I'm late to Babylon, so the kids at Francis House don't get their bikes today. Babylon is a Seminole Heights gay nightclub, known briefly as Karma before reverting to its more decadent former name. It's also ground zero for cheekily named food delivery service Meals on Heels and various other programs spearheaded by co-owner Steve Mayer. All of them benefit the nearby Francis House, a care center and outreach facility for individuals and families affected by HIV. A warm but direct ex-Manhattanite, Mayer chides me on my tardiness — he had planned on delivering some bicycles for the kids at Francis House this afternoon — and hands me a covered dish. We pile into Babylon restaurant manager Kelby McCrillis' Jeep and tear around the corner to Francis House, only to determine that they've already locked up for the evening. My gut sinks. The bikes will have to wait until tomorrow. We return to the club to load up for the food run.
Meals on Heels brings healthy, homestyle chow to Francis House beneficiaries from Temple Terrace to Town N Country. The delivery service's meals are prepared in Babylon's kitchen, and delivered by Babylon employees and volunteers — not actually in drag, I was a bit disappointed to discover, though I'll grant that balancing six Styrofoam containers while walking in heels is probably a preclusive pain in the ass. The club also hosts drives for toys and necessities for the House. Last Christmas, Mayer's business partner delivered presents dressed as Santa and accompanied by a cross-dressing Mrs. Claus.
"You always think you'll get around to it, to giving back," says Mayer of his decision to start Meals on Heels, "but you never do."
For him, the death of a close friend provided inspiration. When Mayer discovered the dearth of attention and assistance afforded Francis House, he began finding ways to use Babylon as a charitable resource. It took a bit of not-so-subtle cheerleading, but once he and a small cadre got the ball rolling, Mayer found many of the club's clientele more than willing to donate a little time and effort.
"He's a great hustler. If we'd put him on the street, we'd be rich," jokes McCrillis.
One customer set up expedient delivery routes for Meals on Heels. Another stepped forward to make one run while McCrillis made the other. The regulars donated mountains of toys for Santa's Christmas appearance; those who brought used stuff were actually gang-mocked into coming up with something new.
"It's our little thing for the people right outside our back door," Mayer says.
After a short tour of Babylon's modern, multiroom interior, McCrillis and I head out the back door to make the Meals on Heels run.
McCrillis drives with a combination of confidence and faithful obliviousness that inspires death visions and hyperventilation in those of us more inclined to worry. Even at the most relaxed of times, riding shotgun with him must still be a bit of a white-knuckler. But now we're behind schedule, racing a 6 o'clock bus to a woman who depends on the Meals on Heels delivery program for dinner. Two more deliveries and 17 minutes stand between us and our goal, and McCrillis, whose enthusiasm for the program could thaw the most hardened cynic, is determined to get the job done. He checks the Jeep's dash clock far more often than, say, his side mirrors, sliding around SUVs like mercury with, seriously, bare inches to spare.
"We'll make it," he says, giving me a big grin.
"We'll just have to haul ass."
I grin back, probably looking like a politician with motion sickness, and reach for the seatbelt.
The little kid at our next stop won't open the apartment door any farther than he absolutely has to in order to receive the two boxed meals, but he does thank McCrillis politely before snapping it shut again.
We're just off East Hillsborough Avenue in Tampa, in what my mother would undoubtedly call a "sketchy" apartment complex. Eighty-nine percent of Francis House's beneficiaries fall below the poverty line, and "sketchy" might be an apt term for the neighborhoods where many of them live, depending on one's experience. Grassless courtyards, peeling exterior walls and kids playing in cul-de-sacs strewn with broken glass don't necessarily signify the existence of menace, however. While some of Meals on Heels' less adventurous volunteers have expressed concern for their safety, McCrillis, who's delivered for the program since its inception over three months ago, hasn't yet encountered trouble.
"Never. Anybody can see we're doing a good thing here," he reasons, before adding, "I have gotten some of those hard, 'what are you doing here' type stares."
It's nearly 10 till 6.
At our penultimate drop, I take a look at today's meal — baked chicken, mashed potatoes and succotash. Meals on Heels clients get the same food served at Babylon's restaurant, and what's in the Styrofoam box looks better than a lot of the takeout I've ordered by phone. Babylon usually leaves off the touches like marsala sauce, in case the meal's for kids (for whom marsala probably looks about as tasty as cat puke), but this guy's getting the full-on dish.
"The thing about this is there's no qualifying period, no forms," says McCrillis. "Steve hates that kind of red-tape stuff. If he hears that somebody needs it, he'll start 'em right up."
McCrillis' dash clock reads 6:04 as we stop at the red light. (McCrillis: "It's five minutes fast.") We can see our last stop in the strip mall across the street, but the business looks closed. The light changes. McCrillis rips through the intersection and careens into the parking lot, swinging abreast of the shop's display window.
There's no one inside.
"Sometimes I catch her walking to the bus stop," says McCrillis as we rocket back out onto Armenia, only to cruise slowly by the empty stop.
Mayer will almost certainly make sure the young woman gets her meal, even if it means conning one of the regulars into driving it out to her home. He strikes me as a guy who doesn't rest until his plans are seen through. But McCrillis still takes the missed connection like a blow to his character. He's sorely disappointed, and on one level, of course, it sucks; on another, the way he takes it so personally is about the coolest thing I've seen all day.
Scott Harrell can be reached at 813-248-8888, ext. 109, or by e-mail at scott.harrell@weeklyplanet.com.
This article appears in Feb 12-18, 2003.