Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Coastal Writer

On Service Learning

College is always somewhere, taking the form of nervous thoughts, of ever graduating, of coming and going, but today nervousness hinges on the idea of service learning. Sometimes the nervousness makes a little announcement about my forty-three years, as if there were some time limit on learning, then goes quietly away. There are times when it attaches itself in the form of extra credit work,  my college psychology class project at the state mental rehabilitation hospital, the place I now go quietly. On this particular day, the nervousness travels the whole trip with me, actually, with me and my classmate. We go for three hours every Thursday to assist women patients who are up for being discharged; we do their makeup, hair styling--whatever-- to raise their self-esteem to a state of noticeability (yes, maybe even nobility). This is the state where my nervousness normally subsides; we do our three hours, hugs all around, and leave.
I see the look on the security guard's face on my way out. He signals to me.
I pick up the phone, squeeze tight.. It's Raeanne, the hospital activities coordinator. She says,“I’m sorry to ask you, but can you do a special favor for me?" 
  “Sure, I’d be happy to.” I'm feeling extra relaxed having spent time with the ladies.
     "Pat, we’re shorthanded here, and a male patient is asking to be taken to the store to buy some jeans. He’s insistent.  Would you be able to take him to the Penney’s store in Sedro Woolley this afternoon?”
     "Um."   
"Sure you won’t mind?”   
"Mind? Reanne, should I?”
     “Well, we haven't had him outside the hospital, ever. I'd rather give him to you than trust him with our security."
     "Penny's store in Sedro Woolley? Would mean undercover officers, they would have security."
"The trip into town only takes about ten minutes. Don't you think we should let him do some things on his own?"
"Oh, I'm sure there are many things he can do on his own. It's only, well it's a little late in the day, and my home in Oak Harbor drifts more as the sun sinks. My husband will be home by five, yes, I think he said five.
  “Well, we want our patients here to do things on their own, and it'll only take ten minutes, and, well thank you”
     “Yes, the ten minutes that will take an hour," I think. This taxi cab will get him to town and plunk him safely back in the hospital in a matter of minutes, another satisfied customer from J.C. Penny. He won’t even know what hit him. Am I missing something here? Yes, I will come to my senses and do this for her.
     “Great, I knew I had the right person,” Reanne says, "I'm so relieved."


As I’m driving toward the hospital entrance, I see Joe, a tall hospital orderly, standing beside a wiry little gray-bearded man, who is looking up into Joe’s face, speaking intently and gesturing excitedly with his arms, his fists clenched.  When I pull up next to them, Joe breaks into the man’s monologue, laughs good-naturedly, and says, “If you say so, Sam.  Here’s your ride.”  Joe quickly ushers Sam into the passenger’s seat, introduces us, and closes the car door.  “Good luck!” he calls over his shoulder to us as he hurries back into the hospital.   
Sam reaches over and shakes my hand firmly. “Thanks a lot for doing this, Mrs. Adams,” he says, “I been wearing these pants the hospital gave me, but I sure would feel better in a pair of Levis.  The police took me off a bus about a month ago, crazy raving lunatic that I was, and brought me here.  Don’t know what happened to my jeans.  Somebody said they’d been ripped up in the fight.  Probably cut ‘em myself with those two big knives they said I was waving around.”
I grip the steering wheel a little tighter and try to think of a safe direction for this conversation. 
“So, Sam, where were you headed?”
“You mean on the bus?”
“Yes, when they, uh, yes, on the bus.”
“Well, apparently to kill my ex-wife.”
“Oh.”   I’m relieved to see a sign announcing the town center ahead.
I park on the street near the Penney’s store. “Here we are.  While you’re trying on Levis, I’ll be looking around,” I say cheerfully, “take your time.”
“Oh, it won’t take any time at all.  I don’t need to try them on.  I’ve been wearing Levis for 40 years.  No question about my size.”
I bite back the advice I’m about to give.  “Oh…. OK, sounds good.  I don’t really have anything to look around for anyway.”
I stand off to the side while Sam goes straight to the stacks of Levis, locates the size he wants, and then pays for them at the cashier counter. 
“I got ‘em.  We can go now,” he says to me.  It’s clear that he’s in a hurry.
“Do you need anything else in town?” I ask.
“No thanks, I have to get back.  I can’t miss my appointment with Doc.  We’re working on the garden in my head.  He’s teaching me to pull out all the weeds I got in there and plant flowers in their place,” he says.
Before I can think of an appropriate and encouraging answer, he continues on, obviously excited about the concept.
“If you think about it, it makes sense.  If I don’t fill those ugly weed spaces with beautiful flowers, the weeds will just grow back.  It’s a whole new way of thinking about things.  And you know what, I’m understanding how my thinking about my wife was all full of weeds.  I had so many wrong perceptions, and Doc is helping me learn that it’s never too late to change wrong thinking,” he says.
“Sounds great,” I say, trying hard to match his enthusiasm for brain gardening. 
When we get back to the hospital, Joe is standing at the curb waiting for us, apparently alerted by the guard at the front gatehouse.
Sam shakes my hand with both of his, thanks me profusely, and hurries inside.
The very next day I get another phone call from Raeanne. “I need another favor, Pat,” she says.
“Sure, what is it?”
“Sam needs to go back to Penney’s to exchange his pants.  He says they’re the wrong size.”
“I was afraid of that,” I say with a sigh.  “He didn’t even try them on.”
“He says that the pants are marked wrong.”
“Levis marked wrong?  No way!  It’s his fault for not trying them on.”
“I’m sorry, Pat.  Maybe I could get somebody else.  It’s just that he particularly asked for you.  He said that you were so nice to him.”
“Well, apparently I was too nice.  I should have insisted that he try them on.”
“You did fine.  Do you mind taking him back?”
“No, but I hope he’ll just do a simple exchange….I don’t want them treating him like a mental case.”
“Maybe you can talk to him,” she says.
I pick Sam up at the curb as before and we drive off, followed by Joe’s shout of “Good luck!”
“Mrs. Adams, did Raeanne tell you?  These pants are marked with the wrong size!  Can you believe that!”  Sam says excitedly.  
“It is hard to believe,” I say, trying to keep the irony out of my voice.
“Forty years and I’ve never seen anything like it!”  
I figure I’ll make a stab at getting him to try the next pair on.  “Are you sure they’re marked wrong?  Maybe your weight changed.  Why don’t you just try some on and then exchange these for the right size?” I say in what I hope is a helpful, interested tone. 
“Nope, I’m not trying on Levis!  Besides, that wouldn’t be fair to the other customers,” he says.
“It wouldn’t be fair for you to try on Levis?” I ask.
“No, I mean it wouldn’t be fair to put those mis-marked pants back on the shelf.  Besides, if these are marked wrong, some others may be too.  I wouldn’t do that to the other customers or to J.C. Penney’s or to Levis.  I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t let them know!”  He is talking very fast and punctuating key words by shouting and punching the air with his fists.
“Oh, I see,” I say, wondering if this behavior was being worked on in his weeds and flowers therapy.
When we walk into the store, I brace myself for a confrontation.  I am certain that in his agitated mental condition, Sam is not going to accept the truth.  I hope that Joe has frisked him for knives.
I stand back out of earshot, planning the route I’ll use to get Sam out of the store before the police arrive.  I watch him lay the pants on the counter and enter into an intense conversation with the cashier.  She shakes her head” no,” and Sam vehemently nods “yes.”  They bend over the pants with a tape measure, and then at Sam’s prodding, the cashier goes to the shelves and begins to measure all the Levis.  All the time, she’s shaking her head, and Sam is talking heatedly and waving his arms and fists to make his points.
When I see the cashier heave a big sigh and pick up the phone, I decide it’s time to get Sam out of there.  I move in and take a firm grip on his arm, preparing to drag him out bodily, if necessary.  Then I overhear what the cashier is saying on the phone.  “Yes, it’s true, all the 32’s are marked 34….no, no problem, thanks to this observant customer who discovered the mistake and reported it right away.”
Sam is beaming.  Turning to me, he pats the hand that is still clutching his arm and says, “Thanks for believing in me, Mrs. Adams.”
“No problem, Sam,” I say, just as though I had never doubted him. 
I feel the tug of a weedy wrong perception being yanked out of the garden in my brain and replaced with a flower of truth.  Thank you, Sam.

copyright 11.04.10
smokey road publishing
all rights reserved

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