Red Jell-O
I’m a little late arriving at St. Ben’s. The crowd of guests is fairly light. The weather is suddenly warmer, plus it’s the first of the month, when checks come and, as one fellow put it, “They spend their money on whatever they do.”
The mouth-watering aroma of a full turkey dinner greets me as I head into the kitchen to hang up my coat. One of the fellows who often works security is manning the rinsing station, his thick hair pulled into a bushy pony tail. I say, “Wow, you just work everywhere in this place.”
He gives me a big smile, recognizes me. “Wherever they need me.” Someday, I hope to learn his story. He asks how I am doing. I ask him the same. He’s relaxed, waiting for the rush of trays soon to be needing rinsing in the huge slop sink.
The kitchen manager comes around the corner. I tell him, “It sure smells good in here.”
“These volunteers brought in a nice dinner for us tonight,” he tells me, and I realize that – after eating at St. Ben’s for over a year- I don’t really know how the kitchen operates, how the food arrives and is prepared. I make a mental note to find out. All I know now is that it’s a big production involving a huge cast, all of them working hard to bring food and comfort to people who need it.
I find Brother Rob– rumor has it he’s being moved to a different assignment. I’m flabbergasted. This is the man who has worked tirelessly, not only with the meal program at St. Ben’s, but also in turning the abandoned St. Anthony’s hospital building into apartments through the Housing First initiative. If anyone is the heartbeat on the corner of 10thand State, it’s Brother Rob. Hoping it’s not true, that he doesn’t have to leave, I’m dismayed by the news that yes, he has been reassigned. But it’s not the time or place to discuss this, so we make arrangements to meet the week of my spring break. In typical Brother Rob fashion, he quickly deflects the attention off himself.
“Have you heard about the homeless man who died on the steps of Holy Redeemer?”
“What? No. Another person died? One by the library and another one by the church?”
He nods. That’s one homeless person dying per week for two weeks.
“Does anyone know who it was?”
“We don’t have a name yet. We heard he had a heart attack.”
“That’s terrible. What about the other man?” I ask. “Did we find out who that was yet?”
“Not yet.”
So, my friend Samuel disappeared four months ago. There’s a letter for him from Social Security that’s been held at St. Ben’s for a few weeks now, going unclaimed. And I haven’t seen Willy in three weeks. Samuel, I know, carries identification, but Willy, I’m not sure. Willy sleeps in the parking lot under the courthouse, and has never mentioned going to Holy Redeemer, but that’s where lunch is served, and is a nine block walk from the courthouse.
Brother Rob asks me to help a tall fellow the size of a defensive lineman fill out an application. I’ve never met this particular man before. Before I have a chance to even glance at the pages Brother Rob thrusts into my hand, the man hustles away and I hurry to follow. He carries his tray to the table directly under the television and pulls over a couple of chairs. No one sits at that table, and the racket from the T.V. mounted on the wall above us is distracting to me.
“Can you hear me? Is it too loud here?” I ask, wondering if I’ll be able to hear him.
The man points overhead. He doesn’t quite make eye contact with me. “Sound covers sound.”
He’s looking for privacy. A little spot of confidentiality. But he’s willing to let me ask for very personal information because it will help him in some way. I don’t even know what the application is for, so as he asks for milk and waits for the cup to be filled, I glance at the title. It’s an application for housing at St. Anthony’s. A pre-application, to be precise, just one page of questions and a disclaimer on page two.
I get his name, an address where his mail is going (“I don’t stay there,” he tells me. “That’s my sister’s place.”), and his social security number. When I ask for a phone number, he pulls out a slip of paper. (“They just gave me this phone today. I don’t know the number yet.”) I study the shaky writing on a yellow post-it note. We discuss what the numbers might say, because I can’t be sure if that’s a one or a seven, and is that a three or a five? I hope I get it right, and repeat it back to him. He nods, takes a bite of his food.
Then comes some questions I ask with professional efficiency. Are you homeless? Yes. Are you disabled? Legally blind, macular degeneration. Source of income? SSI, $745 per month. How much was your last rent? $525 a month. I pause at that. The math boggles the mind. I’d be homeless, too, if that percentage of my pension was taken up by housing. I read him the fine print that says by signing, he is authorizing a background check, including work history, financial records and criminal records. He stares at the television and chews his food, like he’s not listening. I ask if he understands what I just read. He nods.
He can’t see the line where he has to sign, so I place my hands over the paper to form a space he can aim for. He takes his time, signing in large cursive letters, carefully rendered. I tell him I’ve seen the apartments, that they’re really nice, and I wish him good luck. I assure him I’ll give the application to Brother Rob right away.
Just as we’re wrapping it up, there’s a loud disturbance from the door at the start of the food line. A man is swearing and hollering at Trevor, a St. Ben’s staff member, agitated about people getting up in his face, egging security on, ready to fight. Many of the people at the tables stand and face the commotion. They don’t look curious; they look ready. They know what’s happening, they read it better than I do, know how to go into action if things go down the wrong way.
I notice a woman trying to marshal her four little girls away from the serving line. The kids are confused, scared. Clutching the application, I duck under the red band that cordons off a section reserved for families, and position myself between the little girls and the angry outburst, blocking the view. I smile down at them, tell them everything’s okay, that it will be over in a minute and we’ll get our dinner. They instinctively move in. One hugs my body, and another buries her face in my side. I make eye contact with their mother. She wears a grim expression, as if she’s seen this way too much. The oldest child stares up at her for some sign of what to do.
With my back to the argument, I can’t see what’s happening, but I hear the man hollering, “Go ahead, call the police! I’ll tell them how you motherfuckers treat people here!” The staff at St. Ben’s know how to handle this with straightforward efficiency. The way will be parted, the man will be escorted out of the hall, and soon, the meal will resume with very little or no comment from anyone. The guests won’t say much, and the staff will check in discreetly with the volunteers to make sure they’re okay, and we all will go back to whatever we were doing.
I don’t watch, but I listen as they ask the line to move aside and hustle the agitated man away into the warming room next door, his shouts receding. The girl with her head buried in my side peers around me, then gives me a sparkly smile, which I take to mean the coast is clear.
The mother says, “This is the first time I’ve been here. How does this work?”
“I’ll help you with the kids,” I tell her. “You don’t have to wait in line. I’ll get you right in.”
“Come on,” Mom says wearily to her kids. The littlest girl grabs my hand, smiles up at me, and skips along as we go to the serving line, tiny braids bouncing so much that the plastic beads woven in rattle like a musical instrument. The volunteers tell her how pretty she is, and as the first serving is placed on her tray, this little one, who might be just about approaching age three smiles sweetly and says, “Thank you.” When we all compliment her manners, Mom finally warms up, her weary face softening into a moment of affection for her child.
My charge is thrilled with the turkey and dressing, but when we get to the red Jell-O, she really lights up. “Jell-O! I like Jello-O.”
“Is red your favorite?” I ask, and she nods. “Well then, you need another spoonful,” I say, and the server fills the biggest compartment on the tray with that wonderful, red Jell-O.
The mouth-watering aroma of a full turkey dinner greets me as I head into the kitchen to hang up my coat. One of the fellows who often works security is manning the rinsing station, his thick hair pulled into a bushy pony tail. I say, “Wow, you just work everywhere in this place.”
He gives me a big smile, recognizes me. “Wherever they need me.” Someday, I hope to learn his story. He asks how I am doing. I ask him the same. He’s relaxed, waiting for the rush of trays soon to be needing rinsing in the huge slop sink.
The kitchen manager comes around the corner. I tell him, “It sure smells good in here.”
“These volunteers brought in a nice dinner for us tonight,” he tells me, and I realize that – after eating at St. Ben’s for over a year- I don’t really know how the kitchen operates, how the food arrives and is prepared. I make a mental note to find out. All I know now is that it’s a big production involving a huge cast, all of them working hard to bring food and comfort to people who need it.
I find Brother Rob– rumor has it he’s being moved to a different assignment. I’m flabbergasted. This is the man who has worked tirelessly, not only with the meal program at St. Ben’s, but also in turning the abandoned St. Anthony’s hospital building into apartments through the Housing First initiative. If anyone is the heartbeat on the corner of 10thand State, it’s Brother Rob. Hoping it’s not true, that he doesn’t have to leave, I’m dismayed by the news that yes, he has been reassigned. But it’s not the time or place to discuss this, so we make arrangements to meet the week of my spring break. In typical Brother Rob fashion, he quickly deflects the attention off himself.
“Have you heard about the homeless man who died on the steps of Holy Redeemer?”
“What? No. Another person died? One by the library and another one by the church?”
He nods. That’s one homeless person dying per week for two weeks.
“Does anyone know who it was?”
“We don’t have a name yet. We heard he had a heart attack.”
“That’s terrible. What about the other man?” I ask. “Did we find out who that was yet?”
“Not yet.”
So, my friend Samuel disappeared four months ago. There’s a letter for him from Social Security that’s been held at St. Ben’s for a few weeks now, going unclaimed. And I haven’t seen Willy in three weeks. Samuel, I know, carries identification, but Willy, I’m not sure. Willy sleeps in the parking lot under the courthouse, and has never mentioned going to Holy Redeemer, but that’s where lunch is served, and is a nine block walk from the courthouse.
Brother Rob asks me to help a tall fellow the size of a defensive lineman fill out an application. I’ve never met this particular man before. Before I have a chance to even glance at the pages Brother Rob thrusts into my hand, the man hustles away and I hurry to follow. He carries his tray to the table directly under the television and pulls over a couple of chairs. No one sits at that table, and the racket from the T.V. mounted on the wall above us is distracting to me.
“Can you hear me? Is it too loud here?” I ask, wondering if I’ll be able to hear him.
The man points overhead. He doesn’t quite make eye contact with me. “Sound covers sound.”
He’s looking for privacy. A little spot of confidentiality. But he’s willing to let me ask for very personal information because it will help him in some way. I don’t even know what the application is for, so as he asks for milk and waits for the cup to be filled, I glance at the title. It’s an application for housing at St. Anthony’s. A pre-application, to be precise, just one page of questions and a disclaimer on page two.
I get his name, an address where his mail is going (“I don’t stay there,” he tells me. “That’s my sister’s place.”), and his social security number. When I ask for a phone number, he pulls out a slip of paper. (“They just gave me this phone today. I don’t know the number yet.”) I study the shaky writing on a yellow post-it note. We discuss what the numbers might say, because I can’t be sure if that’s a one or a seven, and is that a three or a five? I hope I get it right, and repeat it back to him. He nods, takes a bite of his food.
Then comes some questions I ask with professional efficiency. Are you homeless? Yes. Are you disabled? Legally blind, macular degeneration. Source of income? SSI, $745 per month. How much was your last rent? $525 a month. I pause at that. The math boggles the mind. I’d be homeless, too, if that percentage of my pension was taken up by housing. I read him the fine print that says by signing, he is authorizing a background check, including work history, financial records and criminal records. He stares at the television and chews his food, like he’s not listening. I ask if he understands what I just read. He nods.
He can’t see the line where he has to sign, so I place my hands over the paper to form a space he can aim for. He takes his time, signing in large cursive letters, carefully rendered. I tell him I’ve seen the apartments, that they’re really nice, and I wish him good luck. I assure him I’ll give the application to Brother Rob right away.
Just as we’re wrapping it up, there’s a loud disturbance from the door at the start of the food line. A man is swearing and hollering at Trevor, a St. Ben’s staff member, agitated about people getting up in his face, egging security on, ready to fight. Many of the people at the tables stand and face the commotion. They don’t look curious; they look ready. They know what’s happening, they read it better than I do, know how to go into action if things go down the wrong way.
I notice a woman trying to marshal her four little girls away from the serving line. The kids are confused, scared. Clutching the application, I duck under the red band that cordons off a section reserved for families, and position myself between the little girls and the angry outburst, blocking the view. I smile down at them, tell them everything’s okay, that it will be over in a minute and we’ll get our dinner. They instinctively move in. One hugs my body, and another buries her face in my side. I make eye contact with their mother. She wears a grim expression, as if she’s seen this way too much. The oldest child stares up at her for some sign of what to do.
With my back to the argument, I can’t see what’s happening, but I hear the man hollering, “Go ahead, call the police! I’ll tell them how you motherfuckers treat people here!” The staff at St. Ben’s know how to handle this with straightforward efficiency. The way will be parted, the man will be escorted out of the hall, and soon, the meal will resume with very little or no comment from anyone. The guests won’t say much, and the staff will check in discreetly with the volunteers to make sure they’re okay, and we all will go back to whatever we were doing.
I don’t watch, but I listen as they ask the line to move aside and hustle the agitated man away into the warming room next door, his shouts receding. The girl with her head buried in my side peers around me, then gives me a sparkly smile, which I take to mean the coast is clear.
The mother says, “This is the first time I’ve been here. How does this work?”
“I’ll help you with the kids,” I tell her. “You don’t have to wait in line. I’ll get you right in.”
“Come on,” Mom says wearily to her kids. The littlest girl grabs my hand, smiles up at me, and skips along as we go to the serving line, tiny braids bouncing so much that the plastic beads woven in rattle like a musical instrument. The volunteers tell her how pretty she is, and as the first serving is placed on her tray, this little one, who might be just about approaching age three smiles sweetly and says, “Thank you.” When we all compliment her manners, Mom finally warms up, her weary face softening into a moment of affection for her child.
My charge is thrilled with the turkey and dressing, but when we get to the red Jell-O, she really lights up. “Jell-O! I like Jello-O.”
“Is red your favorite?” I ask, and she nods. “Well then, you need another spoonful,” I say, and the server fills the biggest compartment on the tray with that wonderful, red Jell-O.