"They have to want to."

  While some of us were having the opportunities to try-out different positions (all beginner level, apprentice-style) with various American services and private sector jobs that summer, there were also kids that were towing families from place of abject poverty.  Or trying to.

  "I can't even tell you how cool my life is now," the scraggly guy told some people in a parking lot.  

  "'Cuz you found Jesus cuzz?"  A less scraggly but meaner boy about the guy's size sounded serious and then would burst into cackling laughter.  The scraggly guy sat back down in the shade.  Put his head on his knees and his hands clenched at the grass beneath the tree.  "I didn't find Jesus asshole," he yelled in the direction of the pot smoking peers.

  "Dude, nobody and I mean nobody wants to hear about it." 

 Aaaaaargh, the scraggly guy expressed his frustration. 

  "Actually, I do." A larger than scraggly but gorgeous girl put a stack of reading materials close to her chest like a breastplate shield and stood in front of the scraggly guy.  "Iaready toll you it all." 

  The social worker guffawed.  "Before you blew me off yesterday?"  The scraggly guy nodded, plucked two fists full of grass and threw these into the air.  

  "I met somebody I want you to meet." 

  "Like sharing?  I doubt that'll help me stay clean!" 

  The girl put her head down slightly and shook the misunderstanding off with a graceful smile.  "Actually he's a Chief." 

  "Of what?" 

  "An Indian tribe not from here." 

  "Don't you mean Native American?" 

  "Yes, I do.  Around here the two words are interchangeable, mostly." 

  "Don't you mean three words?" 

  "Yeah, I do." The social worker unfurled her arms and looked through her reading materials until she found a list of meeting times and speakers.  She'd snagged a few copies and held one out to the scraggly guy.  He stood and took it but didn't read it, put it in his back pocket.  "I would suggest

  "I'll read it later.  Jeeeeeez." 

  "Going to say; not hang out near old friends." 

  "Not friends.  Douschbags." 

  The social worker visibly closed her mouth and didn't respond. 

  "A brother and his friends." 

  "Want a ride somewhere else?" 

  "Not in the, what'd you call it? Toddler car?" 

  She'd actually been overheard calling it that.  Some of us were looking for silver linings despite all the changes to program and heavier personal costs involved in work we were passionate about, but.  She had a little car.  Tiny car like a tiny home.  We all took turns sitting in the backseat and telling what it made us feel like.  More than one of us decided on "toddler".  A more creative person amongst us talked-out how that could be advantageous for a shy social worker.  She'd drew in a breath and said, "I'm not shy." 

  "Yes yah are," a long time friend of hers countered. 

  "I said, I'm NOT." 

  "But YOU ARE." 

  "Am not." 

  "Anyway," another of us said, "Even though it doesn't pay much, I want to keep doing the forest fire fighting." 

  "So, you're not preggo?" 

  "Apparently not." 

  The group of girls didn't interfere with any of these "besties" chats happening in a parking lot.  There was something socially formal established about that even though we hadn't said so out loud.  It was like letting the guys help open a can of corn that was stuck, or, show somebody how tires have PSI's on them and not flipping out.  We were trying to cut down on generic, not much real reason, lambasting everyone and everything.