visitor pass printed out for me. I'm about to give him the address, when he says, "Last name. Just give me the last name." I do, and he disappears into the booth.

A minute or two later he reemerges and says in a dramatic fashion, "You know you live in a gated community. You know the rules." It seems he's as frustrated with the whole gated world as I am, though it provides him with a job. "Sorry, man. It's not our fault," he says to me, "they know they have to call." I tell him not to worry about it, that it's cool.

A few delivery runs later, I end up at the Rancho Pacifica gate again. The African-American guard says, "Second time, huh?"

"Yep," I say.

"Same thing," he says and shakes his head. Before he goes into the booth to call the irresponsible residents, he says, "Hey, you guys got some kind of Chinese pizza over there." I think for a second, then ask if he means the Thai Chicken pizza. "Yeah, yeah, that's the one with the peanut sauce, right?" he says. That's right. "How much is like a small of one of them?" I tell him I have no idea. "Could you bring me a small one of them? I'll pay you and everything." I tell him he can just call the pizzeria and order one. "Ah, I don't want to go through all of that," he says, and waves his hand in dismissal, like I've let him down.

Sorry, but everyone has rules to follow.

Day 165: November 13, 2009 (the white knight is talking backward, and the red queen's "off with her head")

2009-11-20T15:22:00.001-08:00

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 12

Sales: $439.16

Tips: $77

Hours: 4.28

Total Wage: $25.99 per hour

With all my deliveries done for the night, I was cruising back to the pizzeria in the dark when a cottontail rabbit darted into the road. It realized its mistake, reversed its direction, and thump, my tire went right over the little guy. "Shit," I yelled, and pulled to the side of the road. I can't stand the feeling of hitting an animal in the car, nor do it think it's okay that wild animals die for the convenience of pizza delivery. But I guess we all live our own little hypocrisies.

Most people would probably drive off, but I needed to see whether I had a casualty or an injury on my hands. Trust me, it's not pretty, but I've had to intentionally run over injured animals in the past (who could forget the live rat on the glue trap at the Encinitas store, or the baby opossum slowly dying of cat induced injuries in my apartment complex?). I turned around, and when I approached the body in the road there was still bunny fur floating in the darkness. I parked with my headlights on the rabbit, got out, and walked over to the unmoving lump. I half expected it to reanimate as I approached, especially since no blood was visible, but it lay motionless. I nudged it with my foot, but its rest was of the permanent kind. This same thing happened to me several months ago less than a mile from this exact spot. Damn my luck.

Now I'm no biologist, I'm a vehicular rabbit-slaughterer (remember?), but any casual observer would realize there's an overabundance of rabbits around here. All these fancy spreads and lawns have displaced coyotes and larger predators and become massive, unnatural feeding grounds for rabbits. That's one way wealthy people, who want to live farther and farther away from poor people, affect the environment. (I won't even touch the insanity of building mansions in traditional fire zones––or moving sea bluffs––and expecting tax payers to chip in for protection or losses.)

But another way wealthy people affect the environment is by over consumption. Before the universal garbage cans were introduced, I used to marvel at the number of garbage cans––six, nine, twelve!––lining the streets in front of rich homes. I once argued with a well-respected professor at Fresno State who claimed poor people were worse for the environment because they dumped trash on his family farm. I argued that poor people don't generate nearly as much garbage as the rich, even though they may not have the means (or the education) to dispose of their refuse properly. We ended in a draw.

Maybe a who does more of what chart would help:

Rich vs Poor

Energy consumption. Winner: Rich people

Gasoline consumption. Winner: Rich people

Jet fuel consumption. Winner: Rich people

Refuse generation. Winner: Rich people

Recycling: Winner. Rich people (finally, something to be proud of)

You might say, "But Eric, that's just the price of doing business." I would expect the rich to lead the world in environmental innovation, not consumption.

One more thing, then I'll step off the soap box. What surprises me most around here is the vehicle choices of the rich. We know Hummers get little better gas mileage (H1: 8-10 m.p.g.; H2: 10-13 m.p.g.) than a NASCAR (5 m.p.g), but did you know the highest conspicuous consumption cars––Maserati; Bentley; Aston Martin; Lamborghini––top the list for the least fuel efficient? I could go on and on about how gas consumption affects people's lives in faraway places like Sudan (see Dave Egger's What Is the What) and Iraq (no matter what the rationale for the invasion, it's been said that if their main export was cumquats we probably wouldn't be there), but I would only be incriminating myself and my choice to reenter a car for this job. Before coming back here, I spent 2 1/2 years car-free, relying on my bike and the kindness of friends and family to get around. Returning to driving has felt like a big step backward. And the death of this rabbit (gasho!) just reaffirms that.

Day 163: November 11, 2009 (millions of millionaires)

2009-11-16T15:10:00.001-08:00

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 5

Sales: $288.92

Tips: $40

Hours: 1.83

Total Wage: $29.86 per hour

I received a text message this morning from my boss asking if I wanted to cover a short day shift. Since I'm planning on a trip to South America (Brazil, Uruguay, & Argentina) with my girlfriend next month, I'll take anything I can get.

While I'm driving around today, I hear this story on PRI's The World, about how some rich Germans want to increase taxes (huh?) on the wealthy to bridge the gap in their budget deficit rather than cut taxes, like their conservative Chancellor Angela Merkel wants. What strikes me most in the story is that the U.S. has the most millionaires in the world: two million. That number seems both huge––oh my God, we have two million millionaires!––and small––we only have two million millionaires out of 300 million people? Come on, America, we can do better than that. It seems like we'd have more when you add up all the movie stars and athletes and CEOs and small business owners. Since no one walks around with a sign on their forehead saying they're a millionaire, I'm not sure how I'd find out how many millionaires I know personally. It would probably be close to the national o.666% (number of the Beast) of Americans, or less than one percent.

And they don't define "millionaire" in the story. Is it a person with a million dollars worth of assets, or someone who makes one million dollars a year? If a couple has a million dollars, are they only 500,000-aires each? And if you buy a house for 200 thousand dollars and it becomes worth 1.2 million dollars, are you now a millionaire? Did anyone keep track of the millionaires that left the club this past year in the market crash, say the poor saps with 900 thousand dollars in assets now?

It seems like when you add all the Rancho Santa Fe people, plus the Beverly Hills folks and the Silicon Valley and Redmond nerds to the old money East Coasters we'd have millions more millionaires. But that's not the case. If I try to add millionaires individually or in small groups––450 NBA players; 750 MLB players; 1,696 NFL players (many don't even make one million dollars); Forbes' top 25 Earners under 25; a handful of lottery winners; a few thousand actors and entertainers; Bill Gates; Warren Buffet: Stephen King; that creepy Girls Gone Wild guy with the private jet––I can't even come close to one hundred thousand millionaires. Two million is a ton. And, according to the story, Germany comes in second place with less than half our number, at 800 thousand. So that's something to brag about, right, America? Poor Germans. And where did they get this idea that if you spread the money around a little, investing in education and whatnot, your country actually becomes more stable and stronger and produces even more millionaires?

Day 161: November 9, 2009 (the love den waits for no one, and getting reality checked by a former employee)

2009-11-12T13:39:00.000-08:00

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 7

Sales: $200.63

Tips: $38

Hours: 2.82

Total Wage: $21.48 per hour

One of the first deliveries of the night, I find myself standing on the porch of an upstairs apartment and holding a box with a pineapples, pepperoni, mushrooms, extra sauce, extra thin, well done pizza inside. No one answers the doorbell or my knocking, so I call. "Oh, are you here already?" a woman says. "I'll be right there." I wait for the door to open, but, instead, a minute later, a woman comes walking up the stairs behind me wrapped in a towel and dripping wet. "You got here so early. They said it would be about an hour, so I decided to go for a quick hot tub." To her defense, we aren't busy tonight, so I got here fast, and while I've seen people do all kinds of strange things between ordering food and my arrival, I think this is the first time someone's gone hot tubbing on me. "Good thing I had my phone. Just give me a minute," the woman says as she opens her apartment door. Nothing, except maybe the white tiger rug I'm standing on outside, could have prepared me for what's inside.

It can only be classified as a late 1970's love den, something out of a Rod Stewart video. A black baby grand piano dominates the thickly carpeted room. Red roses, sans vase, sit atop the piano next to a television set (when you have a piano in an apartment, I guess it's the only place you can put a television). Shaggy rugs cover the carpeted floor, and pillows of various deep colors, mostly purple, lounge on the throw-covered couch. A guitar sits idle against the wall. All the material and items make the room look smaller than it is, and when I try to recall the place later, I will think the far wall was mirrored, but it wasn't. The room doesn't smell like sex, but it feels like sex. Warm. Cozy. Cave-like. Nest.

The woman keeps apologizing and telling me it will be one more second. While I wait, a man emerges, dripping wet, from the darkness at the bottom of the stairs. And he looks and sounds exactly like you'd expect him to look and sound: thick, hairy chest; bald head; low, raspy voice. If there is a Corvette parked outside, I would bet my life savings it's his. He passes me, saying hello in his throaty voice, and reenters the love den. The woman finally reappears, signs the credit card slip, and closes the door.

I can only assume they'll plop down on the rugs with the pizza box, lying face to face, allowing their towels to slide off their still wet bodies. He'll hold a pizza slice and pass it back and forth from his mouth to hers, the hot cheese stringing between their mouths as the extra sauce drips down their chins, before they begin making more sweet, sweet love. Later, they will serenade each other, him on guitar, her on the piano and . . . I drive back to the pizzeria and fold boxes while waiting around for more orders.

On my next delivery run, I end up at a house in Santa Luz. When the guy opens the door, I have that weird moment of recognition (I know this guy, but from where?), and it only lasts a second. I call him by name, and he squints in the low light to see my face. "Oh, hey Eric." He looks confused, like he didn't expect to know the delivery driver, even though he worked at the pizzeria until a handful of months ago. This is one of those moments––like a thirtieth or fortieth birthday but on a smaller scale––that you measure your life by: guy used to do what you do, but now he's moved on and you're still doing the same thing. Encounters like this are rare in Rancho, because I don't know many people out here, but they used to happen all the time in Encinitas, usually accompanied by the line, You're still at the pizzeria?

"How's your new job?" I ask.

He shrugs as he's signing the credit card slip, and says, "Ah, it's alright." His lack of enthusiasm about the new job makes me feel vindicated, as if I needed vindication. I think that no matter what work I'm doing, I'll always want to be doing something else, something more important and worthy of this life. I thank him for his generous tip and tell him it was good to see him, before driving off into the dark, dark night.

Day 152: October 31, 2009 (Halloween hell––not fun sized, the secret to a great party, and the great scare of Halloween past)

2009-11-10T12:16:00.000-08:00

Position: Driver

Number of Deliveries: 11

Sales: $514.40

Tips: $72

Hours: 3.13

Total Wage: $31.00 per hour

After weeks of admiring elaborate home decorations and various skill levels of carved pumpkins, Halloween is finally here. And all hell has broken loose. The pizza oven conveyor belt is a solid sea of pizzas. The head cook cuts and numbers them as quickly as he can, but he gets lost somewhere. Numbers get mixed up, pizzas begin "taco-ing" (smashing against the end board and bending) into each other before he can pull them out, and the manager and drivers run around trying to sort out the mess. The head cook's brother comes over from the pasta station and begins boxing and cutting pizzas, while the head cook searches the tickets for the right numbers. Pizza types and wrong numbers are shouted back and forth between drivers, until we get the orders right and head out the door.

Once I'm out on the road, things feel calmer, though I'm full of nervous energy tonight. My girlfriend is out at a party, and I'm dying to get off work as soon as possible. I'm dressed in a suit and have my face painted with Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) makeup, causing me to look something like a zombified skeleton. When I arrive at doors with the pizza bag in hand, I confuse the customers by saying, "Trick or treat." They all compliment me on my makeup job (courtesy of my girlfriend), but some don't give me candy. I tell them I'm serious, I want candy.

Many rich houses are like I remember them when I was young: they give out whole candy bars. It's why city kids often upgrade neighborhoods when Trick-or-Treating. The big candy bar phenomenon still astounds me, and I'm able to wrangle a full-size Butterfinger from the first customer. (Side note: why do they call those bite-sized-waste-of-a-wrapper candy bars "fun size," when the fun is to be had with the big ones?)

What I didn't know as a child, and was surprised to find out last night, is that the rich have incredible Halloween parties. There's a customer who's a bit infamous around the pizzeria for having beautiful young girls lounging around his house where it's permanently snowing cocaine. Now, I've never delivered to this guy, and I'm not sure exactly what the Colombian-storm evidence consisted of, but when I got his order for $206 dollars last night, I expected a house full of scantily clad girls and mountains of cocaine. What I saw instead was a semi-empty house of Mexican immigrant workers setting up the biggest Halloween party ever. The men hung lights and decorations all over while the pudgy, white owner shouted directions: "No, no, that needs to be even with this." I felt like I was on a movie set, and wondered what, exactly, the queen sized bed with the married skeleton couple hanging above it was doing outside in the courtyard. The owner could barely be bothered with me. Yes, this party would probably be even better than the $26 tip he gave me.

As it gets darker, more and more kids fill the streets, and I get more and more harsh looks from parents no matter how slow I drive. I'm surprised to see so many kids out, since many people have opted for "safe" Halloween events and alternative, "Christian," harvest festivals. I don't blame them, since when we were children our candy had to be scoured for evidence of tampering (let's not forget the great razor blade, sewing needle, and poison scare of the 1970s and '80s––all urban myths), and my brother took a cleaner-or-urine-filled water balloon in the face that burned his eyes. But Halloween seems like it should have some element of danger, so I speed out of the neighborhoods at 80 m.p.h. and yell obscenities at the kids. Just kidding.

By seven-thirty, with the pizza oven and restaurant chaos gone, I cut out to meet up with my girlfriend at a party where there aren't mountains of cocaine, outdoor beds, nor full-sized candy bars. But there are hills of food, a cooler of beer, and a bonfire. Oh, and some scantily clad girls in costumes.

Day 149: October 28, 2009 (the shifting sun alters human behavior and my bottom line, and please don't call me by my Christian name)

2009-11-02T11:33:00.000-08:00

Position: Driver
Number of Deliveries: 7
Sales: $252.64
Tips: $41
Hours: 3.43
Total Wage: $19.95 per hour

People's ordering habits have begun shifting with the sun. Because it's getting dark earlier, people's circadian rhythms push dinner to an earlier time, even though they still leave and come home from work and watch the same television shows at the same times. The effect this has on the Pizzeria is that the orders stack up early then die off around seven or seven-thirty. This contracting of dinner time has also contracted my tipping time, and I'm making less and less, leaving work earlier and earlier.

Because of the pressure to make money in a smaller amount of time, scenes like this are upsetting: I arrive at a nice brick house in Del Mar, and ring the doorbell. I knock, I ring, I call, I call the Pizzeria manager . . . nothing works. The fall wind blows, and I'm cold standing here in my shirt sleeves. I walk back down their front stairs to my car, and am about to get inside and out of the cold, when a kid runs up holding a Lab puppy. He says his mom will be right here. We wait in the wind. I see a figure walking slowly toward the yard. I think she could maybe pick up the pace, but it's an old man, not her. I wait. Another figure comes lurching along the bushes. It's another old man. I watch him slowly walk along the fence, thinking she's losing the race to meet the pizza man against two elderly gentleman who walk in slow motion. The kid and I don't say anything, he just keeps hugging the puppy and staring at the road with me.

Mom finally comes into view, and the kid yells, "Hurry up, mom!" She sees me and my car and realizes the situation. She yells, "Sorry," as she makes her way up the driveway, walking a giant St. Bernard/Rottweiler mix. She tosses a plastic bag of dog poop (preserved for all eternity) aside then makes her way over to me. I'm hoping she'll wash her hands before paying. She says, "Sorry, sorry, I'll be right back," then walks the monster dog into the lower part of the house near my car. The kid follows her.

I wait and wait by that door, shivering in the wind. After a couple minutes, I think she has to be joking now. Instead of reemerging from the lower door, I hear the front door at the top of the stairs open. I decide to make my stand, literally. Instead up running up to them, I wait for her and the kid to walk down and pay me. She apologizes again, and gives me a $30.34 check with a ten dollar apology tip in cash. I tell her it's okay, even though it isn't, and then point out that I need her driver's license number on the check. Who orders pizza and takes their dog for a long walk, then doesn't even have their check written out? (I've already wondered elsewhere why people still pay with checks at all.) I guess we'll have to blame the shifting of the sun and the darkness that has clearly dimmed this woman's brain.

Later in the night, I deliver to a jolly man who says, "Hey buddy, how's it going?" We exchange more niceties, then he pens in a two dollar tip on the $28.39 order. Okay, so he's a little cheap but still nice. Then he crosses an invisible social line, saying, "Here you go. Thanks, Eric." I don't know what it is, but being called by my given name by someone who doesn't know me––just because I'm wearing a stupid name tag––rubs me the wrong way. It's like being called "boss" or, worse, "chief"; it stings the ears and reinforces the uneven relationship of servant to served. I can't very well say back, "You're welcome, Jeffrey," even though his name is on the ticket.

Over the last two hours of work, I only have three deliveries, including the guy who called me by my first name. If it wasn't for the dog walker's apology tip and the generosity of the other five customers, tonight could have been financially worse. My pecuniary expectations need to shift to the south with the sun. It looks like it's going to be a long cold winter.