CS: Forgotten Garbage

It was 6:30 am, Carl dug through his laundry pile (the cleaner one) for work clothes. He woke Oola up showing her a bandana in one hand and a ski cap in the other. "El Bandito or Skater Dude, which one do you like?" She laughed. On Community Service days Carl wears clothes that he will eventually throw out. His usual CS ensemble, makes him look like a mismatched migrant worker.

Saturday, March 11
I arrived in East New York at 7:50 am and joined a group of 12 crew members that stood by the news stand. "Mr. Lee! One, two, three! Look it's Mr. Lee!" sang the Haitian man with the golden teeth. I rolled my eyes at him and unwrapped my bacon and egg sandwich. I offerred the other half to anyone who was hungry. Two people looked out for the CS van. V----, is a new crew member from Bensonhurst, "ex-wife trouble" he said. He was given 100 hours of CS. He asked me why I was stuck in CS. Not an unusual question, no one expects a Cleric to do Community Service. But I declined to answer, legal council has advised me against such discussion.

A grey, not blue, van pulled up, its windows were spray painted black. Are we seeing the affects of city cut-backs? As we filed in Mr. B----- took head count and announced that he'd need some strong men, he counted off ten and sent the rest home. V---- asked Mr. B----- where we were going. "S.I., baby" Someone in the back said "No s--t, my grandfather's f----n' burried there." Why should that be a surpirse. Everything in New York is burried on Staten Island: cars, medical waste, industrial debrit, the remains of the 911, and people.

We drove from East New York through Sheepshead Bay past Bayridge and over the Verrazzano Bridge. We wove in and out small streets and highways until we reached our destination: The Alzheimer's Foundation of Staten Island. The ranch style building was painted peptic-pink, dotted with shrub planted in-memorium. Ironically the plaques read "In Loving Memory of (name here)". We parked by a commercial moving truck, bright yellow and large. Mr. B----- said "Step out and chill for a bit, I'll be right back." We all waited in front of the truck smoking, V---- said "Crap! We gotta fill thing up?" he drives a truck for a living.

Mr. B----- and two men stepped out and looked us over. They conferred with each other jesturing with their hands. Mr. B----- shook his head "no" a few times. He walked towards us still shaking his head. "Alright gentlemen, today we have to unload five rooms of stuff and load it into this truck, carefully." Before we enterred the facility, the pungent smell of retirement home seemed to warn us of thigns to come. Five rooms were packed with furniture, bags and boxes. The hallways were cluterred with paintings, dishes, toys and loose pairs of shoes.

While loading the dolly, some artifacts would peak out from a box or bag: Snoopy snowcone maker, brightly colored sweaters, knit hats, wigs, old records, books and the like. Everthing was covered in a layer of dust and mold. We had our work cut out for us. Without much commotion, we formed two groups and moved everything from rooms to truck. We packed everything carefully until the truck was at capacity, large furniture at the back, crates, bags and boxes up front. Quality workmanship I'd say.

The truck driver locked up and told us to follow him. We trailed behind in the van for about four miles through the densely populated latino and black neighborhoods of Staten Island. The truck stopped in front of the Alzheimer's Foundation Thirft Shop. It made a three point turn and backed into the side garage's metal grate. A loud scraping sound echoed down the street. Everyone in the van yelled "Oh man!" and put their hands over their ears. We parked and got out of the van.

Mr. B----- was approached by typical denizens of the Thrift Shop world: Two very overweight women in their 60s, clad in tights and oversized sweaters, both in bad need of cut and color. Again Mr. B----- shook his head no, they looked us over with disdain and walked away stomping. "Who was that?" asked Goldie. Mr. B----- replied cracking a smile, "Those are the strippers I got for you today." "Oh man, you could lose your wallet in one of their folds!" yelled one of the crew. Mr. B----- continued "They want us to go back and unload the rest of the house, I told 'em no. You're here to serve probation, not to work till you drop." Mr. B----- is a good man.

Again we formed two teams and unloaded the truck with care. The two women made snarky comments about breaking things. We ignored them and continued to stack furniture to the back of the garage and bags and boxes to the front. When we finished, the truck pulled out and drove away. V---- asked one of the women for the bathroom, when he returned he reported "That b---h thinks we're trash, you should've seen the look she gave me." It's much worse when white people look down on other white people. Black folks expect it. Mr. B----- told us to wait by the van while he signed release papers. H-----, our West Texas boy said "I'll be back, I'm going to the store." Mr. B----- yelled "H-----, chill man, you can't be black and running down a street on Staten Island. You're on probation, remember?" S.I. is the one borough that scares me. Not for the crime, but for the fact that the townies and the cops don't like the darkies.

Epilogue
At our days end we stopped for pizza before we headed back to Brooklyn. Staten Island does have good pie. Over pizza I learned that of each crew member averages of 300 to 70 hours of CS work. The misdeanmor pleas range from weapon's and drug possession to theft. Seems that Anger Managment is standard court mandation for everyone on this crew, whether they need it or not. I have to say that so far everyone on the crew has been hard working and pretty decent.

Tonight I have Anger Management, Councilor L---- called me last week to say he made a mistake. Another councilor will take his place tonight so we must show up.

Tomorrow morning I have Probation Report Day with PO L---. V---- said that he has to report at 210 Jerolamon Street, "That's were you go when they really hate you." he said. I report to 345 Adams. I gather it's less heinious place.

I can still smell the musky odor of the Alzheimer's Foundation that settled into my work clothes. It's a dirty mix of sweaty body odor, pee, old food and carpet freshener. It's a very sad disturbing smell.

Scores on the Board:
70 - 48 = 22 Community Service hours left to serve