he summer of 1991. That’s when I lived with a murderer, an Albino Elvis impersonator, and a girl whose TV told her she was wicked. I was in London. And it was hell.

I was one of eight young American volunteers placed in Britain by an organization sponsored by the Queen Mother. I was to help chronically homeless people who had severe mental problems. In exchange for my work, I was guaranteed a nice flat — and best of all, the summer would culminate in a reception given by the Queen Mum herself.

Park Lodge was the euphemistic name for the nut house where I would work — and live. Instead of a flat, I was given an efficiency in the facility. As the only “staff” member there after four o’clock, I became the housemother to an unholy herd of schizophrenics, addicts, and HIV-positive prostitutes.

Twenty-one-year-old Colin, the Albino Elvis impersonator, surfaced there right after I did. He was as thin as dental floss and obsessed with destroying the building’s elevator. Many nights I was awakened by screeches of “Lor-reh-A, please stop him! Colin’s banging on the lift again! Lor-reh-A!”

I’d find him with his arms and face drenched in black elevator grease, fervently denying any wrongdoing. What a sight — the grease on his translucent white skin made him look like the warlord of the asylum.

He passed the time with Elvis songs. Jittery renditions of “Love Me Tender” and “Viva Las Vegas” bounced through the hallway. He soon became the in-house entertainment at the pub across the street. He didn’t know the drunks were actually making fun of him. It didn’t matter though, because he became convinced that winged skeletons were cat birding him when he went outside. He had to be hospitalized.

I did make some progress while I was there. I found grant money to finance a resident’s bike ride across England to raise awareness of his disease: Tourette’s Syndrome. This can cause uncontrollable barking, convulsions, and vulgar outbursts. Andrew, always attired in glaring Spandex bike shorts, was so thrilled about the grant that he cussed like a sailor and collapsed in a shiny heap at my feet.
The other success story was Clyde, a 4’11” native of French Guiana. It was determined that he was ready for independent living, but he didn’t want to leave. He cried when the moving van arrived to transport his belongings to his new home — a urine-drenched housing project in London’s version of the Black Hole of Calcutta.

His few things — clothes, toiletries, a framed photo of his long-dead mother — looked pitiful in the back of the van. Once he got settled in the flat I went to Kentucky Fried Chicken for a housewarming gift of Original Recipe. A punk tried to mug me on the way back, but Clyde’s chicken was unharmed.

At the end of the summer the other Americans came to London for the much-anticipated reception at the Queen Mother’s estate. They were a spoiled, ignorant bunch. When we first arrived in England, one of them asked our host, “So how do you guys celebrate the Fourth of July over here?”

As the only Southerner in the group, I was a puzzling novelty to them. They couldn’t believe that I read books, had black friends, and grew up without any hoods in the closet. Never mind, I thought, it would be therapeutic to see them and swap stories of assignments gone wrong...

Instead they all joked about how easy and fun their work was. About how the summer turned out to be one long vacation.

I remained silent. Why ruin their mood with my tales? “Hey, did I tell ya about the multiple-personality child molester with AIDS who tried to kill himself right in front of me?” Nah, that would be a buzz kill before the royal party that night.

Soon the others began to pressure me to talk. They formed a coven and started to circle. All of a sudden I felt like a loser in one of those old after-school TV specials. What a relief when the phone rang.

It was someone telling us the Queen Mum had canceled.