for short. Originally, for a brief time, it had been called Columbia River AIDS Project, until someone noted the regrettable acronym. Fortunately, those were the early days, before they could afford letterhead.
There are people you instinctively know do not appreciate humor. I knew this instinctively about Charles Philpott, CAP’s volunteer coordinator. We were about serious matters here. About life and death, where there is no room for humor. Levity is to be discouraged lest people misunderstand how terribly serious we are here.
Charles was prim, proper, somewhat prissy, and very, very neat. His cubicle screamed Obsessive-Compulsive. Papers stacked neatly. Books and binders arranged neatly by size. Everything neatly in order, not one renegade paper clip out of place. I sat in his cubicle, hesitant to move for fear of disturbing the artificial order of things. He was polite, with that air of social politeness usually reserved for church, as if his tone had been selected like his tie that morning. One could almost see his mental checklist:
Establish rapport with prospective volunteer (Check).
Express appreciation for candidate’s willingness to volunteer (Check).
Evince— I’m sure the word for Charles would be “evince”— a personal interest in said candidate (Check).
That done, he opened a desk drawer labeled New Applications, removed a file, and handed me a number of forms. “You’ll need to complete and return these to me as the first step in becoming a volunteer.”
He walked me through the forms I should take away, “study,” sign and return. There was the basic four-page volunteer application, a two-page medical history, a twelve-page personality profile, confidentiality statement, list of all the volunteer positions available at the agency, release form requesting a police background check— it hadn’t been this difficult to gain Australian citizenship.
I shuffled through the papers as he kept talking.
“Then there will be several trainings our volunteers take prior to working with our clients.” Our volunteers. Our clients. It all sounded terribly possessive. There would be a three-hour orientation to the agency, its mission, its services, policies and procedures; a required two-hour diversity training workshop; and then program-specific trainings on blood-borne pathogens, HIV 101, home care, self-care, homophobia . . .
“I just hope I get to volunteer before the epidemic’s over,” I joked, forgetting my earlier judgment that levity here would not be appreciated.
He offered a polite smile. “I’m sure you will.”
“I did bring along my résumé,” I said, pulling it out of my daypack.
“Oh good. That will be helpful,” said Charles, receiving it from me— a slight frown at the dog-eared corner. Tsk. Tsk. “I will still need you to complete the application, even if the information is already included in your résumé.” Charles knew that little boxes on forms were not created without a purpose. Bureaucracy, taking its cue from nature, abhors a vacuum. As he said this, he skimmed the résumé, his eyes stopping on something of interest: Australia. Victorian AIDS Council. Founding member. Developed and coordinated care teams. Designed HIV prevention campaign. Master’s degree and background in mental health.
“I see you already have experience,” he said, continuing to read. “Australia. You lived there for ten years?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve always wanted to travel there. Did you like it?”
“Yes.” Was this part of the interview?
“How did you come to live in Australia?” His interest was piqued, almost in spite of himself. I wondered if he was concerned about professional boundaries.
I paused. “It’s a long story.” Translation: I don’t want to talk about it. But Charles kept looking at me, so I added, “I fell in love with an Australian.” He seemed, what, surprised? I shrugged. “It happens.”
“Ah. So, what brought you back?”
“He died.”
“Of?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, I am sorry.”
I looked away. “Me, too.”
He now studied me in a new light. I knew what he thought he saw, and he offered delicately, “Perhaps you’d like to sign up for our client services. I mean, while you’re here and all.”
I turned back to him. “Thanks, but I don’t have AIDS.” I just look like shit. It seemed I was having to explain this to everyone since I’d returned. To Mom and Dad. To Sis and homophobic hubby. To old friends. To volunteer coordinators. Not that I cared what people thought. I had gotten over that long ago with Gray. Everyone just assumed I, too, was positive. Let them think what they will. I’m not dying. I’m already dead.
“We happen to have a position open for a mental health specialist.”
“Thanks, but I’m not looking for a job here. I just came to volunteer some hours.”
“You already have a job?”
“No.”
“You’ve got the right credentials and experience. We’ve been trying to fill this position for over three months.”
“I really don’t think I’m— ”
“Let me call our client services manager.” He was so insistent I wondered if he was getting a commission. “Would you be willing at least to meet her?”
Now, sitting in this hospital waiting room a year later, I realize I should have said, No. No, thank you. Really, no. But then, I would never have met Sandy. Or Steve, or Cal, or Lukas, or . . .
I was directed to the client services manager’s office where I found a hefty woman with short hair, dressed in jeans, banded-collar shirt, and vest, holding a thick file. As a program manager, she had moved up the food chain from a cubicle. Her office was a shambles, resembling a paper-recycling center. Folders strewn about. File drawers gaping open. Stacks of papers everywhere, all suggesting creative chaos— or maybe just chaos. An autographed poster of k.d. lang was tacked on one wall, on another a poster of planet Earth (“We all live downstream”). After Charles’s cubicle, this immediately put me at ease.
As I came to her door, she shouted, “Three weeks!” I looked behind me to see who she was shouting at, and found that it was me. “Three weeks I worked to find this guy a place to stay. I pulled strings. I bribed the housing authority. I nearly prostituted myself with the HUD case manager to get this guy off the streets. And now I learn he’s taken off to LA!” She threw the file on the desk, placing her fists on her hips, shaking her head. “I just want to kill him before AIDS does.”
Then she held out her hand, smiling. “Hi. I’m Sandy. Don’t mind me. I’m just venting. It’s Monday.” She had a strong, masculine grip, making me glad I wasn’t her client, wherever he was. I introduced myself and handed her the photocopy Charles had made of my résumé so he could keep the original, which I was certain he had by now filed away. We sat down and she quickly ran through it. “Charles says you just came back from Australia. You
