We call him Picasso

I stepped into the noisy atmosphere at the Drop Inn, feeling as though I was obviously sticking out. Yet, after about ten seconds of taking it all in, I realized that nobody was even paying attention to what I was doing, which was standing nervously with my hands in my pockets gazing around the room. I had to make myself obvious, walking over to what I took to be the reception counter, if you could term it that, and wait for either of the two Drop Inn volunteers, sitting behind it and chatting with one another, to notice that I was clearly at a loss for what to do. “We're from Miami” somebody said behind me. “Thank you to that person,” I'm thinking.

OK. Four stations. One, two, three, four, count them. Bread, water, potato salad, and whatever is in the soup vat; it looks like beans and meat. And since everyone now decides to use the bathroom right at this crucial moment when I can have my pick at which station is the most desirable I'll abdicate that right for now and just people watch.

At the back of the room there's a bunch of people watching a flat screen television, of all things, but I can't tell what program it's showing. And there's a guy just to the right of the screen with an iPod just breaking it down. I mean breaking it down. With nobody in particular paying attention to him, except myself, of course, this guy looks like he's attempting some sort of a dance routine on America's Got Talent.

Enough people watching, as it's now time to start serving the first wave of hungry people. Under the cooks instructions I had filled up about five or six little dishes of potato salad so I didn't manage to back up the serving line, but every time somebody came through my station they always wanted the scoop that I was currently dolloping into the newest dish.

I thought, “Um, I just dished those other five out about thirty seconds ago, and I didn't poison them, you sure you don't want any of those?” But they would come through, look directly into my eyes as I dished it, then look directly at the salad. Eyes. Salad. Eyes. Salad. It was like some ninja mind game from Karate Kid I was clearly losing.

One scraggly looking old guy was very appreciative of my efforts. He cruised right through the line, over to me. “Potato salad! It ain't gonna smell too good in here tonight, HAHAHA!” I don't know why I found that so funny, maybe it was because I wasn't sitting at his table; I am so easily amused.

After the line finished up the famed portrait drawer with colored pencils showed up with his tribute to Amanda – I'm not sure if she was more flattered that he thought so much of her or creeped out that he had been watching her the whole evening while she was unaware. He lay the drawing down to put the meticulous finishing touches on the work, grabbing the attention of a few others who had finished eating. “We call him Picasso,” said one guy I hadn't noticed was there. It was a really nice picture of Amanda's face. The guy with the iPod had now moved over the entrance, still breaking it down as we left.

It came as no surprise that each of the women with me had been hit on at some point during the evening, but as we walked past a crowd loitering outside the Inn somebody yelled “Hey, guy!” at me. I'd been asked earlier why I hadn't cracked a smile all night. Unfortunately, the answer came about fifteen minutes later, as we left, at which time I'm pretty sure the guy with the iPod was still inside, still breaking it down.