I've been donating website design services to a charity event taking place in the Washington DC area, in which participants shop at particular retailers on a day when the merchants have promised a percentage of their take to HIV prevention efforts. It's great because it allows guilt-free consumerism and pro-social acquisitiveness. Interesting connection: economic status is one of the most significant risk factors for getting HIV. So this Christmas, either you have no money and might get AIDS or you have lots and can help out your poorer fellow souls by engaging in a frenzied, lustrous round of shopping. Kind of fucked up, but I guess it beats complete selfishness.

And doing their site seemed like a nice way to spend a gazillion hours that I could have devoted to paying clients. I did it last year, too, mostly because I figured all the people involved would see that I donated my precious time, and they would form a favorable impression of me which would lead them to hire me for other expensive website tasks. I went to the kickoff party last year with high hopes, and as karmic reward for my total lack of altruism I got a grand total of zero new clients. It seemed highly unlikely that I would be so charitable again this year.

But I was, mostly because I felt sort of sorry for the organizations trying to put together this huge event. What would they do without me? And since they were really hoping I'd lend a hand again and save them the hassle of looking for a new sap, I felt empowered to specify some conditions: I would never attend one of their lengthy organizing meetings, and I didn't want to have to deal with one staff member who I thought was kind of a jerk. Magically, all this came to pass, and the site came together with minimum fuss.

They held another kickoff party for the event this year, and I wasn't sure if I would go or not. Susan couldn't make it, and without my one guaranteed conversational partner I saw an evening of uninteresting chitchat with strangers unfolding before me, relieved only slightly by copious booze. At the last minute, another consultant who works with the same organization told me he'd give me a ride and promised we'd hang out there no longer than forty-five minutes. It seemed reasonable. I lubed up my social gears with some beer before he arrived.

I didn't even bother bringing business cards or dressing nicely or shaving; I'd thrown a bucket down into this well before and I knew it was dry. There was no point in hoping that this would lead to a paying gig. Still, not bringing business cards to a social event in DC is a faux pas of unimaginable proportions; you can be fined heavily and deported to Northern Virginia for such an offense. Tales abound of disgraced professionals trying to swim back across the Potomac and being intercepted by the black speedboats of the DC Social Code Police.

The party was being held in a shiny downtown drinkery, the kind of place that young feds, nonprofit warriors, and newborn journalists come to belly up to a brass-railed bar and hoist a pint to the new economy. I eyed the crowd for familiar faces and came up blank. Well, there were the event's two co-chairs -- I recognized them from their photos, which I'd posted on the website.

My fellow consultant charged into the crowd with his hand preconfigured in shaking-position. Extroverted people just amaze me that way. I followed him gingerly and said hello to the first clot of people near the door. Of course, the first person I met said she loved the website and might want to talk to me about a job -- can she get my card? I stroked my bristly face and admitted I did not, but could send her some info if I got hers. Barely five minutes later, I was scribbling down my email address for another potential client. With two possible jobs and the better part of an additional pint of beer racked up, I was feeling a tremendous sense of affection for the world at large. When someone at the front made a presentation and thanked me personally for my efforts, I accepted the room's applause with what I felt was regal charm, like a Kennedy.

More presentations continued, but those of us at the back of the room were unable to hear most of it. The blasted innocuous rock and white noise of collective conversation in the bar blotted out individual's voices completely. So we watched the various lips moving and then clapped when everyone ahead of us did. "This is like watching television with the stereo up loud," I told a graphic designer standing nearby, to the amusement of others around us. It felt like a little community of people was forming around a shared consideration of the ridiculousness of our situation. The lips moved, and we watched the lips with exaggerated attention, then we heard the clapping begin and started clapping with enthusiasm that belied the fact that we had no idea what was going on. I began to feel a great deal of affection for the people around me, fully intending to introduce myself (as if I, the acclaimed website designer, needed any introduction!) as soon as the speeches ended.

"Drink up," my fellow consultant hissed in my ear. Our mutually-agreed forty-five minute visit was over. Just when beer was disabling my array of social defenses!

Really, I thought, as I heaved myself into his truck, I must try to drink more. Lately the recycle bin at home has been overflowing... with Gatorade bottles. It's this damn fire class! In about a month it will be over, and I think I shall begin planning the debauchery now.