concert?”
The leader freezes, temporarily stymied. But then a small light bulb goes off behind his slightly stoned eyes and he presses on. “Totally. One hundred percent. This… is an homage. To all those great benefit concerts that came before us. But what makes ours unique is… this concert will not only raise money for the victims of the storm… it will also raise aware ness. To prevent future disasters like this one.”
Again, most of the group nods and mumbles its approval. But this time a guy with a wispy blond beard puts down his devil sticks and balks. “Wait, Rory—I don’t mean to kill the buzz, but… how can you prevent future hurricanes?”
Rory quickly loses his easygoing vibe, and lashes out. “By flippin’ reducing your carbon footprint, Josh! And ending global warming! That’s how! Like, just take two seconds to think before you slam someone’s vision, bra!”
This group will be zero competition. Even if they manage to not be stoned the entire time, infighting will surely tear them apart. Based on my experience with the HOBY Leadership program, groups larger than three don’t tend to work in these situations. (Have you seen Vegas Week on “American Idol?” The smaller groups always do better!) And these eventual-granola farmers number almost a dozen. But maybe a little gas on the flames will help crush this team for good and send them back to the Ultimate Frisbee Tournament from whence they came.
“Hey, guys,” I butt in. “Pretty big group. Are you all on one team, or…?”
“Yeah,” Rory says proudly. “We’re the Grateful Ten .”
“The Grateful Ten. Okay. So you’re like… also a band?”
“No, we’re not a band! Jeez! Why does everyone think we’re a band?”
“Sorry, it… sounds like a tribute band or something,” I offer, but Rory isn’t amused.
“Tribute bands are the lowest form of entertainment. We’re a co-op. A group of like-minded students from the local public school trying to make a positive impact on our community, our country, and our planet.”
“Right on,” I say (trying not to ooze too much sarcasm) and turn back to the This Old House booth, confident that dissension within the Grateful Ten is nigh.
“Ya know, Rors,” I hear one of the uber-crunchy girls say, “it’s that kind of attitude that makes people not want to be part of our group.”
“Good!” Rory says indignantly. “We can’t take newbies anyway. It’d ruin our numbers and force us to change our name.”
“Unless we kick someone out,” the dreadlock girl adds.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Like seriously, do you even want to be in this group? Gah!”
Before I can overhear the imminent demise of the Grateful Ten, the team in front of us finishes up, making Mac and I first in line at our booth.
“Hey,” a peppy Anna Kendrick-type chirps at us. “I’m Lauren Hodges. What’s your name?”
“James MacKenzie. And this is Robert Clinton, III.”
I have no idea why we’re giving such formal introductions, but I roll with it and give a polite nod.
“You guys wanna board up some windows with us? It’s super fun!”
“I’m super excited,” I say ironically.
“Me too!” Mac says, without the slightest bit of irony. “This is awesome!”
When he high fives Lauren, I know I’m in for a fabulous day.
§
“Robert, hand me that box of nails, would ya?” Mac hasn’t stopped smiling since we started working two hours ago. We’re in a decaying neighborhood across from a sad little strip mall that looks as if no one has shopped there since before anyone had heard of Kim Kardashian. (Oh, how I wish we still hadn’t heard of her!) We’ve been going from house to house boarding up windows, though I honestly think half these homes are unoccupied or abandoned. But who am I to question the wisdom of a booth organized by over-zealous teenage volunteers?
Instead of handing Mac the box of nails, I sit down on the porch steps and say, “We’ve been working
The leader freezes, temporarily stymied. But then a small light bulb goes off behind his slightly stoned eyes and he presses on. “Totally. One hundred percent. This… is an homage. To all those great benefit concerts that came before us. But what makes ours unique is… this concert will not only raise money for the victims of the storm… it will also raise aware ness. To prevent future disasters like this one.”
Again, most of the group nods and mumbles its approval. But this time a guy with a wispy blond beard puts down his devil sticks and balks. “Wait, Rory—I don’t mean to kill the buzz, but… how can you prevent future hurricanes?”
Rory quickly loses his easygoing vibe, and lashes out. “By flippin’ reducing your carbon footprint, Josh! And ending global warming! That’s how! Like, just take two seconds to think before you slam someone’s vision, bra!”
This group will be zero competition. Even if they manage to not be stoned the entire time, infighting will surely tear them apart. Based on my experience with the HOBY Leadership program, groups larger than three don’t tend to work in these situations. (Have you seen Vegas Week on “American Idol?” The smaller groups always do better!) And these eventual-granola farmers number almost a dozen. But maybe a little gas on the flames will help crush this team for good and send them back to the Ultimate Frisbee Tournament from whence they came.
“Hey, guys,” I butt in. “Pretty big group. Are you all on one team, or…?”
“Yeah,” Rory says proudly. “We’re the Grateful Ten .”
“The Grateful Ten. Okay. So you’re like… also a band?”
“No, we’re not a band! Jeez! Why does everyone think we’re a band?”
“Sorry, it… sounds like a tribute band or something,” I offer, but Rory isn’t amused.
“Tribute bands are the lowest form of entertainment. We’re a co-op. A group of like-minded students from the local public school trying to make a positive impact on our community, our country, and our planet.”
“Right on,” I say (trying not to ooze too much sarcasm) and turn back to the This Old House booth, confident that dissension within the Grateful Ten is nigh.
“Ya know, Rors,” I hear one of the uber-crunchy girls say, “it’s that kind of attitude that makes people not want to be part of our group.”
“Good!” Rory says indignantly. “We can’t take newbies anyway. It’d ruin our numbers and force us to change our name.”
“Unless we kick someone out,” the dreadlock girl adds.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Like seriously, do you even want to be in this group? Gah!”
Before I can overhear the imminent demise of the Grateful Ten, the team in front of us finishes up, making Mac and I first in line at our booth.
“Hey,” a peppy Anna Kendrick-type chirps at us. “I’m Lauren Hodges. What’s your name?”
“James MacKenzie. And this is Robert Clinton, III.”
I have no idea why we’re giving such formal introductions, but I roll with it and give a polite nod.
“You guys wanna board up some windows with us? It’s super fun!”
“I’m super excited,” I say ironically.
“Me too!” Mac says, without the slightest bit of irony. “This is awesome!”
When he high fives Lauren, I know I’m in for a fabulous day.
§
“Robert, hand me that box of nails, would ya?” Mac hasn’t stopped smiling since we started working two hours ago. We’re in a decaying neighborhood across from a sad little strip mall that looks as if no one has shopped there since before anyone had heard of Kim Kardashian. (Oh, how I wish we still hadn’t heard of her!) We’ve been going from house to house boarding up windows, though I honestly think half these homes are unoccupied or abandoned. But who am I to question the wisdom of a booth organized by over-zealous teenage volunteers?
Instead of handing Mac the box of nails, I sit down on the porch steps and say, “We’ve been working
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