Elbrecht's Corpuscle

Fan Belt

Posted on October 30, 2012 by Elbrecht

Working at the gym in grad school always had its charms. Not that I particularly enjoyed seeing people running around sweating or rhythmically gyrating on the elliptical machines or dropping barbells on their necks (yep, saw it with my own eyes, on my first day, no less). But the opportunity to meet all sorts of random people I wouldn’t have come across while strolling through campus made it worthwhile. I also enjoyed the occasional “guy takes a racquet to the back of the head because his buddy didn’t use the wrist strap and now he’s bleeding profusely” moments that I was able to witness. Unfortunately, those were few and far between.

The monotony of sitting behind a desk, swiping ID cards and passing out crisply folded towels came with the territory of being a gym desk jockey. Never one to make things boring, I decided to spruce up my days by being extra annoyingly cheery to everyone who crossed my path, no matter their demeanor. This probably led to many people thinking “that guy is insane” or “he’s drunk”, and I wish I could say the latter wasn’t true a few times, but it was.

During the summer of 2003 I was enrolled in graduate school in the comfortable college town of Oxford, OH. My courses were in the afternoon, which was perfect for either staying out until 2AM boozing, or in my case, working the opening shift to make some extra money. However, occasionally I managed to booze until 2AM and still open the gym at 5:30A because I was often scheduled to open on the weekends. I always felt a little better when I’d be out drinking until all hours of the night with other colleagues who were also supposed to be there at 5:30AM. But for some reason, I was always the only one to actually show up on time, if at all. For the most part, I was still able to function above “black out drunk” at 23 years old, even on 2-3 hours of sleep. Not that I look back on those mornings fondly, but I suppose they served a purpose. I’ll let you know when I figure out that purpose.

The open shifts during the week were a different story. I’d roll out of bed at 4:30AM, jump in the shower, pack my bag for school, and hop on the Huffy I’d borrowed from a friend to turn the 25 minute walk into a five minute ride to work. The streets were always eerily quiet, especially considering that only a few hours earlier college students, especially during the summer, had been stumbling down these same streets. The ride was almost always uneventful, save the time a Semi Tractor Trailer, making its early morning cut through Oxford, disregarded the big red stop light at the corner of Talawanda and Spring. Having your life flash before your eyes before the sun has even dared to get itself out of bed is a great way to reconnect with Jesus. But I managed to slip by the truck’s cab before he could clip my back wheel and send me hurtling down Talawanda Avenue. I’m sure they would have been able to open the gym without me that morning, even if word had spread that I was in critical care at McCullough-Hyde. Yes, even the towel guy is replaceable.

One Wednesday morning that summer was one for the ages though. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning a well-known faculty member of the Communications department, Professor Bedrosian, would waddle to the check-in counter, stroll through the turnstile, grab two towels, and begin his descent to the pool. On this morning, his routine was no different.

I had never personally witnessed him swimming, but stories abounded that his technique was more of a wading in the pool for an hour; nothing resembling a breast stroke or even a doggy-paddle had been seen. On shifts that I was not behind the desk and was free to roam the halls and make the always terrifying stroll through the men’s locker room to make sure no one was masturbating in the shower, I had seen Prof Bedrosian in his bathing suit. Based on the man’s physique, I could surmise that his “swimming” involved as little physical activity as possible. Or that he immediately followed it up by stopping by the UDP Dairy Shop and scarfing down about 20 doughnuts. His massive belly was supported by his trunks being pulled above his umbilicus and he always dripping wet as he made his way back to the locker room. No sign of towel in hand, I was left to believe that he’d been raised by wolves.

This particular morning, as every morning, Prof Bedrosian’s entrance to the gym was followed 10 minutes later by his wife, another esteemed faculty member of the Communications department. I always found her tardiness to be odd. It was as if she waited in the car until she knew he’d been inside long enough that even she wouldn’t run the risk of seeing him in his bathing suit. I would have believed she’d never seen him in his birthday suit, but I’d heard their daughter (biological in nature), was quite the bitch. “Do you know who I am? I’m the daughter of Professors Bedrosian. I don’t care if I don’t have an ID, I’m coming in!” was her most common refrain.

At 10:15AM Professor Bedrosian made his way up the stairs from the locker room and into the main lobby, freshly changed into his street clothes and refreshed from his “swim”. From 10 feet away, he launched his two towels, balled into a wet mess, towards the bin for dirty towels. I had witnessed this behavior several times before and knew that he’d become alarmingly proficient at giving his projectile the necessary arc to enter the clown’s mouth-sized hole in the counter that hid the towel bin. Sometimes it entered as a perfect swish, the sign of a true marksman. Today was one of those times. But rather than veer to the right, towards the exit, he continued his waddle towards the counter, as if he was expecting the towels to miss their intended target.

I sat on my stool behind the counter unsure as to why he continued in my direction. He approached slowly, peering at me through his massive lenses until he reached the counter. He stared directly at the name badge attached to my rumpled, red polo shirt and exclaimed, “Fan Belt!”

I’ve been called many things in my life, had my name misspelled since birth, but never had I been mistaken for “Fan Belt.” In a state of utter disbelief, I quickly grasped my shirt with my left hand and my name badge with my right and expected to see “Fan Belt”, an obvious typo that had been overlooked for months by me and every other person who knew my name. Professor Bedrosian’s certainty with which he spoke caused me a moment’s pause when I recognized the correct spelling.

“Ean Bett,” I quickly replied to his now obvious mistake.

“Yes! Is that a family name?” he countered as he turned his body towards the exit.

“Bett is my last name. So yes, that is my family name. Or were you talking about Ean?”

Professor Bedrosian, now moving towards the exit turnstile, slowed his step. And in a brief pause, he let out the most electric words I’ve had the privilege of hearing. “Eonnnn Brett! Eeeeven Better!”

As he continued his waddle through the turnstile and turned the corner out of my sight, I stood up, in utter disbelief. I managed to look down at my name badge again, but “Ean Bett”, a name I’d carried for 23 years, was still there. A wave of disappointment swept over me, as if somehow Professor Bedrosian had looked straight through the name badge and deep into my soul. And once there, he revealed my true name to be Eonnnn Brett. But it was not to be. I wasn’t even Fan Belt, much less Eonnnn Brett.

When my co-worker Kim returned from her break, I quickly told her the case of mistaken identity. She responded with raucous laughter and near tears, she doubled over to the floor. She too knew Professor Bedrosian and could easily imagine the exchange. When I returned home later in the afternoon, the story was still percolating in my brain, so I shared it with my roommates Juice and Jinx. A fellow employee at the gym, Juice nearly spit out his Miller Lite all over the flat screen TV when I belted out “Eonnnn Brett! Eeeeven Better!” Jinx, on the other hand, was laughing so hard that he actually sprayed Miller Lite all over the TV.

Days passed and I couldn’t help be drawn back to that bizarre moment in time; the instant when Professor Bedrosian had made me believe, if only for a second, that I’d been misnamed, and possibly miscast in the story of my life. What could have been, if I’d been born “Fan Belt”. Or “Eonnn Brett?” Eeeeven better!

So when I was working the same shift a week later and saw Professor Bedrosian turn the corner to approach the entrance to the gym, I was filled with an indescribable joy. I could hear the words “Eeeeven Better!” reverberating through the high arching ceilings of the entrance. He made his way past the turnstile, grabbed his two towels, gave a pleasant smile, and proceeded downstairs without saying a word

For the next hour I went about my usual greetings and salutations as the rest of the gym regulars, including the other Professor Bedrosian, made their way in and out. But when Professor Bedrosian reappeared at the top of the stairs and headed towards the counter, time had a small hiccup.

I watched as his right arm, holding his two wet towels balled into one, begin its slow ascent through the air. He released the projectile as his arm came parallel to the ground and the towels seemed to float towards the counter. I could see his continued approach from one eye as the other focused on his projectile and its perfect passage through the hole in the counter.

He stopped, stared right at my name badge, and exclaimed, “Fan Belt!”

I grasped my name badge as he positioned his movements away from the counter. I responded almost instantaneously, “Ean Bett?” I felt a wave of awe come over me.

“Yes! Is that a family name?”, was his curious reply.

Several thoughts flooded my mind simultaneously. “Am I drunk?” “Is this man clinically insane?” “Am I having déjà déjà vu?”

If I’d been filled at the time with all of the medical knowledge I now possess, I would have thought I’d just had a seizure, possibly a stroke, and would be crashing to the floor in an instant. Hopefully my face wouldn’t be smashed as it struck the stool on which I was currently seated.

But I didn’t have a seizure. Or a stroke. I responded, “Bett is my last name. So yes, that is my family name. Or were you talking about Ean?”

I waited for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only a millisecond. And then, he released in his boisterous tone, “Eonnnn Brett! Eeeeven Better!”

He continued his waddle through the exit and turned the corner.

I stayed seated on the stool for a moment, deep in thought. My eyes darted back and forth, looking to see if anyone else had witnessed the impossible. I wondered if Professor Bedrosian was quick-witted enough to have intentionally pulled off what I had just experienced.

Or, was it possible that my mind had been so blown by his words, as to have not only created the déjà vu moment, but to have generated the memories of me telling the story to other people over the previous week. Is that even possible? Had I attained a level of sub-consciousness that allowed me to attain such great heights?

I’m not sure what happened that day. I’m uncertain if Professor Bedrosian has any idea that we had the identical exchange one week apart. The conclusion I’ve reached is that Fan Belt, the happy, go-lucky towel guy, was mistaken for Eonnn Brett two times in his life. And that is a case of mistaken identity, if you listen closely, that can still be heard echoing through those same vaulted ceilings at 10:15AM every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

An Ode to Cincinnati

Posted on July 28, 2009 by Elbrecht

I never thought I would utter the following statement: “I was in Cincinnati this weekend… and I liked it.” I came to this conclusion while on the dance floor at Wade and Lindz’s wedding listening to The Black Eyed Peas “I Gotta Feeling.” It may not have been the most obvious thought, but at that instant, my 11 year disdain for the Queen City had come to a screeching halt.

Most of my ill-conceived repugnance for Cincinnati stemmed from my antagonistic approach to rooting against my college friends’ sports teams, namely the Cincinnati Reds and Bengals. A large portion of my college friends hail from Cincinnati and as a consequence, my unadulterated love for St. Louis sports teams created a stable base from which could be fostered a lasting friendship. I simply rooted for the Reds to lose to any and every other Major League team and watched as my die-hard Bengals fans/friends endured over a decade of horrific mediocrity.

Their pain and anguish of watching Akili Smith interceptions, Wily Mo Pena strike outs, and Chad OchoCinco’s slowly disapating touch down dances, made me happy. My joy stemmed from the fact that they could then retort with calling me a bandwagon Boston fan and pointing out the tragic deaths of Cardinals players. [Note: referencing the tragic death of a sports team’s player is only appropriate after enduring another 3-13 Bengals season.]

As a result, I came to view Cincinnati, the birthplace and/or home of Gib, Fat, Wade, Hern, Zelch, Hoj, Jdawg, Wade, Cole and a myriad of other respectable Cincinnatians, as a desolate wasteland of losing and misery. Even after spending a few joyful holidays and the summer after college graduation in Cincinnati, I still viewed it with disdain. It didn’t matter to me that so many of my friends called it home. Some of this disdain may have subconsciously stemmed from my own hatred for my boring hometown, Wichita, KS, but despite this self-awareness, I still considered Cincy to be another boring example of Midwest America.

When I moved to Boston in the summer of 2004, I felt as if I had been jolted alive and awakened from some sort of zombie-like slumber in which I feel most of the Midwest is entrenched. My return trips to Cincinnati were for the weddings of my friends, who had returned to Cincy after graduation to start their adult lives with jobs, to find lovely women with whom they could spend the rest of their days, and to start families. This is not what I had in mind. Even when I returned to Cincy to bear witness to these blessed events, I still couldn’t help but think of Cincinnati as a boring place to live, and while I didn’t begrudge the lives of my friends, I didn’t think that an existence in Cincinnati was for me.

So when I was getting my grove on to “I Gotta Feeling” and watching my friends and their wives dance around Wade and Lindz, imbibe alcohol with reckless abandon, and generally have an unbelievalbly happy time, I had another one of those jolts.

I looked out into the Cincinnati skyline from Paul Brown stadium and had my opinion of Cincinnati completely reversed. Maybe it was the heat of the moment and seeing the smiles and joy on the faces of people whom I love and respect, but when I woke up the next morning, it was still there. My opinion had changed and it was all seemingly because of The Black Eyed Peas. Indeed, I got a feeling.

Wade and Lindz are the second to last of my Cincinnati friends to get married. First it was Zelch and MJ right after college. Then Matt and Jo two years later. And then Jeremy and Tiff two years ago. Cole and Mary Lynn weren’t far behind. Gib and K-T tied the knot last fall and were followed quickly by Hoj and Kristin. And now Wade and Lindz. [Note: Hern and Coll are getting married in 3 months, but I’ll be studying medicine on an island and won’t be able to make it back.]

As several friends made the observation that they did not know when they would see me next, a stunning reality began to percolate in my brain and culminated in my “a-ha” moment on the dance floor.

No longer can I associate Cincinnati with losing and misery. No longer can I think of it as a boring example of Midwest life. No longer can I return once a year to see another friend get married and revel in old friendships renewed, starting up again where we had left off a year earlier, and eagerly looking forward to the next awesome occasion to celebrate.

Certainly, there will be more occasions to celebrate, as families are started and expanded upon, job promotions are achieved and companies are started, and maybe there will even be a Bengals Super Bowl party.

But I most likely won’t be there for those celebrations. I’ll be busy studying for a Pathology exam, reviewing flashcards on Psychopharmacology, or working late hours into the nite during clinical rotations or as a Resident. It would have been a comfortable excuse before that moment at Wade and Lindz wedding at Paul Brown stadium.

I might still have to use those excuses for some time as I begin the next portion of my life as a medical student, but I will truly miss those experiences. At that moment, Cincinnati was no longer the home of the Reds and the Bengals or a stifling example of the Midwest. It is the home of my friends, people with whom I created relationships with over a decade ago. So I can no longer use such a myopic view to cast opinions of Cincy. It is a bit disappointing in retrospect that I held such an idiotic and sophmoric opinion for such a long time, but it is definitely true: hindsight is 20/20.

Now I don’t have to “find a reason” to visit Cincinnati. Some of my best friends in the world are there. What other reason should I need?

I don’t have the opportunity to wait until another friend gets married. There won’t be a “Save the Date: Hoj’s Big Promotion Party 2011” coming in the mail. I won’t be getting a “Gib and K-T made their 1^stMillion Dance-Party Extravaganza” or “Fat and Jo’s Triumphant Cincinnati Return House Warming”. Those aren’t the type of things my friends are going to be sending invitations for. Those events will occur, but when you have a close group of friends like mine, who have grown up together, been each others best friends for the last 11 years or longer, and see each other fairly regularly, those events won’t need much pre-planning. They will just happen. And I probably won’t be there.

No, don’t be thinking all crazy and believe that I’m seriously considering moving to Cincinnati any time soon. That thought has not entered my mind. It is simply that my high-horse finally died and I can see my friends from Cincinnati for who they really are: a group of special people who happen to be fortunate enough to grow up together, involve other random people in their lives (thanks Gib!), and now have the wonderful opportunity to continue on into adulthood and parenthood as life-long friends.

I don’t think there are too many things more special than that. Except for maybe a Bengals Super Bowl victory. But I won’t be holding my breath on that one. Instead, I’ll make it a point to visit a great group of friends in the years to come, most of whom happen to live in Cincinnati.

Man & Machine

Posted on January 31, 2009 by Elbrecht

—–

The most difficult course I took as a college undergrad at Miami University was entitled “Robots and Humans.” It was a “senior capstone”; the purpose of “capstone” courses was to bring together several divergent subject matters in the realm of the major course of study of a student.

As a psychology major, the general idea of a capstone was to filter some idea through a psychological lens. “Robots and Humans” focused on the idea of technology, in the form of robots, and how psychology could understand the role of robots in human society and the potentiality of robots becoming human, or at the very least, human-like.

—–

The difficulty of this course was in the wide scope of subject matter that was included: mathematics, philosophy, electronics, neural networks, sociology, economics, etc. But the basic premise of the course was to examine the questions of “what does it mean to be human?” and “can we blur the line between humans and robots so that they are indistinguishable?”

At the time, it was some pretty heady stuff and it required me to do the required readings at least twice in every case in order to fully grasp the subject matter. Obviously, the question “what does it mean to be human?” is limitless, but as a class we were legitimately trying to derive an answer to that question through conversation, readings, and experimentation.

I don’t believe we ever really “answered” the question, but I have recently found myself analyzing recent losses in my life through this same lens.

—–

Over the course of the last weekend, I suffered two losses that were significant to my life. One was human [a cherished friend]. The other was a robot [my computer of nearly 4 years]. In some ways, the loss of both in the course of two days was quite poetic, as I had “known” both for almost the same amount of time.

These simultaneous losses allowed me to revisit the two major questions presented in “Robots and Humans” over the past week and to finally derive an answer to them.

The demise of my friend Broadway, as he was known to his friends in Cambridge, was a difficult, protracted, and confusing ordeal. The demise of my computer, a Dell Inspiron 2200, was a much shorter, but just as difficult and confusing ordeal.

—–

Broadway was a 71-year-old gentleman whom I knew through the program that brought me to Cambridge. He was beloved by all who knew him because of his self-less attitude, charm, and love of music. I met Broadway my first day in Cambridge and made it a point of visiting him routinely even after I moved to the other side of town.

We usually spoke about sports, particularly the local teams, but he also told me about his days as a younger man and the varied experiences he had lived. As I’ve written about before, I don’t have any grandparents, so to have this wizened perspective was quite fulfilling.

—–

Over the last 4.5 years, I had several enlightening experiences with Broadway, including a favorite where he and I caught the bus to the Asics factory store to find the best deals on high-quality athletic shoes [one of his specialties was finding the highest quality goods at the most affordable prices].

Inspiron 2200 arrived at my door nearly 8 months after I arrived in Cambridge, a replacement for my college laptop that had become too slow to run the latest programs and was too cumbersome to realistically take anywhere.

As a sleeker and faster model, it immediately improved my quality of on-line cabailities, software use, and mobility. It easily held all of the documents that had existed on my previous hard drive (I named one folder on it “old computer”), allowed me to effectively use the latest software necessary for work and play, and made me feel like I had purchased a new car in the level of care I gave it.

—–

These two entities filled my life with innumerable joy and greatly improved my quality of life. One was a cherished friend who helped me understand my place in the world and motivated me to pursue my calling of becoming a physician. The other was a cherished assistant with whom I entrusted my most private secrets and most public of desires.

Both succumbed to a mysterious illness.

Broadway had been a model of health for the 70+ crowd. A wiry former-athlete, he used to tell me how he was a master on the hardwood back in the day, used to do hundreds of crunches a day, and did his very best to avoid processed sugars. His body was confirmation of those boasts.

—–

When he began feeling a little ill seven months ago, I don’t think anyone who knew him felt that it was anything more than a cold. But he began sleeping more than usual. And his doctors’ visits concluded with more questions than answers.

Eventually, he had to leave his home to get more focused care in a rehabilitation hospital. The last time I saw him, he was a shell of the man I first met nearly 5 years ago. He was no longer the spry individual who would carry multiple gallons of milk several blocks to get some extra exercise or simply go out for a stroll to all corners of Cambridge. At this point, I was deeply concerned for his long-term welfare.

When he passed away last weekend, there still had been no determination as to what had begun the tortuous path to his demise.

—–

Death Becomes Us

—–

Inspiron 2200 had been more than serviceable over the past 4 years. We had spent countless hours together and performed innumerable tasks for both work and leisure. Of course there had been minor hiccups here and there, but it could always handle the updated software, the multitude of simultaneous tasks I asked it to perform, and the occasional ride in an un-padded backpack before I got it its own neoprene sleeve.

Then, about three weeks ago, after updating my music service provider, it began to show alarming signs of a downturn. The Internet began to run slow. Then it wouldn’t boot up in its normal fashion. A few days later I got the dreaded “Safe Mode” warning. I could see the writing on the wall when I tried to run virus software or perform a “system restore.”

—–

Inspiron 2200 was circling the drain; something had infected it terminally. I immediately transferred all of my pertinent documents and files onto a thumb drive and prepared for the worst.

When I awoke last Friday morning and tried to boot it up nothing happened. I powered it down and rebooted; again, nothing happened. Inspiron 2200 had flat-lined at 7AM that morning. I went to work knowing that Inspiron 2200 had performed its last task.

—–

It might seem misguided to compare the final moments of Broadway and Inspiron 2200, but as I mentioned earlier, their simultaneous demises have allowed me to once again consider the questions first posed in my “Robots and Humans” class seven years ago.

The difference between man and machine lies in the same difference that separates humans from almost every other animal on the planet: emotions. No matter the increased technology, the faster the processors, the more complicated programs, the more human-like exteriors, robots will not be able to express emotions.

—–

Some individuals who are on the cutting edge of robotic technology would probably disagree with that statement, but what they often neglect to consider is that humans themselves do not have a firm grasp on emotions. How could we instill emotions in a fabricated machine when we don’t even understand them?

In “Robots and Humans”, our professor made the argument that emotions could be boiled down to a simple software program, allowing for certain “emotional” responses dependent on the underlying circumstances. But the determination we made as a class was that emotions are so widely varied across individual experience and situation that no program could be written to encompass such possibilities.

—–

I believe those on the cutting edge of robotics would disagree with our assessment. However, the underlying issue at hand is that humans themselves do not truly understand what causes some to differ in their emotional responses to similar situations. Experiences are too widely varied, histories too complex, and beliefs too individualized to accurately make an algorithm that would depict emotional responses.

I didn’t think I would cry when the rabbi read the sermon for Broadway; I teared up when he made mention of his nickname and I remembered first meeting him as he carried a box of things into my new home.

When Inspiron 2200 couldn’t be booted up on a Friday morning, I didn’t think twice about it, except that I’d have to check my e-mail at work.

I thought it would be uncomfortable to toss a shovel of dirt on top of the casket at Broadway’s burial site. Instead, I simply thrust the shovel into the mound of dirt and reflexively deposited it on top of the casket.

When I comfortably placed Inspiron 2200 in its leather carrying case and shipped it off on Saturday to be used for spare parts, I thought it was a fitting end.

—–

—-

The essential difference between man and machine is embodied in the comparison between Broadway and Inspiron 2200. There were no emotions involved in the demise of Inspiron 2200. I had certainly spent countless more hours with it than Broadway over the last 4 years, but it had not provided me with anything that my next computer will not.

Broadway provided me with a relationship that words can not fully express.

—–

The day a robot provides a human with the same relationship as another human we should all be worried. It will not be due to our ability to create a technology thatidentical and indistinguishable from humanity. Rather, it will be due to the fact that humans have devolved emotionally to the point of being indistinguishable from a computer program.

I Joined the Army

Posted on December 27, 2008 by Elbrecht

I never thought I would join the army, but on Christmas Day, I decided to enlist. It has always been a passion of mine to serve others through hard work and volunteerism, just like millions of American men before me.

Thankfully though, the army with which I decided to enlist is not currently deployed to Iraq. Instead, I decided to suit up and become a part of The Salvation Army… if only for a day.

Most people don’t realize that The Salvation Army is actually a religious organization with strict doctrine. So strict that you can not marry outside of the Army if you are an officer, even if your spouse dies. Imagine if the US Army didn’t allow you to marry outside of the Army… forget “Don’t ask, don’t tell”… we’re talking full-fledged legalization of gay marriage. But I digress…

My brother, father, and I decided to partake in some volunteerism on Christmas morning/day rather than sitting around my father’s dining room table, eating cereal in our boxer shorts and watching cartoons. We were hoping that our experience at The Salvation Army in Wichita would far exceed that sort of fun. So rather than that sort of excitement, we woke up early on Christmas morning and headed over to The Army’s west Wichita headquarters, suited up in Salvation Army aprons, threw on some disposable latex gloves, and joined the other early morning enlistees.

In any good army, there is a slightly psychotic drill sergeant to whip the enlistees into shape and turn them into model soldiers. Our drill sergeant was “Debbie”, a 40-something woman dressed in jeans that were too tight, a blue Hawaiian shirt, and sporting a set of black sunglasses that were perched on her dirty blond hair. She was whipping soldiers into shape when we arrived at 9:30AM; she was also definitely “on” a cocktail of some psychotropic medication and caffeine, despite the early hour.

When we first arrived, tables still needed to be set, bread put into baskets, cranberry sauce removed from the hermetically sealed containers and sloshed into a giant serving bowl, and individual serving size butters put into bowls on the tables.

There were around 30 other volunteers when we arrived. It was seemingly a mix of social outcasts, families torturing their teenage children with volunteer service, old couples whose extended family did not want to spend Christmas with them, and us. We quickly went to work completing the tasks assigned by Debbie as she stormed around the spacious dining room wide-eyed and highly caffeinated.

She would occasionally flip her sunglasses down from her hair to her face while responding to a question with “You don’t wanna ask me that… you really don’t!”

In the kitchen, there were four guys preparing the feast; I later learned that they had been there since 4AM. Huge tubs of mashed potatoes, green beans, and stuffing were percolating on the executive-size stoves. Turkey slices were warming in aluminum cookware while the sweet potatoes were being prepared on a side table. It was only 10AM, but my stomach was craving a monstrous heaping of Christmas dinner.

By 10:15, the dining room preparation had been completed, my father was exhausted from scooping out bowls of cranberry sauce, and Debbie had finished two 20 ounce bottles of Diet Coke. More volunteers had arrived and were making small talk while awaiting the people who would be coming to our locale for a great Christmas dinner.

I chatted up one of the kitchen volunteers while he was taking a break and he relayed to me some of the more important and tedious jobs that would need to be completed. While standing in the window between the dining room and kitchen, he told me that he would need a few guys to be at the window at all times to be ready to dispense the clean dishes as they came out of the wash. I decided this would be the perfect job for my dad, brother, and I.

I called them over and we marked our territory by simply ordering around the other volunteers who approached the window with naive curiosity. As described by my new kitchen friend, our job would entail unloading the clean dishes and silverware from the dish rack in lightning quick fashion, transporting them to their appropriate place in the dining room, and walking the dish rack ten feet over to the poor schlubs who were scrapping the dirty plates of any remaining food particles.

In my mind, it was a job suitable to one person, two at the most, but I figured we had come as a family entity and should just stick together (otherwise, my dad was likely to disappear and leave my brother and I volunteering to our hearts content). I quickly decided to refer to our positions at the kitchen window as a “union job”: one man to do the work, a second man to supervise the first man’s work, and a third man to go on break.

The dinner was scheduled to begin at 11AM, and as the hour neared, Debbie called everyone’s attention to the front of the dining room through the use of a microphone. She introduced a short, balding man with grey-fogged glasses and white hair crazily out of place where it remained on his head.

He introduced himself as a member of The Salvation Army and the man in charge of the day’s event. He quickly launched into a quick description of the impending event that went something like this:

“We really appreciate you all coming today. Without you volunteers we wouldn’t be able to serve these people. Remember, these are people too. They are just like you and me, they are people too. They might look a little different, but they are people. Please do not touch them. Many of them do not like that. They might be confused when you touch them. But you can talk to them. And bring them food. Be nice to them, we should show them love, because some of these people have nothing. If we do that, they will appreciate it.”

I quickly glanced over to my brother and asked, “Who the hell are we serving? Convicts?” It wasn’t until that time that I had really considered who would be attending this event, but I had originally assumed that it would be individuals from group homes, potentially homeless individuals, and families who could not afford a nice meal on this blessed day. From the description provided by Salvation Sal, I was half expecting them to wheel in cages that contained half man, half werewolf hybrids who would be frothing at the mouth. Either that or convicts wearing ankle bracelets.

When Salvation Sal completed his stirring speech, Debbie piped in and explained what the ever increasing multitude of volunteers should be doing from 11AM to 1PM while dinner was being served. Luckily, I had already secured our union job at the kitchen window and I tuned out her crazy-eyed instructions.

When she finished instructing the other volunteers, she strolled by our position and stopped to look at the three of us. She asked, “What are you gentlemen doing today? You just gonna stand there and look pretty?” My dad quickly piped in, “Yes ma’am, we found ourselves a union gig, and we’re just gonna stand here.”

Apparently, my father had decided to get into the Christmas spirit and feed into Debbie’s now completely evident psychosis. She gave us a crazy smile and flipped her sunglasses down to cover her eyes as she walked away. She returned moments later with a large glass bowl full of ice and four cans of Diet Coke. She looked at the three of us through her sunglasses and said, “Guard these with your life.”

When the guests arrived, it was clear that Salvation Sal must have been scarred by some past Christmas Day fiasco. The individuals were just as I had expected, not the newly released were-beasts that his description had made me envision.

Other volunteers took the guests’ orders, brought them food, talked to them and made them feel welcome, and cleaned their placemats when they were finished. This cycle of life continued for the next two hours as even more volunteers arrived, seemingly only to make an appearance after having played a rousing round of Wii tennis on their newly acquired gaming system.

These stragglers mostly stayed off to the side and watched the other volunteers do their thing. Our union job provided some action every 5 minutes or so as clean dishes would be brought to the window and we would unload it contents in under 5 seconds and then hand the dish-rack to a guy who was dressed like he might be the lead singer of Wichita’s newest 30-something boy band.

During the lull between freshly cleaned cutlery and dishware, the three of us kept ourselves entertained with jokes about union jobs. We were eventually joined by a young boy, approximately 10 years old, whom I nicknamed Huck Finn and who must have determined we were the coolest group in the entire room. He tried to be a fast learner, but repeatedly burned himself with the piping hot silverware because he grabbed them right out of the rack, instead of emptying them into the silverware bin. Of course, in line with our sophomoric humor of the day, we kindly made fun of him for it.

As 1:30 neared, we each took turns grabbing a plate of food and satisfying the hunger pangs that had been emanating from our bellies for the last several hours. Thankfully, it tasted even better than I had imagined. Over the course of the four hours we volunteered that day, my father, brother, and I shared many laughs, performed a serviceable duty to one of our nation’s finest armies, and made fun of a pre-teen who thought we were cool.

In the end, it was as fulfilling as I had imagined, but the added bonus of interacting with Salvation Sal, Debbie, and Huck Finn made it a Christmas adventure that I will not soon forget. I might even consider enlisting again next year.