I remember a bright Sunday morning, sitting in the back of my dad's truck, swinging my legs to the blaring music playing. My dog had his head out the window and barked at me whenever I jumped off the slowly moving cargo bed and stumbled on the pavement. Neighbors with familiar faces but unknown names waved as I ran up to them. I grabbed the bags they held, shouted my thanks, and hauled them over my shoulder, running to catch up to the truck. The condensation of each plastic bag further wet my sweaty shirt. It took three trips to transport every bag to school for the annual Music Boosters Bottle and Can drive. Each time we stopped by, kids my age smiled and waved with gloved hands. That day is coated in golden sunshine and sweet-scented sweat in my memories. But that was a fundraiser, technically, not community service. I could talk about the hours I spent selling concessions and running around with pizza boxes to get volunteer hours, but that wouldn't be right either. Although community service does an excellent job of bringing people together, I think my most profound experiences with it are the ones I spent in solitude. There is a path in the woods behind my local church where teenagers hang out to drink and smoke to the sound of chapel bells. My friend and I would explore back there, carefully avoiding the pieces of broken glass and cigarette butts. We played cards in the dirt and ran over the dirtbike trails. The litter didn't disturb me until I noticed a squirrel investigating a Dr. Pepper can, sticking his little paws through the opening. The next time my friend and I walked those trails, the garbage and glass were mysteriously gone. I never told her that I picked up that litter, and I'm not sure why. Shame? Why would one be ashamed of such a thing? She wouldn't have been offended, and she wouldn't have thought I was less cool. If anything, she probably would've helped if I asked her. But some part of me just didn't want to share the noisy nature of the woods when I stopped to listen. The buzzing of mosquitoes searching for dinner in the muggy summer air, the squirrels rustling in their branches overhead. Not one of them would thank me, no friend of mine would say it was a good thing to do. No money would be raised, no volunteer hours earned. The profitless moment in which I gathered detritus into bags was a unique one, where I did a good thing for the sake of being good.