On Friday morning, the first day of July, Lou walked into the Eugene headquarters of the Apollo Decommissioning Alliance. They took a two-room office upstairs in the Cascadia Market building when Jardines para Familias relocated to a small house next to their community garden. A handmade sign already hung from the front door. ADA now had its own space for meetings and work parties, a mailing address, and a phone number. The back office had two small desks, the phone, a cheap typewriter, filing cabinets, and a few chairs. The front room was had a long, folding work table and enough floor space for a small meeting.
Lou greeted two woman in the front room—he didn’t know their names—busy painting pithy sayings onto protest signs. In the back were Howie, from Off Center, and a guy he knew as Planet. They were deep into an earnest discussion.
“…need to include decimal points.”
“Not in a ledger. That’s why they have these columns.”
“Not really. There are no headings saying ‘cents.’”
“So? It doesn’t say ‘dollars’ either.”
“I put a dollar sign on the first entry. Look here.” Planet pointed at the open journal he held up. “After that it’s understood.”
“Then why put a decimal in every time?”
“We always write decimals. It’s standard.”
“Not in a ledger. That’s why they have columns.” Howie stabbed his index finger into the ledger.
Lou approached the passionate debate. “Hey, guys. What’s up?”
“Hey, look at this.” Planet showed him the open ledger.
“Planet says we need decimal points for every entry.” Howie shook his head. “It’s a waste of time.”
“No, it keeps things clear and consistent. What do you think?”
Lou didn’t bother examining the book. He looked from Howie to Planet and back. “How long have you been arguing about this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe ten minutes.”
“Yeah, around ten minutes. Eight to twelve minutes.”
Lou nodded at them. “And how many decimal points could you write in ten minutes?”
Planet and Howie pondered this for a moment. A germ of realization blossomed. Planet closed the book. “Okay. Good point.”
“Yeah, we should have you doing the books,” said Howie. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Lou set his bike helmet down on the desk. “Are you guys using the desk? I was gonna update the mailing list.”
“No, go ahead. Hey!” Howie’s eyes widened and he pointed at Lou. “You have a small business, right? I bet you’d be really good at doing the books.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Who’s doing it now?”
“Well, we are. Sort of.” Planet looked at Howie. “Not officially. But no one else was doing it.” He shrugged. “It’s mostly tracking donations and expenses.”
“And paying bills,” added Howie. “Now we have rent and utilities and stuff.”
“Huh. Doesn’t sound like a big deal. Where do we keep the money?”
Howie pulled open a desk drawer to reveal a fat pouch of small bills and change. “It’s all right here. Not a problem.”
Lou looked down at the pouch, up at Howie, and thought Yeah, this is a problem.
There was a conscientious anarchy about it.
Lou’s first step as unofficial bookkeeper for ADA was to go to WECU. The Willamette Evergreen Credit Union, commonly called We See You, was the place of choice for the counterculture to safeguard its money. It was founded six years earlier by community people with high ideals and low savings, requiring an initial deposit of five bucks to open a savings account. Lou opened both a checking and savings account for ADA, depositing all of their funds except for some petty cash. The process and the staff were pleasant and personable. None of the bureaucratic burden required by the behemoth banks. And because this was such a good idea, he opened a checking account for himself as well.
Lou returned to the ADA office with a dozen temporary checks and a passbook. He updated the ledger, without using decimal points, then found a notebook and wrote Daily Journal – Read Me across the front. He made the first entry.
Opened bank accounts at WECU. Deposited funds. $50 petty cash in drawer. Need another check signer. Volunteers? Talk to me. – Lou
It was a simple thing. A thing that gave Lou an odd sensation, something difficult for him to describe. It was more than just getting something done. Better than checking off a task on a to-do list. Here was a thing that provided no personal benefit to Lou. He wasn’t expected to help with it, nor was he overseen by some boss. When done, he felt no need for any thanks. The doing itself, the little act of quietly helping out, was enough.
Lou next turned to his original reason for coming to the office. Updating the member list. Some of the Off Center folks weren’t getting messages about ADA meetings. With his trickle of summertime work and questionable girlfriend, Lou welcomed this other way to use up time.
ADA didn’t really keep a list. What it had was a box of index cards with people’s contact information. Lou figured he would gather up all the phone messages, sign-up sheets, and random notes containing names and phone numbers, then sit quietly and write up new index cards. But the phone would ring. And since Lou was the person sitting by the phone, he’d answer it. Calls from members, interested persons, sometimes media. Lou did what he could to answer questions and took messages when he couldn’t. In between phone calls, and during phone calls, people came to the office. And since Lou was sitting at a desk, people would approach him.
Even ADA regulars, some of whom excelled at speaking, organizing, fundraising, or writing, made a rapid and reasonable presumption about Lou. He had the desk. He was the one talking on the phone, reading papers, writing notes. He was the steady hub of a space where folks dropped in, by plan or whim, to strategize, send letters, debrief, make signs, design posters, and deliver news. Through it all, there was Lou. The office guy.
It worked for Lou, this first of many days. He liked seeing more of the faces, learning the names of the folks coming through the office. He got to know the other groups in the building, and who did what. He watched people walk in, know what needed doing, or ask someone who did, and get at it. There was a conscientious anarchy about it. People, a lot like him, stepping up just because they believed it was the right thing to do.
Lou thought maybe he could help, as the office guy, keep track of things. He started two lists.
Stuff needed
bulletin boards
thumb tacks
tall filing cabinet
cubby hole message sorter
big wall calendar
Process needed
open/close office
who has keys?
deposit money
secure petty cash
update member list
schedule meetings and work parties
As he wrote out these lists from whatever occurred to him, Lou realized that he was no full time office guy. What they needed were office people. He didn’t need to do the job by himself. Lou opened the Daily Journal and entered: office volunteer meeting Sunday 1pm.
Lou turned once again to the stack of messages on the desk. He worked on sorting them into separate piles: new members, caller questions, personal, other. He stopped abruptly when he read a note that was both puzzling and revelatory. Victoria 325-4041 moved do not call no longer this phone or house thompson unit.
Here, maybe, was an explanation for Victoria’s absence. But moved where? Lou’s head filled with questions. Did she leave town? Does she have a new number? Is she still part of ADA? What Lou mostly wondered was What did I do wrong? Has this brief and crazy relationship already ended? Trailing these questions, nearly forgotten, was What did it mean by “thompson unit?”
I love the term "conscientious anarchy", it's so appropriate for the times. And uh oh-- the dreaded "Johnson" unit?? We'll see...