MORE THAN I DESERVED

       I got to spend 7 hours with Hottie today. No one hogged our work time in the kitchen. No one interrupted interminably. I was blessed hour upon hour with time to try to make up for lost time. Too wordy, I know; but, I will never fully understand why that sweet child was there for nearly a year during which I stayed away because of a crazy man who has now been banished from the place forever... you remember Crazy. Thief! Banished! Yes, Doug feels sorry for him, but that's Crazy's shtick, and he does it so well!
     Time to move on—forgive the past for its meanness—forgive life for its inevitability.
     I awoke at 6:20 this morning, went back to sleep and didn't wake again until 9:40, but I was at the shelter at 10:15, and it's a 15-minute drive. I want applause for being a woman who is so organized that she can dress, eat a bite of breakfast and get her ass in the car in 20 minutes. Thank you.
     Tomorrow is Hottie's last day with us. I was privileged to spend all of today with him, and even to be at the "good-bye" celebration his co-workers gave him—complete with an enormous cake. He knew something like that was in the wind, and he thought it was to happen tomorrow... but no... it was today. Best of all, and to his relief, he didn't cry. Sometimes, you just want to take them home with you!!!
     We made dozens of lunch and breakfast sacks; we (he) concocted an enormous pot of soup for tonight's dinner, and we tried to invent a special dessert. That effort began in the storage closet where we were told there was a fresh box of donated canned goods. Hottie excitedly extracted several dozen cans of pumpkin (ew), sweet potatoes, evaporated milk... you name it. He was mentally mixing up a pumpkin dessert, sans recipe.
     Back in the kitchen, I convinced the hot one that we could make a pumpkin/sweetatater cobbler, and that I could make the pastry for it. He surprised me with boxes of pie crust mix! I made the crust and lined a huge pan with it. Meanwhile, he opened many cans of pumpkin—old, old cans.
     Here's the thing: I've always believed that canned goods were "good" for as long as we want to believe they are—like in a bomb shelter. That is not true. Our "test kitchen" discovered that 5-year-old cans of pumpkin, pie cherries and sweet potatoes are dark and yucky. Hottie ATE half a can of those dark, partially fermented pie cherries. You just CANNOT tell a man when to put a thing in his mouth and when to not!
     In the end, our dinner offering was the soup, a scoop of pre-fab chicken salad, and a roll. The autistic boy whined that he wanted grated cheese on his soup, but I told him, "We're not serving that today." Our "crazy as a shot cat" sweetie came for coffee in the afternoon. I'm telling you, she is just precious and so delightful. I must pass this on to Doug! He hasn't been able to see it. My little gay fellow came in twice, and I gave him the "sign," so he knows I'm on his side. His smile was more than thanks enough.
     Oh! The turnover that's coming frightens me! No more Hottie, no more security guard, and no professionals on the horizon. En plus there is still no peephole in the back door, and street folks still knock there daily, demanding food and drinks. I don't understand. And did I mention that a uniformed head honcho has strolled through the kitchen twice this week? They don't look at or speak to me. Maybe they're too busy praying for me...
     Well... it was after 5 o'clock when I took off my apron and hugged that sweet boy good-bye. I can only hope that he meant it when he said he'd be back to visit us. We will surely be wanting to see him again.

IT'S ALMOST OVER

     Doug is taking some vacation days this week, so Hottie and I held down the kitchen today. I had nothing better (or nearly as good) to do. Anticipating an emotionally difficult few hours, I was surprised to have the gift of FIVE HOURS with him—and time to dig deeply into who we are. En plus, God willing, I will have the same opportunity tomorrow.
     No, I won't be sharing it. It's just too much. Suffice it to say 5 hours of intense bonding will get most intelligent people to a point of mutual understanding. Too, the pleasure of creating 2 meals together and planning 2 more was enough in itself. Anticipating his not being there ever again just breaks my heart, but the child has a life, and he needs to live it; it's not about me.
     To my delight, Hottie sees "crazy as a shot cat" the same way I do: She is intelligent and engaging—just different. Oh, and we have that young gay fellow who is so very sober and charming. He went for a job interview today. I am anxious to hear about it tomorrow and to let him know that he has at least one friend in the building.
     None of us knows who will take the position of gatekeeper. Sometimes they are good workers, and sometimes they are strange… tomorrow is another day.

WHERE ARE MY WORDS?

     It's Hottie's last Sunday. When I arrived at 10, he was in the kitchen with Doug, but he said only, "I gotta go," and scooted back to the office. Doug says Hottie cries when he sees me. Later, Hottie said something to the effect that I had made a great impact on his life. Now isn't that just the pits? I mean, if he feels impacted in an uplifting way, that's a good thing; but, to get that from an old woman who is just crazy smitten with him is kinda sad. I guess this is our queue to say, "Sometimes lust is a good thing." No? Yes?
     I made more than a gallon of potato salad for today's lunch, and I managed to haul all of it up the back steps by myself, along with my goodie bag and purse. It's a beautiful day—sunshine and warmth. Kevin who slept on our back stairs last week would enjoy this weather, but he's in jail this week. Doug says he committed a felony or two. In spite of Kevin's shortcomings, Doug cares about him. He took me to the back porch and pointed across the street to an empty lot where Kevin has created a poor man's version of an apartment, complete with metal folding chair. Imagine coming home to this every night. Nothing in your world would be safe, like it is when you and I close and lock our doors.

     I suppose the fencing gives Kevin a certain feeling of security, but that space is no more secure from predators than it was from him. The big blue trash bin would keep a fellow dry, albeit cramped, and those other trappings consist of the folding chair and sundry fabrics. As for his important belongings, Kevin keeps those in a broken refrigerator on the shelter's back porch. Doug wrenched the refrigerator away from the wall until he was able to open the door so I could see Kevin's winter jacket, a big bag of popcorn, and a few other things—safe from molestation.

     Waiting for the lunch hour, we made breakfast bags and PBJ sacks. Lunch was to be my potato salad, Doug's pasta and chicken casserole, and English peas. We had only about 20 guests, but many requested seconds, and most of the food was eaten.

     The fancy lady has left the shelter. Doug says she was angry because she always kept up with her rent payments, whereas many others do not, and though she had a private room, apparently she felt that she was not receiving enough. It's curious. Where did she go? If she needed the shelter (at about $5 per day), how did she find better? And what is her goal?

     Our autistic boy was cut off abruptly by his mother when he reached a hand toward his plate to a) pick up and reject some of the food or b) complain. I heard nothing, but the corner of my eye saw the whole thing.

     One of our 9-year-old boys was at lunch, and I asked him if he'd like to have some Play Doh. "What's that?" he asked. I took a green and a red can from my bag.

     "Which one would you like?"

     "Both," he said.

     "Choose one," I said. He took the green. Then I offered him a box of crayons. He took that too.

     I enjoyed engaging our "crazy as a shot cat" girl with smiles. She was sweet, gave me eye contact, and was enjoying bits of rapport with others.

     I met "the gay one" today. Of course, he is beautiful, and one wonders how he came to be there. His manners are impeccable, and he had a whole second plate. Next week, I think I'll tell him he has a hag—we all need support.

     When the lunchroom had cleared out, Doug and I cleaned up and began dinner. He prepared green beans, fried okra, fried chicken and rolls. We made up 40 plates, wrapped them and put them in the warming oven for Hottie to serve at 4:00. I didn't get out of there until 2:00. As I neared my car, the little boy and his dad passed down the sidewalk and called to me, "Thanks for all you did today!" I wished them a good week, but really, I should be thanking them.

     Doug will take a vacation day tomorrow, and I will go to the shelter to help Hottie make sack lunches, PBJs, breakfast bags, and dinner on his last Monday there. Sometimes you just want to take a child home with you…

     

EVERYTHING IS UPSIDE DOWN

     Doug didn't have a helper today, so I went in at 10. He had the meat sandwiches and PBJs well underway. I bagged and sacked a few dozen meals from those, then 12 breakfast sacks. He put two big turkeys in the oven for tomorrow's dinner and simmered corn and carrots for tonight's. This being a weekday, our diners got only sack lunches, and we had a group of almost 10.
     Around 11, a man came to the back door wanting a sack lunch. Doug gave him one. This man is well known here; when he's sober, he's brilliant, but more often he's stoned. Today he was not brilliant. About an hour later, Doug called me to the back door and I peeped out to see our late-morning guest sound asleep on the back stairs. He'd spent last night on the courthouse steps, rain and all, until they ran him off at 4 a.m. The will to live is a powerful thing.
     Hottie was in and out of the kitchen, sometimes plying his usual act-the-fool shtick, and sometimes engaged with Doug on more serious issues of shelter work. They bounce between those behaviors too quickly to interject, so I didn't. Hottie is withdrawing. He used to be so engaging, but now he more often retreats from opportunities to speak in full sentences and makes hasty exits to his office.
     Whatever brought him there was not a happy event, and the thing that is pulling him home is causing some pain too.
     After lunch, Doug deep fried two large pans of chicken fingers and set them on the work table alongside the pots of carrots and corn. He asked me to fill 40 plates for tonight's dinner, cover them and put them in the warming oven while he went up to the office to interview a man.
     The fellow had come to the shelter looking for a position like mine. A wealthy Englishman, he feels that he needs to "get in the trenches" and experience some real life. Boy, I hope he joins us on a Sunday or two! I'd love to share the trenches with a neophyte and observe. It's too bad he couldn't have been with us today; we certainly had show and tell!

PLEASE DON'T CRY

I knew something sad was afoot when I stepped into the kitchen at 10 o'clock. Doug was filling a tray with PBJs and wearing a solemn face. The dining room lights were not lit, and the pleated metal curtain at the serving counter was down—as if the place were still in night mode. I put away my things, donned my apron, and washed my hands. Doug offered some vague greetings but no smile. He had unrolled my rubber mat and put it in front of the work table, which was awfully thoughtful.

So the stage was set—darkened dining room, closed serving counter, and just the two of us. It stayed that way for a long while. Hottie's absence was palpable, and while I felt certain he was minding the front desk, I also knew there was a sad reason he was not in the kitchen with his usual Sunday razzing. That's when Doug announced rather hurriedly that Hottie is leaving, returning to his home state, will be here just one more Sunday, and the shelter's organization will be turned upside down after that. Here's an opportunity to save some money...

He went into the myriad ways the organization was hoping to rearrange things, the worst of which is that they plan to use residents to work the front desk and in the kitchen on Doug's days off. That, we agree, opens a can of worms for theft and neglect of all sorts. And, yes, giving residents some responsibility for their provisions is good, but putting the responsibility of other residents in their hands might not be so good.

I listened quietly to Doug's lengthy input, but I couldn't ignore the feeling in my chest, as if a death had just been announced. I set to work sacking the PBJs, and Doug asked me to "mind the store" while he went up the street to gas up his truck. There was no reason he could not do that on his way home... except that as soon as he left, Hottie slid into the kitchen. I wonder if they'd planned that, thinking I might cry, and I might have, but Hottie looked sad enough for both of us.

So the cat was out of the bag, and a semblance of normalcy resumed when Doug returned. I made meat sandwiches, lunch sacks and breakfast sacks. Doug kept an eye on the meatloaf he was baking for dinner. Lunch was to be chicken nuggets and French fries. That's all. It was good that I had brought a half dozen oranges and 20 bananas. Hottie took SIX of them. Most of the residents got HALF a banana. The autistic fellow picked up his banana and said, "I don't eat these," but his mom came between us before I had a chance to correct his manners. Lucky for him.

That young woman who was said to be "crazy as a shot cat" is one that I am studying carefully, albeit opportunity is slim. Today, it just so happened that as she approached the counter, Doug grabbed my pan of chicken nuggets and went to refill it. "Well!" I said to the young woman, "your nuggets have been taken!" She smiled, gave me good eye contact and replied in kind—normal as apple pie. Within seconds, a fresh pan of hot nuggets was brought to the counter, and I filled the woman's plate. I remarked that her nuggets would be very hot, and she agreed, but she was pleased. There was no shot cat in the room! And her EYES stayed mostly on track. I was so pleased to see her have a truly normal few moments. She's pleasant too!

The fancy lady wasn't there today, but we had quite a crowd, as Doug said they also had yesterday. He assumes it's the gloomy weather. We're expecting rain all week. All three of the young folks who work at the hotel across the street came for a plate of food. We enjoyed visiting with them. There were four little boys at lunch! Next week, I'll be sure to have crayons and PlayDoh with me. My daughter dropped in, and everyone enjoyed meeting her—she has an enviable charismatic charm. I take no credit for it.

Eventually, just Doug, the hot one and I were left in the kitchen. Doug asked Hottie, "What's the story about that fellow who just left the dining room?" Hottie said he didn't think the fellow had a special story other than "he's" [Hottie offered a limp wrist]. Right there I got a brief insight into both boys. Hottie hasn't reconciled that gay is just another way to be human, and Doug is light years ahead of him.

Doug said, "Sure, but that's not what I'm asking you."
I said, "Maybe he's a little bit angry with the world."
Hottie stood by his opinion, whatever that is.

That's when Doug found a can of raw oysters in the cabinet, and those crazy guys opened it and tasted the juice!!! OMG!!! All I did was smell it, and the taste crawled down my throat, but they literally had that nastiness IN their throats. There was spitting in sinks and garbage cans, slurping and rinsing from the sink, and a lot of sorry. I hope there's no other payback for that antic.

Well... it's sinking in. Change is afoot, and I don't like it. Fantasies are rare; we hate to lose one.

VALENTINE'S IS HOT

     When I arrived at 9:45, Doug was hunched over the work table, slapping peanut butter on bread as fast as he could. He seemed intense—I assumed of ill humor. Wrong. By the time I got my apron and gloves on, we were engaged in happy conversation, and very soon The Hot One strolled into the kitchen. "What's that smell?" he demanded.
     "It's me," I answered, alluding to my perfume… flirting… though he was clearly goading Cook about the food on the stove.
     The three of us bantered a bit, and on heading back toward his desk, Hottie said, "I can't get any work done with all this goofing off y'all are doing."
     "You were working?" I asked.
     So the tone was set for today's kitchen adventure. Doug had family stories to tell, I was racing to keep up with him while packing breakfast, lunch, and PBJ sacks, and Hottie reappeared just often enough to keep the good times rolling. Our radio station was pumping out the country oldies too. There was not too much of anything.
     For lunch, Doug made his famous potato soup with wee corn dogs on the side. Crackers would have finished off the meal except that I had made little skewers of olives, tomatoes and cheeses, and wee bags of candy hearts for each plate. Those things are pricey, and my old battered wrists and thumbs don't enjoy the slicing and threading, but doing something special for "my people" gives me a glow that is hard to come by. The downside (and there is one) is that since we have no prisoners to serve—having only the homeless to care for—there are few who will put olives and tomatoes in their mouths. Hottie says, "They don't have sophisticated palates." These people understand basics such as bread, hot dogs and sugar. So I won't be spending my money on those again. They did enjoy the candy hearts.
     I had an interesting encounter with our autistic 17-year-old who shoved his plate back at me, pointed to the skewer and said, "I don't eat those!"
     "Fine," I said, "You don't have to eat them."
     He picked up the skewer and tried to give it to me. "I don't want them," he pushed.
     "So give them to your mother," I suggested.
     "No," he said, still pushing the food toward me.
     "You cannot return those to the kitchen," I said firmly, adding, "just throw them away."
     With that, he abandoned the fight.
     Two hours later, Doug said, "Oh, Miss Joy! I nearly lost it when that kid got into it with you, but you handled it really great! I was so mad I had to call [the gatekeeper] to let off steam!" It's fascinating that Doug even heard that brief exchange with the boy, much less was upset by it. I was just being a good worker (with parenting skills). So let's assume Doug feels very protective of me. Are you smiling? I am.
     The fancy lady ate at least five of the olive/tomato skewers, with her one bowl of soup. She never eats the corn dogs. Her background is so obviously filled with privilege and plenty—how did she come to be here?
     At 1 o'clock, as I prepared to leave, Hottie came to the pantry and told me how special are the days when I am there. I'm sure he means to say that my presence relieves a lot of the tedium of his job, if only for a few short hours; however, his hotness contributes to my life more than such a child would ever imagine.
     Maybe I'm really not good enough to volunteer at a homeless shelter...
     

SOUP

     Doug and Hottie were in low gear at 9:45 when I arrived, just biding their time until the lunch rush. Doug had some meatloaves in the oven for dinner, and a huge pan of chili covered two stove burners for lunch. He was proud of that chili until he discovered how hot it was! On the side, he was serving chicken salad. I never understand the balance of these meals, but generally they'll keep a body afloat fairly well.
     In addition, I took a pot of soup that I'd prepared last night. I found the makings in a lovely little box at TJMaxx for $2.99. There was a little window on the box through which you could see dried lentils, rice, barley, peas and other such. The recipe was called "Chicken Thyme." A packet of flavoring came in the box. The instructions called for nearly 2 pounds of chicken breasts. So I got the bug to make that soup yesterday, and within an hour or so I realized there was far too much for me to consume, even if I froze many containers. So I schlepped the pot to the shelter this morning. I'll admit, it wasn't "pretty" with the green hue of the thyme and the slick look of the barley, but it tasted good!

    Before lunch, Doug put me to work bagging and sacking PBJs and sacking breakfast bags. Must have made 3 or 4 dozen all together. Hottie was in and out of the kitchen, bantering with Doug, keeping just enough space between himself and me… oh, sigh. If I ask a question, I get a silly answer, but when he wants to impart information, he's quite sage. He cheerfully unlocked the food closet to give me access to chicken stock. His sense of humor had him grabbing cans of hot chili peppers, jars of pink boiled eggs and pickled pigs' feet, as if he found those irresistible delicacies. So he bounces between acting the fool and closed.
     In the kitchen pantry, I found two large boxes of CANDY! The boys let me bring home a little bag of Dove chocolates… and I put Hershey kisses on each plate.
     The chicken thyme soup did better than expected. Those who were brave enough to try it asked for seconds, and Doug talked Hottie into trying it, with success.
     The kids from the hotel across the street didn't come today. Doug and I packed up the leftovers for the afternoon snack time, and he will make the dinner plates later, as the meatloaves were not done when I left.
     The little girl and her mother have moved to another shelter. One of our mothers has brought all four of her children to the shelter now, though I've never seen her or them, and yet another mother has come with a 2-month-old baby (another no-show today). The weather is lovely, and many shelter residents have family and friends they spend time with on the weekends.
     The fancy lady was extra available today. She stayed in the dining room a long time and found numerous reasons to converse with the staff. While I want to understand that such an elegant woman would need camaraderie with peers, her lifestyle and accomplishments are simply not in line with her grace and style.
     The main event of the week, Doug said, was the day a big black SUV (cops) arrived at the shelter, and everyone there was ordered to their rooms. Soon, a taxi arrived, and when the taxi fare stepped out, other vehicles swarmed in with heavily armed police who nabbed the man. He was found with FOUR guns on his person. He had come to kill a woman who broke up with him (as well as everyone else at the shelter). Fortunately, the targeted woman had been threatened and had reported it. Four guns. Wonder if he had licenses for those… or how he obtained them… but most of all why that is so "normal." Guns should be more like green chicken soup—good on occasion, but not needed in abundance.