Bottom Dollar

Schlotty, my Habitat Co-Honcho, and I always bemoan the fact we table in the Union too much. One week it's volunteer recruitment for the CSC, then it's ending poverty, or supporting Peace, and of course, raising money. But it comes with the territory and yesterday, our duties called us to table for Habitat.

And there I was, selling donated CDs for a buck, and Habitat t-shirts for ten dollars (eight for short sleeves), and giving away depressing stickers in the Union. When I table in the Union, I do not sit back and catch up on readings. I hawk. I call out your name. I schmooze. Because what's at stake is important. There was stiff competition yesterday- a table for homecoming registration, selling homecoming t-shirts, a couple of teams selling their own shirts, Sustainable giving out free light bulbs, an outside vendor selling expensive hats, scarves, edgy shirts, and the like. And the rich homecoming crowd we were counting on never materialized. But the challenges also made it fun, like pushing CDs with 'not for sale' stickers on them by artists you've never heard of (my proudest one: having Matt excited over the 'original' English Asian dance fusion group), or telling tour groups that it'd be easier to get into Bowdoin if they just buy my merch, or the sense of that double win when folks don't buy CDs, but drop a couple of dollars into the jar. Or stifling my laughter as I chatted up this old alum whose breath reeked of alcohol though it was only just past noon.

The afternoon was wrought with frustrations, the hardest perhaps being having to pretend I wasn't frustrated, but enjoyed yelling "Dollar CDs?" at whoever passed by. I refrained the mantra so many times that I had half a dozen kids say back at me, smiling, "It's just a dollar," repeating the line in a tone they'd already heard ring throughout the Union.

All afternoon, I met random assorts of people, many of whom acted as if they knew me, and who I chatted with, pretending to remember who they were. It was hard to be friendly for so long. Like when one girl stopped by to peruse through CDs, telling me she was tired from three hours of dance this morning (no classes), and so was taking a two hour break, before heading off for yoga, which, though physically demanding, she found very relaxing. I nodded along with her, and echoed that yeah, it really sucked that she hadn't had lunch until now, all the while keeping my hands behind my back, knowing that if my fists edged just a little past my side, I would not be able to restrain them and I'd find my fingers tightly clenched around her neck, explaining to her that I'd had two morning classes, a hurried lunch, so I could table in the Union, and what awaited me after all this was not a nap, but Anal Chem homework. But still that wasn't my lowest point. That, was when Bobs appeared with Anthony, wearing the exact same outfit as me. Bear Aids t-shirt. Fleece. Jeans. Sneakers. You don't need great minds to think alike.

After the two and a half hour stint, however, I got the thrill of counting the money. Schlotty and I, in our total of five hours, had wringed out $164 from campus. A small amount, yes, but a miracle considering the gross absence of money-wielding alums, and that most Bo' kids don't even carry cash. In fact, that exceeded what we had made earlier, in 12 days of tabling in the Union. And really, what's the purpose of all this awareness spreading and money raising and habitat building if not for the simple satisfaction of having a huge wad of cash at hand?