It is cold. Snowing. In a word, miserable. The sky is flat pewter, the bowl of an unpolished spoon. I back the beat-up minivan into a space strategic to the front door of the Senior Center, which we’ve rented for the sum of $35; the guy on the radio mentions something about four to six inches of snowfall tonight, which is really pretty uncool of him to say, all things considered. I ask my passengers to help me lug the food inside, while I carry twenty pounds of meats and cheeses and crackers and try to fish the key out of my pocket at the same time. Sherry R pushes past me once I have the door unlocked, almost knocking me over, and then looks over her shoulder and yells “It’s the CHRISTMAS PARTY!
Smile!”
Somewhere on my left comes a blur of youthful enthusiasm and Axe body spray as Evan B sprints past me to dig around in the Walmart bag of sparkly Christmas stuff; he immediately wants to put up the decorations we bought, but I haven’t even really seen the inside of this place yet, so I don’t know where they should go. He’s not interested in my hesitation, so he starts scotch-taping garland around the perimeter of the main room, then hanging round plastic ornaments on it every foot or so. Luckily, he’s got a much better eye for symmetry than I do, so it looks nice. Glenn R, though, finds fault in everything Evan does, so he follows behind him at a determined waddle, offering constant criticism in the form of insults and scowls which squish up his wrinkled face even further, until he looks like a piece of beige chewing gum with eyebrows and a crew cut. The garland is crooked, the color of the ornaments is all wrong (red and green is all wrong? Really, Glenn?), the tape is bound to give way under the weight of the decorations and cause massive garland failure, and so on. Evan, who is not that many years removed from believing in Santa, is too full of Christmas-party excitement and ignores Glenn, as usual. Glenn decides to sit in the corner and glower. “Can you come help me get this food ready, Glenn?” I call out to him. He gives me the finger. “Well put,” I say, and start trying to assemble one metric ton of pasta salad.
Randall M wants to know who’s coming. “Everyone, hopefully,” I answer, reading the back of the Suddenly Salad box. The directions don’t say anything about making five boxes at once! Goddamn incomplete directions!
“Like who, though?” he asks, picking at his rugby top and pacing in circles. His jeans are easily three sizes too big for him and seem in imminent danger of falling down, but evidently this is considered cool among guys his age.
Three tablespoons oil times five-“What? Like, I don’t know, all of the Lantry Street people, all of the Seventh Avenue folks, all of the Sugar Streeters – you know, everybody was invited. I don’t know who will show up, but hopefully, you know…most of the people we invited? All of them, I hope. That’s what we want, right?”
“If Brenda comes, I am not dancing with her. I am NOT.”
“Okay, you don’t have to.”
“And I am not sitting with old ladies.”
“Well, that’s…kind of unnecessary, but okay, fine, don’t.”
“And I don’t want to hug anyone.”
“Fine, Randall. Your choice.”
“And I don’t like Warren.”
“Well what does that have to do with-you know what? Fine. Don’t like Warren then. Randall, I have to do this right now, and-“
“And I don’t want to wear a Christmas bow on my head.”
“Well who – damn it, I spilled the – who said you had to?”
“And I don’t want to dance with Brenda.”
“Randall, I got that part, can you just – will hand me the- this much pasta won’t fit in this pan? Are you kidding me?”
“And I don’t want any of that pasta salad.”
An hour later, I have some of the pasta salad ready (that which did not meet an untimely end on the Senior Center kitchen floor), most of the meat and cheese platter finished, and the kitchen’s window counter has been becrock-potted with no less than five warm food options – BBQ beef, “sloppy joe” meat, chili, cheese dip, and I think the last one is full of meatballs. Sherry has been hovering, opening lids (fogging up her thick glasses when the steam escapes), rearranging crackers, fingering the sliced cheese - until I ask if she’s washed her hands. She slinks away. Glenn is still engaged in recreational glaring. Gwen C has smoked probably eighteen cigarettes since we’ve been here, so I ask her if she wants to set up the boom box near the “dance floor” we’ve made by pushing some tables against the wall. She nods and smiles and walks away in that sort of tranquil shuffle that is one of the side effects of her psychiatric medication.
Nina M shuffled in last when we brought in the stuff so that she wouldn’t have to help, and has been drifting in the shadows at the other end of the room the whole time. I know I have to try and encourage her to participate, but I doubt she will. “Nina? You want to help Gwen with the music?”
Silence.
“You want to give her a hand?”
Silence.
“Nina?”
“NO!”
“Okay. Thanks anyway, I guess.” Nina utterly detests any kind of party, get-together, gathering, activity, shin-dig, communal experience, et cetera, but Nina’s mother insists she has to go. Nina is thirty-eight, but her mother is her legal guardian, so…her mother wins. But I’m not going to nag her any further; I know how little she enjoys being out of her room, away from her TV and crossword puzzle books. She never actually writes in them, but she turns the pages over and over again. I think it’s comforting. Or maybe she has yet to find one she likes. One day, a few months ago, I had to tell Nina that she couldn’t continue hoarding boxes and boxes of old, unused crossword books – my boss had informed me that they were a fire hazard that could get us in trouble with the state agency in charge of inspecting group homes. Nina’s reaction was nothing short of ridiculous – screaming, throwing things, at one point actually kicking – but in the end, we threw away four boxes of dusty old newsprint puzzle books she hadn’t actually looked at in easily three or more years. She still seems to hate me for that.
Gwen has everything plugged in and ready to go and puts in a CD which I can only imagine must be titled “Hits of the 90s,” because “Ice Ice Baby” comes rolling in its 5.0 out of the speakers, which prompts Even and Randall to start trying to out-dance each other. Sherry has helped me finish the punch, and we are ready for our guests. Glenn continues to give us the frowning of a lifetime, Nina is still being the Phantom of the Christmas Party, Gwen is outside smoking again, and Randall and Evan have progressed to some kind of slam-dance competition.
First, the Seventh Avenue people pile in. Seventh Avenue - each residential site is referred to by its street name in order to maintain “normalcy;” we are encouraged not to say “the facility” or “the home” - is a group home, like our site, Twelfth Street; the other sites are four-plex semi-independent living apartment buildings. The Seventh Ave staff shuffle in behind them, bored, looking to be fed; Sandy, Gail, and I line up and start serving people. Wayne from Seventh Ave takes three cookies instead of two and I can see Russell in the back of the room looking at him with disgust. I catch his eye and give him the “not now, please” face. He rolls his eyes. Mike G, who is extremely tall and extremely loud, jostles to the front of the line.
“Is that pasta salad made with nuts in it?” “No, Mike. It isn’t.”
“Are you sure?”“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Positive?”“Yes, positive. No nuts ever touched this pasta salad. This pasta salad is absolutely not made with nuts.”
“Well do you have any that is?”Danielle, one of the Seventh Ave staff, tells Mike to knock it off and keep moving. This is a completely bullshit thing to say to him – he’s not a child – so I lean over and address her. “He’s fine, Danielle. Really.” She has piggy little eyes, filthy clothes, and a perpetual scowl. She just pinches up her face and looks away.
No one here is a child. Sherry and Gwen are in their forties, Glenn is fifty something, Nina almost forty – Randall and Evan are young, only nineteen, but not children by any means. Everyone here works, most of them full-time, and have been doing so for years and years. The same demographic applies to the other group homes, apartment complexes, to everyone who works at the workshop sorting pop cans or bundling paper together. Adults. And you don’t tell adults to knock it off and keep moving. Danielle is now on my list of people to glare at later.
Some of the other invitees begin to pour in, so the serving line is moving at a fast and furious pace. The Sugar Street gang rolls in, and who is first into the room but Brenda C, who makes a beeline for the boom box and yanks the CD out, replacing it with some sort of all slow dance music collection or something. Randall has disappeared; like a bubble popping on a blade of grass, he’s just gone. Wendy corners Paul N from Seventh Ave instead, who is perfectly happy to oblige.
Finally, everyone is either eating or dancing or giving me the finger (thanks for that, Glenn), so I hang back in the kitchen and start rinsing out some of the pans we used to make them easier to wash later. A few of the staff members have gathered in here to bitch about work. Danielle looks over at me.
“Hey, what’s Randall’s problem?”
“With what?” I ask. Maybe she could help me with some of this?
“I mean why’s he here. Why is he a consumer?” “Consumer” is the term currently en vogue to describe the people who receive services through the company I work for; in the past, it’s been “clients,” “residents,” “patients,” and as one looks further back into the dark closet of history, a lot of other words that you would no longer expect to say in polite company.
“Why?”
“He looks normal, so why is he here?”
There it is. He “looks normal.” In other words, unlike Evan, or Nina, or Glenn, Randall doesn’t “look” disabled. Neither do Sherry or Gwen, but their speech patterns and mannerisms are usually the giveaway. Randall doesn’t sound “special,” either. I know why Randall’s here, but I’m not about to tell her.
“I mean, is he here for psych issues, or what?”
“Why do you ask? What does it matter?” I can feel my face get hot. What does it matter what someone’s “problem” is? When is the last time someone asked her which condition she has that makes her unable to put on a clean pair of pants for work?
Danielle has caught the hostility in my tone, which, to be fair, I’m laying on pretty thick.
“Whatever. I just wondered what his diagnosis is.” She walks out in a bit of a huff, and I hear her
exit through the front door to have a cigarette, which she will no doubt leave smoldering on the sidewalk next to Gwen’s. I tell myself, angrily, that I will have to remember to make sure that all the butts out there are picked up, so we don’t lose the deposit we put on this place to have our party here.
So then I see Randall slip back into the building. I call out to him to come in here, please. “How about you help me with cleaning up the kitchen?” He steps in and looks around. “Wendy’s not in here, right?”
“No, Wendy’s not in here. What is your thing about Brenda?”
He picks up a towel and starts wiping off the counters, pausing to run a hand through his stick-straight black hair. “She just freaks me out. She follows me. She’s always staring at me. It’s weird! It’s like she loves me.” Randall pretends to shiver violently. Brenda does tend to be a bit obsessive with the people she has a crush on, but I wonder if there’s more to it. I wonder if it has to do with who Randall feels is more like him – more “normal.” He gets bored with the counters and flits back out the door.
The music gets turned up a little, and Glenn releases a string of profanities, many of them totally original , insisting that it be turned back down. Since it’s not totally cranked up to a ridiculous degree, and since Glenn is the only one complaining, I decide not to step in, but to be honest, I’m getting a headache from the music, too. In combination with the constant stream of consumers wandering into the kitchen looking for more food or hoping to get someone else in trouble (for being rude, for not allowing someone to sit at their table, for trying to steal someone’s boyfriend, and so on), my Christmas spirit has dwindled pretty severely.
By the time we’ve collectively plowed through the food and exhausted every possible slow-dance song and group-dance possibility (Bunny Hop, Electric Slide, Macarena), I am sick of this party. I am sick of Randall’s bitching about everything, I’m sick of Glenn’s attitude, I’m even sick of Gwen shuffling around like she’s in some kind of grinning coma. No one said thank you as they came through the food line; people just handed me their plates and looked at me expectantly. No one seems to appreciate the work the staff has to do to make this happen for them. Well, correction: the work I did to make this happen – the other staff members (“residential instructors” to be precise) seem to be preoccupied with their cell phones. I could be at home with my kids; I could get a different job, but instead I’m washing dishes without any help for a group of people who seem not to have noticed that I did anything at all.
Gwen strolls in, dreamily, smelling of smoke and with that odd ever-present grin. “You want some help?” she asks, tucking a strand of her graying red hair behind her ear.
“You know, actually, I would like some help. Thanks for asking.” She grabs a towel and stands next to me, ready to dry.
“We used to do this at the Catholic school gym,” she says. Her medication slurs her voice a little, but I’ve grown accustomed to it.
“Do what? The Christmas party?”
“Yeah, we did it at the Catholic school gym for about fifteen years. Then about five years ago, they raised the price. So now we do it wherever the staff decides.”
My hands work over a pan in the hot soapy water. Twenty years ago? I was a kid in school twenty years ago, and Gwen was going to Christmas parties like this one, with some other staff, someone whose name is probably long forgotten. Gwen was in a group home twenty years ago, dependent on someone else to take her grocery shopping or give her a ride to buy shoes or to throw her their version of a Christmas party. I, too, was dependent on someone else for all those things twenty years ago…but then I grew up. Gail is a grown woman who has to wait for someone else to tell her it’s okay to write a check for a DVD or lunch at McDonald’s, lest she make it out to the wrong person or write the wrong amount in the little rectangle. I’m free to walk out of this job, or move somewhere new, or just be alone. Gwen, as a matter of law, isn’t – her legal guardians have the right to choose where she lives, not Gail. She’s a dependent adult. She’s dependent on me, someone who has no ties to her at all.
“You did a good job with the party,” she offers. “We never usually have pasta salad.” I smile and thank her, but I can’t feel good about it now. I’m ashamed at myself for having felt as though I needed to be thanked for putting on this party. Why would these people thank me? For doing something I’m paid to do? For serving them food that their social security disability money pays for? For caring about them – as though that’s a benevolent thing to do?
We finish the clean-up. Our guests leave. I pick up the cigarette butts outside, noting the staggering number of Kools – Gwen’s brand. Loading everything back into the van, Evan and Glenn bicker over who gets shotgun, Nina immediately climbs into the back seat and folds her arms, Sherry helps put the stuff back in van while chattering about Brenda and Paul, who have apparently decided to start dating after their many (somewhat inappropriate) slow-dances tonight. Randall sidles up next to me and asks where the party will be next year. I tell him that I don’t know. The truth is, I don’t know because I won’t be here – I’m going back to school, and I will be quitting this job next summer. I don’t tell him that part. It seems rude. Finally I lock up the building, clean the snow off the windshield, and get behind the wheel of the van, ready to drive everyone home. The man on the radio mentions the revised forecast – three to five inches instead of four to six. Gwen’s voice drifts up from the back seat.
“It snows every year on Christmas party day.”
“I bet it does,” I respond, and put the van into gear.