EXPECTATIONS

     Yesterday, I prepared enough hors d'oeuvres skewers to feed the lunch group—green and black olives, cherry tomatoes, pepper jack and cheddar cheese cubes. On arrival at 9:30 this morning, I put those in the walk-in refrigerator and promptly forgot them.
     I'd shopped for soup makings this week, so I set about opening cans and filling the big soup pot. Hottie strolled through and alternated feigning interest and disgust. Doug had begun the morning with remnants of a sickly hangover, but within an hour or so he and Hottie had morphed into a pair of 10-year-olds practicing slap-stick. Boys will be boys will be boys—apparently forever.
     Before my soup could begin simmering, I realized there wasn't enough, so I asked Hottie if he would allow me to raid the food closet. I followed him through the long hall and out the locked door into the foyer where three men were sleeping off their previous evenings. Two were propped on plastic boxes known as "seats," and one was sprawled on the vinyl floor. Hottie gently pushed the man's feet away from the food pantry door, as he unlocked it. The man roused groggily and repositioned himself when Hottie explained that he was blocking the closet door.
     I've always had strange feelings about walking through that foyer on Sunday mornings when the night's "leftovers" are sleeping on the floor. There they are—unkempt, homeless, helpless, and surprisingly curious about the lady in the apron who is obviously not a social worker. Hottie left me to help myself in the closet, and I let myself out, my apron filled with cans of vegetables. He walked me back to the dining room where he unlocked that door for me. I'm telling you—those halls are eerie, almost as if no one lives there at all. I suppose the residents are all tucked into their rooms until mealtime—except for those on the floor who get no meals... tho I did see Hottie fill a plate and secret it out of the kitchen.
     Word has it that Crazy has been in contract with the shelter, crying and begging for work. Word also reports that his drinking is back in full swing. Word shares that Hottie was once a resident there, and a thin fellow. Perhaps he has a story that would explain how he looks old beyond his years. I was disappointed to hear that he has suffered like that.
     He brought an interesting tale to the kitchen: A resident came to him this week to request some flipflops to wear in the shower. Those are available. Hottie turned to access the supply closet for the flipflops only to have the resident say, "Oh, and while you're in there, could you get me a breakfast tray with folding legs?"
     Doug and I knew immediately WHO had made the request—the princess herself. I mean, really—a breakfast tray. Perhaps she thinks the shelter might also provide silk bed jackets and room service... At least she's completely civil and not in debt to the place. On the other hand, our little girl and her mother are completely in debt, having not paid one day of their rent. Doug says they will be sent away this week.
     The soup was served with chicken nuggets. For dinner, Doug made barbeque. We plated it on buns with pork 'n beans. At dinnertime, Hottie will add potato salad to the plates—and skewers of olives, etc.! Geeze.
     The kids from the hotel across the street came for a long visit and ate heartily. Their female companion had been sick all morning, but she ate some of the soup and said it made her stomach feel better. I can only hope I don't catch anything!
     A friend of Doug's came by when lunch was over to pick up day-old plates of food to feed to his dogs. Doug gave him a large container to fill with soup to take home. He mentioned sharing it with his prayer group tonight. Hottie was late to lunch, but he ate the soup. Even I ate the soup. Finally, decent soup!
     We surely had a crowd of "visitor" folks in the kitchen today! Nice folks all.
     Just when I think I know what to expect, that simple expedition offers up a plethora of surprises. Life is so much better that way!