out, and playing Checkers with other people who were down on their luck as well. Prue spiced up the lunches, bullying her way into the kitchen, and Dad and Matthias and Harry would make friends as they sat on the hard plastic chairs, sipping coffee and telling stories. Israel was the only one who never spent too much time in this place, instead he spent his time around other parts of town, looking for houses cheap enough to rent or merely squat in for a time, and trying to make connections with doctors who might give him a job or teach him the practice of medicine.
I swing open the large, doublewide glass doors and the familiar smell of potatoes, hot steam, chicken, boiled vegetables, and cleaning supplies hits my nose. The long tables are clean and empty, the chairs all pushed in neatly. It is only late morning and the only people here will be Jim, the director, and all his volunteers, getting ready to serve the lunch crowd. Jim is a heavy set, jovial man, with a large nose, pink cheeks and frizzy, wiry, white hair. He is upbeat and comical and nothing ever gets him down. He was threatened with a knife once long ago, from a homeless man who was high and angry, and Jim still goes each weekend to visit him in prison, bringing him leftovers from the soup kitchen wrapped in foil. I hear they are now good friends.
I spot Jim now, moving in the back of the kitchen at a speed that is surprising for a man his bulk. He claps his workers on their backs and spurs them on as he makes his rounds, checking the food, the ovens, and the dishwashing station. As he slings a white dishtowel over his shoulder, he spots me and shouts merrily.
“Sonnet Gray! Is that you? Are you on the schedule today? It must be our lucky day!” he beams and steps out of the kitchen towards me, where I am waiting and smiling by the salad bar.
“No, I’m not on the schedule but I’ll help out if you like,” I embrace him fondly. “I’m doing my laundry and wanted to stop by and say hello. How are things?” I pop a carrot in my mouth from the salad bar and he shakes his finger at me playfully.
“Now, now, that carrot is going to cost you two hours of manual labor, young lady! Suit up! You know where the aprons are.” Jim shoos me towards the kitchen and I obey, grabbing a long white apron as I pass them on their hooks. I have worn my Budweiser cap this morning, so I can skip the hairnet, which is a plus.
“Any new regulars?” I ask, busying myself by pulling out huge stacks of white plates and setting them on the counter. “Say, a girl about my age, blond hair, my eyes, red dress?”
Jim is counting plates for a moment and does not answer. “We need bowls too. Clam chowder today,” he responds. “Umm, blond hair, blue eyes, huh? Well, we’ve been busy lately, lots of newbies. It’s been a good summer for camping and hiking and hitchhiking, so we’ve had a run of those types. Been so busy actually, I haven’t had time to meet everyone. But I guess if she’s real regular I’d know her alright. If she’s only been here once or twice, she’d have gotten lost in the shuffle. Might ask around.”
“That’s what I’ll do, thanks, Jim. Serving at noon straight up?”
He nods, absentmindedly, going back to counting stacks of dishes. The kitchen moves with efficiency, bustling and moving along with its tasks like clockwork. All of Jim’s volunteers are well trained and hustle quickly, baking the chicken, stirring the peas, mashing the instant potatoes, and whisking the gravy. This room, this teamwork, these smells, will be one of the things I remember most about my time in the twenty first century.
After the dishes are pulled and stacked in convenient rows where the customers can easily access them, I start slicing small squares of chocolate cake and plating them. The rows multiply fast and before I know it I have enough tiny white plates of dessert to feed an army and it’s noon straight up and Jim is propping open the front doors. I lick the frosting off my fingertips and when I catch Jim narrowing his eyes at me for this health code offense, I wash my hands and take my place in line