Leave the gun take the cannoli (9)

I was walking down Ludlow Street on Sunday evening, enjoying the rain when a bat gently touched down on my blouse.  It stared at me like a jealous woman and flew off in a huff.  I was relieved, because now I had story to tell my buddies at our monthly movie night at Rivington House, an AIDS specific health cared residence on the Lower East Side of New York City.

My buddies, are the patients, or as I prefer to call them, clients of Rivington House.  Although the median age her is 48, they act like kindergarten kids trying to get the teacher’s attention at the  clack of my stilettos echoing through the lobby. 

“Where were you?  I thought you weren’t coming” calls a gray-haired client from across the room.  As usual, I am an hour early.  The movie isn’t scheduled til 7, but my buddies are  in desperate  need of conversation.  Of course, they get visitors, but the nature of their illness and ambiance of a residence makes some guests feel awkward.   My bat anecdote is just the thing I need to break the ice.

“Girl, you are so batty!  It probably thought you were its mother!” quips a curly haired buddy as he turns his wheelchair in a circle for emphasis.  Ten minutes of puns and bat jokes ensued.  As each of my volunteers arrived, a different buddy retold my story, adding their own commentary on what I must have looked like, or what the bat was thinking.  Getting the clients to laugh is the most important part of the night.   It doesn’t really matter to the residents what I show, as long as they can talk about it later.  I usually  show a comedy and plan a theme for the evening.  When the movie “Wedding Crashers” came out, I got permission to bring in some finger food and a fancy, white sheet cake.  I asked my volunteers to dress as if they were going t a reception.  We toasted my ability to put batteries in the remote control with ginger ale.  When the movie was over we entertained ourselves for a few hours, by reminiscing about the best and worst weddings we’d ever attended.  All the women had stories about ugly bridesmaid dresses.  The men  tried to recall the dumbest joke they’d ever heard about nuptials.

Inevitably, I get a new volunteer every month who is clueless about how to treat a buddy.  They mean well but they treat the clients like babies, or agreed with everything they say.  They are always surprised at the way my buddies  crack jokes  and debate over silly things, like who was the best James Bond.  Most people assume that volunteering with AIDS  patients is depressing and draining, but to me, it’s a party.       

This entry was posted on Friday, August 24th, 2007 at 10:58 am and is filed under the disenfranchised. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.