It was early in the morning, the air crisp and cool, as we prepared for another community clean-up. The turnout was usually good—about 10% of the population in the community was on probation, so we had a nice crowd, mostly men. I was walking around checking on people as they gathered when my attention was drawn to a tall, striking man—easily over 6’4″, with braided hair, a bush jacket-style shirt, blue jean bermuda shorts, and sandals. He stood out, and I knew something wasn’t quite right.

I walked up to him and, without thinking twice, looked up and said, “Sir, you’re a little over-dressed for this clean-up.”

He looked at me, with a confused look on his face. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“Where do you live?” I shot back.

“About five blocks away,” he replied.

“Okay, then go home and change,” I told him.

But he refused. “No, I won’t do that,” he said, his tone beginning to shift.

At that moment, I stood firm. “Then you can’t participate,” I said.

That’s when the situation escalated. He got angry, yelling that it wasn’t fair. His frustration was evident, and I knew I needed to keep my cool. Without hesitating, I pulled out my phone and called my friend, Davey, one of the probation supervisors – but, at that moment, all I could think about was getting some authority involved.

Davey and I had a connection that was oddly funny—my married last name was the same as his. In fact, when we first met at a community meeting, I shook his hand as I introduced myself, and he pulled my hand toward him without letting go and said what did you say your name was? I repeated myself and he said funny, because my name is…

Davey picked up, and I explained the situation. He told me to put the angry guy on the phone. I handed the phone over, and I could hear Davey’s calm but firm instruction, while the angry guy responded simply: “Yes. No. Yes. No…” And then the man exploded with curses and threats.

Suddenly, he was standing right in front of me, glaring. “Because of you, I’m gonna have to report to probation on Monday and probably go to jail,” he shouted.

I didn’t flinch. “Don’t put that on me,” I said, standing tall. “You wearing sandals is a liability. If something falls on your foot and you get hurt, what’s the first thing you’ll do? Sue us? Nah, buddy. Go home or leave. I don’t care.”

That’s when his tone completely shifted. He stepped back, lowering his voice. “Ma’am, please… Don’t you have something else I can do? I don’t want to go home or go back to prison. I just want to serve my community service hours.”

At that very moment, I saw one of my community residents, Carolyn, heading toward the church across the parking lot. “Carolyn!” I shouted across to her. “I got a helper for you!”

I turned to the now much calmer man. “You’ll do everything she tells you. And if you give her grief, I’ll call Davey so fast your head will spin.”

Carolyn gave me a sharp look, and I smiled back, already knowing what would unfold.

Around noon, Carolyn came walking back across the parking lot, grinning from ear to ear. Behind her, the man followed along, smiling just as wide.

“Aww, he’s just a big teddy bear,” she said. “He helped me so much, I didn’t have to lift a finger.”

I watched them head off together and I went back to checking on the rest of the crew.