Guys Named Steve

For my birthday in 2006, my brother Bruce took me to a psychic. I totally eat stuff like that up, so I was game. She had some interesting insights into my relationships, apparently saw my Dad standing behind me, and told me that I was going to a tropical climate to build something. Since I was planning on going to India on a build in October, that caught my attention. She very specifically told me, “You’re going to meet someone named Steve. He won’t change your life, but he’ll be the beginning of your life changing.”

Well, that was hilarious to me, because I’m horrible with names as it is, but when I’ve had a few fermented beverages, every guy becomes “Steve.” I’m not actually close enough to anyone named Steve to explain this — it just seems to be an easy-to-remember, easy-to-pronounce name to which I default. In 1995, I went to the Dolphins game on a date. We started drinking Bloody Marys at 9.30 in the morning. By halftime, we decided we needed to walk around and sober up a little. I ran into a friend of mine and introduced him to my date. “Steve, this is Steve!” Friend: “Hi, I’m Dave.” Date: “Yeah, me too.”

So, was I going to meet someone named Steve? Or just someone I called Steve?

When I arrived at Velvett Country in Lonavala, India, I was anxious to learn about the build and meet some of the volunteers. I arrived a little early, and the next day went to the reception area to meet the new arrivals. Sherwood and Marsha Kirk were among the first, and we hit it off right away. Sherwood’s brother was working the build, and so the Kirks took me to the build site with them to crash a House Leader meeting (this is where I first got the information about safety concerns that ultimately made me a credible safety monitor — just have to stay one chapter ahead of the class).

When we returned to the resort, I still didn’t have a roommate, and asked at the front desk if someone had been assigned to my room. “Street, Stephen.” Seriously? Here in prudish India, they assigned a man to my room? I told them that was a man’s name, but they shrugged it off, so I thought my roommate must be Stephanie, truncated in the printout. We had great fun at the poolside that night, however, wondering who this Stephen might be. Is he the psychic’s “Steve”? Would he be a Crew Leader? House Leader? A Block Leader and really dreamy? I kind of felt bad for this Stephanie we hadn’t yet met, picking on her like this, but hopefully she’d be someone with a sense of humour who would think it was funny later.

In the middle of the night, around 4 or 5 in the morning, there was a persistent knock on the door. When I opened it, there stood my roommate. Stephen Street. Full beard and mustache, no mistaking this. He looked at me and said, “This will not do.” I should have said, “I can’t be pretty for you all the time,” but I didn’t think of that until the following morning. He’d been traveling through the night from Mumbai, and he had lots of questions about the build. I showed him all the photos I’d taken at the build site, and he had one negative thing to say after another. That won’t work. You can’t do it that way. How is that supposed to happen? Volunteers won’t be able to do that. I’m no prude and I figured we’d be at the build so much it wouldn’t matter if my roommate was male or female, but I didn’t want a jerk for a roommate. When the sun rose, I went to the front desk and insisted they change my roommate. If that was the psychic’s “Steve,” he sure didn’t change my life.

The next night, in the middle of the night, there was another persistent knock on my door. It was Tammy. My roommate. Her luggage didn’t come with her so we talked about what items I had to share, and went to bed. I was up earlier every day than she was, and Tammy stayed later every day than I did, so we didn’t see each other a lot. She really impressed me when she knocked on the door one night, because she couldn’t turn the doorknob herself. She and another volunteer had convinced the shuttle driver to stop off at a store so they could get a case of beer, and Tammy had her arms full of bottles because she’d let the other guy have the case.

The following year, I drove to LA for the CWP, since I was still not thrilled with flying, and this way I could visit everyone I’d never visited because I wouldn’t fly there. First stop was Cedar Rapids, Iowa, home of Tammy Stines. Within an hour of my arriving, we’d already talked more than we ever had a chance to in India. We knew we had some things in common that made us good roommates (what are the odds you get assigned a roommate who also needs the TV on to fall asleep?), but our commonalities went much deeper than that, and we’ve been friends and travel companions ever since. When neither of us could do the 2008 CWP, she invited me on the mission trip to Guatemala with her church. I think she likes traveling with me because I overpack, so she doesn’t have to bring as much because I'll have everything. Only person I’ve ever traveled for two weeks for without running out of conversation. Whether or not she’s going on the Haiti build is still up in the air, but at the very least I’ll be spending a week with her in Iowa this August, getting’ some cultchah and, alternately, going to the Iowa State Fair.

Damned if that psychic wasn’t right.

P.S. Stephen Street ended up being a Crew Leader on the house next to mine at the build site, and his obstinance and refusal not only to follow the House Leader, but to let anyone else follow the House Leader, kept their house from finishing on time. My crew was fabulous and we finished early, so a few of my crew members went next door to help them out. They were back within a half hour. “Too dysfunctional – we can’t even help them,” was the report. Jerk.