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...