Sarah’s Community Service

Writer's Cramp Contest Entry - Aug 31, 2011

Sarah’s Community Service

         Sarah laid her backpack on a bench in the backroom of the Thistle Thrift Shop. “Community Service," that’s what the judge called it. More like “Community Torture,” Sarah thought. 80 hours down and 20 to go. Twenty hours was 1200 minutes—which somehow seemed grimmer and helped Sarah feel sorry for herself.

         6000 minutes of Community Service—all because she happened to be at her cousin’s stupid party. The party was fun until the cops showed up to check on a loud music complaint. Then came the underage drinking busts, parental wrath, the embarrassing news reports, and finally, a court date. Sarah got off pretty easy, really—if she didn’t count being grounded until she was 30. She and several other teenage party-goers were ordered to perform Community Service. Sarah’s court-appointed counselor recommended the Thistle Thrift Shop.

         The Thistle Thrift Shop was run by Mrs. B. and a staff of volunteers, most of them sweet, spectacle-wearing old ladies. All of the shop’s proceeds went to a charity that supported working moms who couldn’t afford housing. The moms in the program also shopped in the store a lot. They were on strict budgets and were not allowed to buy clothing or household goods at retail stores.

         Sarah’s job at the Thistle was unpacking and tagging donated items, mostly clothing. Many clothes were stained, or torn, or smelly, and had to be tossed in the trash bin. But some items were new or barely worn. The first day on the job, Sarah stuffed a pink tank top into her backpack when no one was looking. But when she got home, Sarah felt so guilty she couldn’t even take the top out of her bag. The next day at the shop, Sarah slipped the top back into the pile of clothes to be tagged.

         One day, while absent-mindedly sorting though a mound of clothes, Sarah felt something stiff in the back pocket of a pair of jeans. Her eyes widened when she pulled out a folded $100 bill. Sarah quickly transferred the bill to her own pocket and laid the jeans over a hangar.

         Later that day, Mrs. B. asked Sara to fill in at the front desk while she ran an errand. The shop looked different from the front—not so shabby. The furniture was polished, and the items were stacked neatly in rows, on racks, and along shelves. Sarah wandered over to the book section and nearly ran into a boy rounding the bookcase. The boy was startled, but looked down and kept walking.

         “Jason!” Sara said. “It’s me, Sarah.”

         “Oh, hi.” Jason muttered. “I didn’t expect to see anyone from school here.”

         It dawned on Sarah that Jason was probably ashamed to be in the store. What 15-year old boy wouldn’t be? His mom might even be in the program—which meant that Jason could be homeless.

         “Is that your mom?” Sarah asked, gesturing toward a middle aged woman holding the hands of twin boys around 6 years old.

         Jason nodded. Sarah had assumed Jason’s unkempt appearance at school was part of his grunge black kid image. But maybe he just couldn’t afford things like haircuts and nice clothes.

         “Why are you here?” Jason asked.

         Sarah blushed. “You didn’t know I was a criminal? I was busted for underage drinking at a party and sentenced to 100 hours Community Service," Sarah said. Sensing Jason’s surprise, she added, “It’s not so bad, really.”

         “Jason, come help your brothers try on these shoes. And be quick about looking for clothes—we don’t have all day,” Jason's mother said.

         “See ya at school,” said Jason, raising his hand in a half-wave good-bye.

         Mrs. B. returned from her errand and Sarah returned to her sorting pile. Then Sarah remembered the jeans. These might fit Jason, she thought. Sarah took the folded $100 bill out of her pocket and slid it back into the jeans' pocket. She grabbed some clothing on hangars and hurried out to the floor.

         Sarah casually handed the jeans to Jason. “These are almost new and they might fit you,” Sarah said. Jason reluctantly took the hangar.

         “And don’t forget to check the pockets—sometimes they have holes,” Sara said as she turned and headed to the back of the shop.

         The next day after algebra class, Jason was waiting for Sarah in the hall. He was wearing the jeans. They looked buff on his tall frame, Sarah thought.

         “Did you put that money in the jeans? Don’t lie!” Jason demanded.

         “No, Jason, I didn’t. I almost took the money out of the jeans, but the bill was there already, I swear. And I figured if the jeans were meant for you, so was the money,” Sarah explained.

         Jason’s features relaxed. He gave Sarah an awkward hug. “Okay, thanks,” he said. “My mom really could use a new pair shoes. She has an interview next week for an important job.”

         Several months later, Sarah appeared again in court to prove that she had served her “sentence.” Looking at the paperwork, the judge raised his eyebrows. “Miss Riley, it says here that you served 877 hours at the Thistle Thrift shop? Is this a mistake?”

         “No, Your Honor,” Sarah’s voice quivered. Sensing that the judge wanted more, she said, “I hated working there at first. But I learned that even sorting clothes could make a big difference in someone’s life and that’s why I continue to volunteer there.”

         The judge peered over his glasses at Mrs. B., who often appeared in court to support her volunteers and testify if necessary about their Community Service. Mrs. B. nodded and smiled. The judge noticed that next to Mrs. B. was a tall young man looking at Sarah and grinning ear-to-ear. And next to the young man was an attractive, professional-looking woman with two toothless boys seated by her side. The judge suppressed a smile.

         “Next case,” the judge announced, striking his gavel.

[WC 989]