FLOPPING ON THE PIER

     Nothing is "usual" anymore. The shelter budget has been stripped to a bare bone, and a thin one at that. A supervisor was fired (and banned from the premises); they still refuse to hire a gatekeeper for daytime on weekends, as Doug is there... so he is expected to manage the kitchen and the front of the building. Today, he tried to shoo away a hoard of loiterers, and found it necessary to call the law. Loiterers leave a lot of trash at our front door—and they "do things" out there for which we don't want to be known. The place needs an official gatekeeper.
     Sack lunches are becoming a thing of the past. We keep a few, but in-house folks are served donated hot meals every day at lunch as well as dinner now. There is very little actual cooking, as the donations require only heating. Lunch today was a chicken/rice/broccoli casserole, black-eyed peas with spinach, and a roll. No complaints.
     I cannot report on the dinner menu, as I didn't stay to help load the plates. Ex-gatekeeper was there to help and I was tired—mostly from doing very little.
     The boss from the hotel across the street came for a lunch plate, and he said that every one of the shelter and/or post-convict folks he's hired from our place has failed to maintain their positions with the hotel. I was disappointed to hear that the tall, thin trans fellow has also quit that job ("because his girl friend is out of jail now, and he has better things to do").
     Of the little boys, only the chub was at lunch, snubbing our offerings as always.
     I didn't see the deaf fellow, but Fancy Lady and I had a long talk. She avoids pasta (and all carbs), and it's plain to see, as her figure is perfect. She said her friend with the cane is in hospital, but only after being forced to go, after four long days in bed, not eating, and suffering from pneumonia. Maybe she's not as intelligent or fully functional as I've assumed.
     I packed a lot of PBJ sacks. It's just not funny when the acrid smell of old grease from a freshly opened but long out-dated bag of pretzels assaults one's nose. Still, that's what we have, and that's what those on the street get: two PBJs, some really old pretzels and a soda.
     In late morning, a young man came to the back door and asked for some towels. Doug pulled off a handful and sent the fellow on his way. We didn't want to know what those were for.
     Doug is taking some vacation days, and the new PR guy asked me to "do" next Friday. I told him I really didn't want to. He said, "You'll be fine because my parents will help you." I repeated myself; he repeated himself. So I guess next Friday will be on me. Were it not for the heavy lifting, I'd rather do it alone!