The Charitable Man Who Gave Until It Hurt

Right off the bat, it should be noted that the following tale of woe is not the most traumatic thing that can happen to a person. Many things will cause much greater anxiety. Just one example: Your wife walks into the house carrying a broken piece of the front grille from the car, throws it and the car keys on the counter and says, “I’m telling you, that school-crossing guard came out of nowhere. “

This isn’t anything like that.

This is a story about a man--let’s call him Rich because, well, it was me , and that’s my name--Who Couldn’t Give Anything Away.

Rich had a load of really neat stuff stashed in his garage. So much of it, in fact, that he could hardly get into the garage. And the stuff he wanted to give away was not junk. Rich liked to keep the junk. It was a habit acquired from his father, who has spent a lifetime saving things like tennis balls with holes in them and screws with the threads worn out.

What Rich wanted to give away was a bed (complete with box springs and metal frame), a blender and coffee-maker still in their boxes; seven crates filled with kitchenware including plates, bowls, glasses and brand-new eating utensils; three bags of clothing, and two large trash bags filled with very nice, only slightly used toys.

Giving these items away turned out to be roughly as easy as giving away bags of those bloody hypodermic needles that keep washing up on New York beaches.

The first call went to the Burbank office of Goodwill Industries, the outfit whose entire business it is to collect such items and then pass them along--either free or at a nominal charge--to people who are in need of such things.

Rich proudly rattled off the list of items he wished to donate to the less privileged.

“Two weeks,” was the rather gruff response he got from the Goodwill man on the phone, who went by the name of Edward.

“Oh, no,” Rich exclaimed. “I know there’s a lot of stuff, but it won’t take two weeks to load it into the truck. An hour, tops. I’ll help.”

“We can’t come for it for two weeks,” Edward said. “You need an appointment.”

Rich told Edward that it was necessary to give this stuff away that day, or the next day at the latest. A garage project mandated that at least a small area of the floor be visible. He threw out a wicked threat, saying he might be forced to throw it all away at the dump.

“Sorry,” Edward of Goodwill said. “Go to the dump.”

Then he hung up.

OK, Rich thought. The man misunderstood. Somehow, he thought Goodwill was being asked to deliver a bed, blender, coffee-maker, reams of decent clothes and bundles of toys. Immediately. And free of charge. Only that would account for his rotten attitude.

But he would not get another chance.

The next call went to the Salvation Army, a similar help-the-needy group that made its reputation by accepting virtually anything and getting it to the people who didn’t have anything.

A man who identified himself as Roger at the Salvation Army’s Van Nuys office listened to the list of items Rich was eager to give away.

“We don’t take beds,” he said.

Why?

“They’re too heavy. You gotta drop them off yourself,” he said. “And the rest of the stuff we’ll take, but our trucks are out on rounds for the day. Call back on Monday or Tuesday.”

Whoa! Sounded like a pattern was forming. Did Roger know this Edward guy over at Goodwill?

Another call. This one to the Salvation Army’s Woodland Hills Truck Pick-Up office, as advertised in the phone book.

“We don’t work weekends,” Rich was told. “You can drop it off yourself. We have a pickup center in Woodland Hills.

“But no beds.”

I’m sure this is of no interest to the thousands in Los Angeles who spend their nights sleeping on steam vents or inside refrigerator boxes, but we have an announcement to make: The Salvation Army Does Not Accept Beds.

Rich, a bit stunned by now, did manage to jot down the address of the Salvation Army drop-off location, where one of its trucks was parked. We’ll come back to that.

Another call, to the St. Vincent de Paul Society. No weekend pickups. You’ll have to make an appointment. Might be a week or so. Goodby.

Disabled American Veterans Charities. Glendale. No answer.

Vietnam Veterans of America. Sun Valley. Rich had bought light bulbs from these folks. Great light bulbs. He figured he had an in with this group.

Not so. Despite some preliminary schmoozing about the light bulbs, he was told the few trucks they had for pickups were not going to be in his neighborhood for several days.

At this point, Rich was feeling a bit low. Why, he wondered, didn’t the organizations that do this stuff want his stuff? Wasn’t there a recession? Weren’t people from all aspects of life struggling a bit these days? Couldn’t someone use a bed? Or a brand-new stinking blender?

OK, perhaps the blender is a bit of a bad example. But dishes and clothes and toys? And a new coffee-maker?

Anyway, the offer of donations met with total rejection. On top of the incident just a week earlier, it was almost too much to take. The earlier incident was a real killer. A Salvation Army truck, a really big truck, had rolled past Rich’s garage and stopped two houses down the street. He was thrilled. He dragged and carried all of his Items To Be Donated into the driveway and then ran to the truck. Two men returned to the truck. One of them carried a small bag, a grocery store plastic bag. They threw it into the truck. The really big truck.

Rich eagerly explained to the men what he had for them, pointed out the pile no more than 200 feet away and said that if they backed the truck, the really big truck, into his driveway he would help them load the items.

“You have to make an appointment,” the driver said.

And despite Rich’s strenuous objections and attempts to reason with the men, they climbed into the really big truck--which contained one bag large enough to hold perhaps four shoes--and drove away.

The woman, Rich’s neighbor, had made an appointment.

Days later, after all phone calls failed, he loaded up his car to the ceiling with the Items To Be Given Away. He found the address of the Salvation Army’s drop-off center, and pulled into the parking lot where a giant Salvation Army truck sat and waited.

On the back of the truck, taped to the closed door, was a sign. It read: GONE TO LUNCH. DON’T LEAVE ANYTHING.

Honest.

Now, none of the items Rich had in my car had his name on it, and he will deny this if confronted by police officers but he left it all. A bed and a blender and a coffee-maker and crates of dishes and silverware and bags of clothes and toys. All of it. Just left it, for people less fortunate than he. And he drove away.

What a maniac.