people belonged here, but not my family. And not me.
As if Aubrey sensed what I was feeling, he tried to lighten the mood by making jokes. The dining tent was the “Grand Ballroom,” empty campsites were “deluxe building lots,” and the washing facilities and row of tall blue portapotties were the “International Spa.”
“And here are the meadows.” Aubrey led us around the portapotties to a plot of bare ground, weeds, and brush. “When I gave your parents the tour this afternoon, your mom thought this would be a good place for a garden, which would be a huge step toward making Dignityville self-sustaining.” He put his hand on my shoulder and led us back. “There’s a company that might donate some used solar cells. They’re not as efficient as newer models, but they’d do. We might even go with a small wind turbine. Imagine Dignityvilles all over the country, Dan. Self-contained, self-sustainable eco-villageswhere people who’ve lost their homes will feel welcome and good about themselves. Like pioneers in the new world.”
“I thought Dignityville was supposed to be temporary,” I said.
Aubrey gave me an appraising look. “You follow the news, Dan?”
“A little.”
“So maybe you’ve heard that conditions around the country are getting a little better? But unemployment’s still high. People are still losing their homes. Towns and cities are having a really tough time. Believe me, Dan, nothing would make me happier than seeing everyone get a job and be able to afford a place to live, but in the meantime shouldn’t we be preparing for the possibility that it might not happen? You can think of Dignityville as temporary if you want, but I wouldn’t be surprised if twenty years from now it’s still here.”
I understood that he was trying to spin it in a positive way. Maybe he believed what he was saying, but I didn’t. To me Dignityville wasn’t the future. It was a bunch of tents and portapotties for unlucky people who’d otherwise be sleeping in doorways and old cars. My family may have fallen on hard times, but we weren’t like these other folks. I couldn’t say it to Aubrey, but we just didn’t belong here.
By now the Grand Ballroom was crowded with people eating on plastic plates. A humming generator in the background provided electricity for the lights. The air smelled of diesel exhaust.
“Hungry?” Aubrey asked.
It was dinnertime and I should have been, had my stomach not been knotted anxiously at the prospect of moving here.
“Come on, take a look.” Aubrey pulled back the clear plastic sheets that formed the walls of the dining tent. “Any different from lunchtime in the cafeteria?”
It was, but maybe not as much as I might have imagined.
“Let’s give it a try,” Dad said.
I didn’t want to, but couldn’t figure out how to say so without sounding like a brat. We got in line. It was strangely quiet inside the tent. A few low conversations took place here and there, but mostly people were focused on eating. On the other side of the serving table a couple of volunteers in white serving aprons were ladling out . . . chili.
I hardly ate, not because I knew what had gone into making that chili, but because I had zero appetite. I kept telling myself this couldn’t be happening. My parents couldn’t really be serious about moving to Dignityville. We weren’t these people. We were supposed to be the ones volunteering to help them .
* * *
By the time we got into the car to go back to Uncle Ron’s, I’d begun to prepare my arguments. But Mom had prepared hers as well: “I know you don’t want to do this, sweetheart, but I feel very strongly about it. It won’t be easy, but I truly believe it’s the best thing we can do as a family. There’s a positive energy there, and we can be part of it.”
I said exactly what was on my mind. “If we go there, everyone’s going to think we’re homeless.”
In the front seat, Dad and Mom glanced at each other.
As if Aubrey sensed what I was feeling, he tried to lighten the mood by making jokes. The dining tent was the “Grand Ballroom,” empty campsites were “deluxe building lots,” and the washing facilities and row of tall blue portapotties were the “International Spa.”
“And here are the meadows.” Aubrey led us around the portapotties to a plot of bare ground, weeds, and brush. “When I gave your parents the tour this afternoon, your mom thought this would be a good place for a garden, which would be a huge step toward making Dignityville self-sustaining.” He put his hand on my shoulder and led us back. “There’s a company that might donate some used solar cells. They’re not as efficient as newer models, but they’d do. We might even go with a small wind turbine. Imagine Dignityvilles all over the country, Dan. Self-contained, self-sustainable eco-villageswhere people who’ve lost their homes will feel welcome and good about themselves. Like pioneers in the new world.”
“I thought Dignityville was supposed to be temporary,” I said.
Aubrey gave me an appraising look. “You follow the news, Dan?”
“A little.”
“So maybe you’ve heard that conditions around the country are getting a little better? But unemployment’s still high. People are still losing their homes. Towns and cities are having a really tough time. Believe me, Dan, nothing would make me happier than seeing everyone get a job and be able to afford a place to live, but in the meantime shouldn’t we be preparing for the possibility that it might not happen? You can think of Dignityville as temporary if you want, but I wouldn’t be surprised if twenty years from now it’s still here.”
I understood that he was trying to spin it in a positive way. Maybe he believed what he was saying, but I didn’t. To me Dignityville wasn’t the future. It was a bunch of tents and portapotties for unlucky people who’d otherwise be sleeping in doorways and old cars. My family may have fallen on hard times, but we weren’t like these other folks. I couldn’t say it to Aubrey, but we just didn’t belong here.
By now the Grand Ballroom was crowded with people eating on plastic plates. A humming generator in the background provided electricity for the lights. The air smelled of diesel exhaust.
“Hungry?” Aubrey asked.
It was dinnertime and I should have been, had my stomach not been knotted anxiously at the prospect of moving here.
“Come on, take a look.” Aubrey pulled back the clear plastic sheets that formed the walls of the dining tent. “Any different from lunchtime in the cafeteria?”
It was, but maybe not as much as I might have imagined.
“Let’s give it a try,” Dad said.
I didn’t want to, but couldn’t figure out how to say so without sounding like a brat. We got in line. It was strangely quiet inside the tent. A few low conversations took place here and there, but mostly people were focused on eating. On the other side of the serving table a couple of volunteers in white serving aprons were ladling out . . . chili.
I hardly ate, not because I knew what had gone into making that chili, but because I had zero appetite. I kept telling myself this couldn’t be happening. My parents couldn’t really be serious about moving to Dignityville. We weren’t these people. We were supposed to be the ones volunteering to help them .
* * *
By the time we got into the car to go back to Uncle Ron’s, I’d begun to prepare my arguments. But Mom had prepared hers as well: “I know you don’t want to do this, sweetheart, but I feel very strongly about it. It won’t be easy, but I truly believe it’s the best thing we can do as a family. There’s a positive energy there, and we can be part of it.”
I said exactly what was on my mind. “If we go there, everyone’s going to think we’re homeless.”
In the front seat, Dad and Mom glanced at each other.
Similar Books
