It started to snow on the way there. The conversation flowed, though the farther back the harder to hear. Swerving between lanes, seatbelts secured. And the final destination. Small side street with brick buildings hugging tightly until the end. Dark and dimmed street lights. Our first human interaction was an obscure face accompanied by an every so friendly “bitch”, as we turned the corner into the building.
It was a big room, sectioned off into smaller. Rows of benches facing a large tv. Picnic table after picnic table. And then counters for the food to seal off the last part.
We wait for just a little, awkward, with looks from some and others just ignore.
I was water duty with Ambrose. He was serious about his job. Staff liked to joke with him. In a good way. Teamwork.
They would call off the benches by the tv in order after injured and over sixty and over fifty went. It would be a mad rush for a good spot in line. A long line. All at once. Some thank yous, some heads down. Some god bless, some short conversations.
“how are you?”
“good, you?”
“I have a head ache”
“oh I’m sorry”
“yeah”
some would sneak seconds. But don’t get caught.
NO SECONDS. ARE YOU STUPID?? DIDN’T YOU HEAR NO SECONDS
Though there were low points there were conversations that were pleasant. How they can be so grateful to even have the option of free food, no matter how bad it is. Others were not so happy, especially when the ravioli changed to beans. One, inconsiderate. Still, majority thankful.
“how are you?”
“ok, you?”
“just ok?”
“yeah, but its better than a bad ok”
“that’s true”
it was interesting to watch. Interesting. The red//orange sauce warm sauce dripping down the lip, attaching to the grey beard. The concentration on the pencil to the paper. The ymca paper. The concentration there rather than on the food in front of him. I saw mumbles. Some downed their water and grabbed another. Avoid eye contact. Ashamed?
One thought that Ambrose was my kid. I calculated, I would have been thirteen when I had him. I am glad I do not have a kid.
Another kept coming back. He would keep getting water. And smile. And then oranges at the end.
“you really like those oranges don’t you”
“yeah” smile “whats your name?”
taken aback “nina”
“that’s a really pretty name”
“thanks”
silence
“how old are you”
again, taken aback “eighteen”
“oh. Wow. You don’t look eighteen. You look older then eighteen”
“hahaa oh well thanks”
there were friends coming back.
A money exchange
A peace walker. Walked across the US. For peace.
An artist with YMCA paper
A jokester. Were his stories true? Maybe if they made sense
Young, old.
I wasn’t uncomfortable. As we watch them, they watch us. Maybe not exactly for a class, but for themselves. I have done thiat s before. I like to help. I like to talk, to be friendly. Why not? It makes me uncomfortable to look at the experience as if we were using them. So why think of it that way if it makes you uncomfortable?
When we were all done the residents cleaned washed everything down and we headed out the door, with a final may god bless you.
One of the things Nina mentioned was avoiding eye contact. I got to thinking about when I avoid eye contact. When I don't want to talk to people mostly I guess. I ponder about being homeless. Would I be the friendly one? Or would I too avoid contact? And then it occurred to me. I would probably avoid eye contact too.
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