Doug was extremely proud to tell me that all we had to do was sack the meat sandwiches—that took 10 minutes. Lunch was in the oven and among the donations in the walk-in fridge. There were massive amounts of aluminum baking pans filled with restaurant donations in that fridge, in the walk-in freezer and in the wide, lighted wall fridge—meals, was far as the taste buds could imagine. Too far.
The lunch bunch numbered about 10, and some had the gall to come as much as 90 minutes late, but everyone was pleasant. After that, Doug spent some time helping the gatekeeper with a man who made her nervous… and then a woman came in who was feeling suicidal. They gave her a sack lunch, but very soon she was hauled off by the EMTs. The shelter foyer receives many visitors from the streets—the saddest in winter.
Doug and I plated 37 meals for dinner. When I left, Kevin was wobbling about on the lift, tidying his area. He called to me, "Hey there. Stop." I pretended I didn't notice, not wanting to become involved in a lengthy discussion of the outer dimension we call the Twilight Zone. He called twice more, raising his voice to a level I could not ignore. He just wanted to wish "Miss Lady" and nice weekend. How does one keep track of weekends when days and nights roll into a perpetual ball of hunger, thirst, addiction, collecting and sleep?
You have a nice weekend too.
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