ArchivedLogs:Talking Eels

Talking Eels
Dramatis Personae Rasheed, Melinda	2012-12-07 Volunteering is for the fishes!
Location <NYC> Harlem
In an empty lot between brick buildings, the Helping Hands Homeless Coalition has set up a small drop off point for people in need. A small group of volunteers hands out blankets and coats while a couple others fill coffee cups and soup bowls. It's a roaming set up, temporary at most, with a flyer being passed around for where they will be next week. Melinda mans the soup kettle, spooning portions while wrapped in a heavy sweater with mittens. Her long hair is pulled back messily at the back of her neck and mostly covered by a stocking cap around her mellon. She looks up and smiles at each person that comes to receive a little warmth, but there's a brief moment of hesitation in her expression as she quickly studies each individual before handing over a bowl. Rasheed has a coffee cup in his hands already as he approaches -- not one from the volunteers, it bears the distinctive Starbucks logo. His neat dress shirt and slacks, polished shoes, warm black coat, probably do not suggest a great /need/ for the Coalition's services, but he approaches anyway, with a thoughtful look. He does not immediately barge into line, but hangs back as people shuffle forward to get their food and warm-weather gear. Only during a brief lull in activity does he finally step in, offering a polite smile to the volunteers. "Could I take a /few/ of those?" He is nodding towards the flyers. Despite saying few he is holding fingers up, forefinger and thumb held far enough apart to indicate a small stack. Melinda responds first, due to her proximity to Rasheed, but not in a very helpful way at first. She looks at him blankly as she proffers a bowl of steaming liquid and seems momentarily confused when he doesn't take it. She sets it on the table a second later and smiles awkwardly before fumbling with her free hands at a stack of flyers. "Oh. Sure. We always appreciate help spreading the word -- but do you mind if I ask why?" Her mittens limit her from obtaining a reasonable stack quickly, but she does present one without too much difficulty. Rasheed looks back at the bowl just as blankly as Melinda looks at him. "Flyers," he says again, simply. "I already have lunch." He lifts his cup of coffee in indication. For a somewhat awkward moment he ignores the stack of flyers presented to him in favor of answering the question. "I have a lot of homeless people." He lifts his coffee for a long sip, and /then/ reaches for the flyers, examining them before tucking them into an inside flap of his jacket. "Are you here a lot?" "You have them?" Melinda blinks rapidly, eyes wide with curiosity. "Um. No. Sometimes. It's a decent place, has a good amount of space and it's fairly easy to get a permit, but we try to spread out into new places from time to time, just to get the word out. Why do you have them?" Unable to let the phrase go, leans a little bit forward. "Where do you have them? Is that... okay?" "No, I don't think so. If things are okay, they don't generally come to us," Rasheed answers. His brow furrows at Melinda's sudden curiosity, seemingly oblivious to the awkwardness of his phrasing. "I have them at my clinic." He points -- off to the west, somewhere, though unhelpfully the first immediate building in that direction is a Starbucks. Probably the one that gave him his coffee. "They're often hungry. Soon they'll often be cold. How often do you do this?" "The soup kitchen is open every night. The address is on the bottom. The roaming warmth patrol picks up as the temperatures drop, Friday and Saturday, while supplies last, trying to drum up awareness for the kitchen slash pantry." Melinda drops easily into a polished tone, explanations flowing without hesitation from her lips. "You have a clinic. OH! Hey, that's great. Do you have a card? What kind of clinic? Maybe we could work out some sort of referral system." "Warmth patrol. That's great. We see so many people who could have avoided coming to us with a better jacket or blankets." Rasheed listens to Melinda as he takes another long pull from his drink, stepping to one side as a young woman comes up behind him in /actual/ search for soup. He continues talking even as she stands to get her food. "Card. Yes. I do. The clinic in sliding-scale for those who can pay, free for those who can't. We offer a lot of services. We have walk-ins for needle exchange and STD testing on Tuesdays and Thursdays, or they can make an appointment to see a clinician or counselor. On Fridays there are social workers available to help with referrals to other services." Rasheed is reaching, now, into his coat to extract a business card, holding it out to Melinda. Common Ground Clinic, it says on one side, with the web address and contact information; smaller, on the other, Rasheed Toure, M.D., Medical Director, with his contact information as well. Melinda continues serving, gesturing Rasheed out of the way when her hands are free, allowing him a little more behind the table instead of in front of it. She holds on to the card until she has a free moment again and reads it thoroughly. "Oh, How do you say your last name? Is the 'e' silent?" She smiles at him, patient and attentive. "No, the e is very proud," Rasheed answers, briefly smiling. "Tour-ay. Like an eel. With less biting." He scoots around, sidestepping to be halfway behind the table and, at least, out of the way of those genuinely seeking their meal. "And you are --?" His eyebrows raise on the question. "Are you in need of volunteers? I tend to come by a lot of people, too, who want to get involved on the /other/ side of services. The work we have for them in a clinic capacity is limited, but people often want to help." "You're also very much less slack jawed than an eel, but you probably get that a lot." Mel slips the business card into her pocket and puts her ladle to good use again. "We're always in need of volunteers," She smiles over a shoulder at him as she speaks. "We always seem to have more enough homeless people to work with. We never really have enough people to really help. I mean, look at me. I'm just handing out soup. Am I talking to these people? Am I finding out why they are on the streets? I can't even figure out if soup will help them get through the night. More volunteers would mean more people talking and helping and... that would be wonderful." She pauses. "Oh, Sorry. I keep going on and on. I'm Melinda. Mel, if you want something shorter." "Melinda is fine. And that's actually the first time someone has said that to me," Rasheed informs Melinda quite seriously. He opens his jaw slightly, working it from side to side with -- what would /probably/ be an expression of deep thought, were it not rendered somewhat more ridiculous by his jaw-waggling. "I haven't actually paid much attention to eels. Past their names. Next time I meet some, I'll send them your way." "Eels? Really? Why? What would I do with eels - especially the moray? I don't really think they'd cook up well and people are generally averse to having them in the pot to start." Melinda's nose wrinkles up, a bit taken back. "Some people actually get paranoid out here and think we might be trying to poison them. Saying that it's eel wouldn't be very reassuring." "What?" Rasheed's eyes widen in mild confusion, and he eyes the pot of soup uncertainly. "I don't have any eels," he tells Melinda, head shaking. "Although in some places they're a delicacy. It might be expensive to serve at a soup kitchen, though. I suppose someone might donate some." "You said you'd send them my way if you met them." Mel pauses for a moment and scrapes the bottom of the pot to serve up a last bowl of soup. "I'm sorry. For some reason, I thought you were still talking about eels." Her eyes glance at the other pot and the other server before turning her full attention to Rasheed. "Oh! Eels." Rasheed looks, still, at the pot, leaning in slightly to eye its bottom as the last of the soup is dished out. "No, I don't -- uh. I don't actually encounter many of those by the clinic. Maybe if we took on a veterinarian as well. I meant volunteers," he offers, with a mild trace of apology. "Do you accept eels as volunteers?" "Oh. Well, it might be speciesist of me to say, but I think we prefer our volunteers with a good grasp on a human language and possibly with arms and legs to carry things -- and as most of our homeless are not underwater, an eel might be rather useless, all things considered." Melinda looks sheepish, apologetic, as she tries to decline the offer. "But if you find someone with the aforementioned qualifications, we'd be happy to take them!" She steps away and waves to the person in the back with a clipboard. He waves Melinda off and she turns back to Rasheed. "Did you want to be introduced to our supervisor? I've been dismissed for the night, but I can definitely make an introduction before I go." "I've met a few who were underwater," Rasheed answers thoughtfully, "but not most. That is true. So I should find talking eels? With limbs? That might be tricky." His brow furrows slightly, but then he offers Melinda a quick smile. "Oh, yes. That would be useful. It's always helpful to make connections." "I guess?" Melinda laughs and turns toward clipboard man, waiting for Rasheed to follow before she begins speaking again. "Paul? This is Dr. Toure. He works at a clinic nearby that helps the homeless and wanted to network with us." Paul looks up when Mel and her companion approaches, accepting the proffered business card from the former. He looks down at it, but his expression is a little harried, stressed with the evening's activities. "Oh, Doctor. It's good to meet you." The young man's voice is a little hollow with weariness. "And you." Rasheed looks from Melinda to Paul, offering a hand out for a shake as Melinda offers the business card. "Likewise. I won't take your time." Even if he already is. "Our clinic offers many services your clientele might find useful. If we can ever be of assistance, don't hesitate to get in touch." "Oh, definitely. Okay. I will pass this along and let the rest of the organization know." Paul shakes Rasheed's hand and is friendly, but very relieved when the doctor declines much conversation. He nods to the pair before going over to inspect the dwindling supply of coats and blankets. Melinda turns back to him and gives him a smile. "Well, maybe I'll see you around, you know, when you find the talking eels." "Or some human volunteers," Rasheed says, with a return of the smile. "I'm sure. Keep up the good warmth." He tucks one hand into a coat pocket, his other lifting to sip at his coffee. He doesn't say goodbye; maybe he /forgets/. Just turns and goes, pulling his coat snug around himself.