At the End of the Food Line
When the guests start arriving for the St. Ben’s meal program, I’m busy bagging apples for the give-away area. Six apples per bag, fresh and green. All the while, I’m watching the line, wondering who’s coming in tonight. The wind chill is wicked again, and the warming room will be open. That brings in homeless people who have been toughing it out on the street, sleeping on air vents and in the deepest doorways they can find.
The line is extra long tonight. Men and women with volumes of bags, suitcases and bundles who have been camping somewhere, can’t take the cold anymore, are coming to a place where they can get a cot indoors for the night. The rest run the gamut: couch surfers, rooming houses, hotels, temporary placements, shelters. The campers have a different smell to them. Not so clean.
Every now and then, I spot a few fellows I know sprinkled along the line, and wave. They smile and wave back. Someone else is helping the kids tonight, so I keep bagging, like I’ve been asked to do. Jeff, one of the security guards, jumps in to help me, tossing apples into brown bags at a staggering rate, teasing everyone with loud banter.
A tiny, very elderly lady from the church group volunteering to serve is stationed at the end of the serving line near me, her pastel sweater and tidy pants covered by an apron several sizes too big for her. She is flummoxed by people asking for five packets of salt and five packets of pepper instead of the two she offers. I notice her glance over her shoulder; she seems to be looking for someone in charge to tell her if there is some limit on the seasonings.
Just about everyone coming through the line is much bigger than the tiny woman, and it’s plain to see that the guests make her a little nervous. Most guests are cheerful, and generally polite, but they are loud, and carrying lots of stuff, wearing multiple layers, and many have afflictions, whether obvious or internal. Some are tired, and ask for things abruptly. Watching her discomfort, I remember that’s why, when I first volunteered at St. Ben’s, I didn’t want to work on the serving line. You don’t get to form relationships with people if all you’re doing is offering a smile and a serving of food. That’s important work, and I’m grateful others do it, so I can be among the people.
But this week, I have to work for my supper. Brother Rob stopped me when I arrived and asked me to work the give-away area. Day old bakery, salads from a deli packaged in plastic bowls, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are at the ready, along with all those bags of apples Jeff and I loaded.
When my friend Willy makes it to the salt and pepper at the end of the food line, I touch his arm. A warm smile lights up his face. “Save me a spot,” I tell him. “Brother Rob asked me to help out by the door for a while.”
“I got you,” he assures me. Then people start coming for the free offerings, and I turn my attention to them.
“What you have for me?” A tall man joshes. “I don’t want none of that whole wheat bread, now.”
“I’ve got French, sour dough, and some buns. There’s also apples, toothbrushes, and sandwiches.”
“Oooh. I’ll take me some French bread, and can I get five toothbrushes? My nieces and nephews don’t like going to the dentist.”
“You got it.” I hand him things as he slips them into a huge duffle bag. He accepts some sandwiches, too.
It gets busy for a while, and I hand out many bags of food, offer books and magazines, even give away the backpack I got for free to Josh in the kitchen. When the guests leave, they thank me, tell me to stay warm and to take care of myself, like this is any regular place. Frigid air knifes through me each time the door opens and they step into the night.
Just as I finish giving a little boy some children’s books, I turn to see a fellow with a face that sags as though affected by a stroke. Hands blackened by machinery grease, he fumbles with the bread and apples. I grab a bigger bag and start consolidating items to make it easier for him to carry. His coat is open; beneath it he’s wearing a mechanic’s coveralls.
“My girlfriend keeps texting me,” he chuckles. “Look, let me show you what she said.” He holds up a cell phone, shows me a long text thread, the back and forth marked by colored word balloons, like a modern version of call and response.
His speech is jumbled by muscles that don’t work quite right. “We’ve been just talking for so long. Maybe it’s time we take the next step.”
“Where did you meet her?” I ask, feeling suspicious.
“Online.”
“Be careful with that. There are a lot of scammers online.”
“No, she’s real. Here, let me show her picture. She’s real pretty.” He scrolls, holds up a photo of a young blonde in a green cheerleader outfit. Going for a calm outer demeanor, I seethe inside, hating people who take advantage of lonely men, who may be in poverty or perhaps mentally ill, vulnerable to horrid lies.
“She just got out of a bad marriage,” the man says. “Her husband beat her up and killed their daughter. I told her I would give her a new baby. I would never hurt my woman or my child.”
I wish I could take his phone and type the next text to his girlfriend. I imagine some man sitting in a darkened room with a bank of consoles keeping this crap up with dozens of people all over the country. I want to type Back off, you lying son of a creep. Leave this poor man alone. Instead I say, “She hasn’t asked you for money, has she?”
“No, we’re taking it slow,” he assures me.
“Don’t ever send any money to her.”
He gives me a baffled look.
“It’s not safe to send money to people online. You don’t know who they are, really.”
“Oh, I know her all right. She’s real sweet. She’s just been through a lot. Can you imagine a man treating her like that?”
“Just be careful, okay? And if she wants to meet you sometime, make sure it’s in a public place, not a parking lot somewhere.”
As though he hasn’t heard me, he says, “She’s so sweet.” He fixes his droopy eyes on me. “Why would anyone hurt her like that?”
Why indeed.
The line is extra long tonight. Men and women with volumes of bags, suitcases and bundles who have been camping somewhere, can’t take the cold anymore, are coming to a place where they can get a cot indoors for the night. The rest run the gamut: couch surfers, rooming houses, hotels, temporary placements, shelters. The campers have a different smell to them. Not so clean.
Every now and then, I spot a few fellows I know sprinkled along the line, and wave. They smile and wave back. Someone else is helping the kids tonight, so I keep bagging, like I’ve been asked to do. Jeff, one of the security guards, jumps in to help me, tossing apples into brown bags at a staggering rate, teasing everyone with loud banter.
A tiny, very elderly lady from the church group volunteering to serve is stationed at the end of the serving line near me, her pastel sweater and tidy pants covered by an apron several sizes too big for her. She is flummoxed by people asking for five packets of salt and five packets of pepper instead of the two she offers. I notice her glance over her shoulder; she seems to be looking for someone in charge to tell her if there is some limit on the seasonings.
Just about everyone coming through the line is much bigger than the tiny woman, and it’s plain to see that the guests make her a little nervous. Most guests are cheerful, and generally polite, but they are loud, and carrying lots of stuff, wearing multiple layers, and many have afflictions, whether obvious or internal. Some are tired, and ask for things abruptly. Watching her discomfort, I remember that’s why, when I first volunteered at St. Ben’s, I didn’t want to work on the serving line. You don’t get to form relationships with people if all you’re doing is offering a smile and a serving of food. That’s important work, and I’m grateful others do it, so I can be among the people.
But this week, I have to work for my supper. Brother Rob stopped me when I arrived and asked me to work the give-away area. Day old bakery, salads from a deli packaged in plastic bowls, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are at the ready, along with all those bags of apples Jeff and I loaded.
When my friend Willy makes it to the salt and pepper at the end of the food line, I touch his arm. A warm smile lights up his face. “Save me a spot,” I tell him. “Brother Rob asked me to help out by the door for a while.”
“I got you,” he assures me. Then people start coming for the free offerings, and I turn my attention to them.
“What you have for me?” A tall man joshes. “I don’t want none of that whole wheat bread, now.”
“I’ve got French, sour dough, and some buns. There’s also apples, toothbrushes, and sandwiches.”
“Oooh. I’ll take me some French bread, and can I get five toothbrushes? My nieces and nephews don’t like going to the dentist.”
“You got it.” I hand him things as he slips them into a huge duffle bag. He accepts some sandwiches, too.
It gets busy for a while, and I hand out many bags of food, offer books and magazines, even give away the backpack I got for free to Josh in the kitchen. When the guests leave, they thank me, tell me to stay warm and to take care of myself, like this is any regular place. Frigid air knifes through me each time the door opens and they step into the night.
Just as I finish giving a little boy some children’s books, I turn to see a fellow with a face that sags as though affected by a stroke. Hands blackened by machinery grease, he fumbles with the bread and apples. I grab a bigger bag and start consolidating items to make it easier for him to carry. His coat is open; beneath it he’s wearing a mechanic’s coveralls.
“My girlfriend keeps texting me,” he chuckles. “Look, let me show you what she said.” He holds up a cell phone, shows me a long text thread, the back and forth marked by colored word balloons, like a modern version of call and response.
His speech is jumbled by muscles that don’t work quite right. “We’ve been just talking for so long. Maybe it’s time we take the next step.”
“Where did you meet her?” I ask, feeling suspicious.
“Online.”
“Be careful with that. There are a lot of scammers online.”
“No, she’s real. Here, let me show her picture. She’s real pretty.” He scrolls, holds up a photo of a young blonde in a green cheerleader outfit. Going for a calm outer demeanor, I seethe inside, hating people who take advantage of lonely men, who may be in poverty or perhaps mentally ill, vulnerable to horrid lies.
“She just got out of a bad marriage,” the man says. “Her husband beat her up and killed their daughter. I told her I would give her a new baby. I would never hurt my woman or my child.”
I wish I could take his phone and type the next text to his girlfriend. I imagine some man sitting in a darkened room with a bank of consoles keeping this crap up with dozens of people all over the country. I want to type Back off, you lying son of a creep. Leave this poor man alone. Instead I say, “She hasn’t asked you for money, has she?”
“No, we’re taking it slow,” he assures me.
“Don’t ever send any money to her.”
He gives me a baffled look.
“It’s not safe to send money to people online. You don’t know who they are, really.”
“Oh, I know her all right. She’s real sweet. She’s just been through a lot. Can you imagine a man treating her like that?”
“Just be careful, okay? And if she wants to meet you sometime, make sure it’s in a public place, not a parking lot somewhere.”
As though he hasn’t heard me, he says, “She’s so sweet.” He fixes his droopy eyes on me. “Why would anyone hurt her like that?”
Why indeed.
