each get a ladleful for starters," the young woman serving rice beside him said helpfully. She was holding out a plate of rice and he took it automatically, plopping chili on top before handing it, in turn, to the waiting woman.
"Thank you" the old lady murmured. "So sorry to have disturbed you." She took her plate and sailed regally down the line toward the basket of corn bread, leaving T.S. to wonder just what her hidden meaning might have been. Sarcasm, he suspected.
"That's Adelle," the rice volunteer informed T.S. "She's sort of the head of the regulars here."
She was also the hungriest, T.S. decided, when he spotted her for what must have been the fourth time in the line. How could she be eating all that chili? My God, the thought was frightening. Until he realized he wasn't seeing Adelle again at all—he was seeing different versions of Adelle. There was an entire team of old ladies, it seemed, who wore heavy, stagelike makeup and dresses that had not been fashionable since the days of Eisenhower. They all spoke in cultured, trained voices and held themselves as tragically erect as queens on their way to the gallows. What in the world was going on?
Two such women stood in line staring at T.S. with blatant curiosity. They looked like seductive grandmothers dressed to kill for a social occasion scheduled many decades ago.
"He looks a bit like John Barrymore in My Dear Children, don't you think?" the first one asked her companion.
The companion snorted skeptically and surveyed T.S. "You think everyone looks like John Barrymore," she finally said. "It's time you got over that little fling, my dear."
"But he does look like him," the first woman replied stubbornly. "Look at that chin."
The companion was still clearly unconvinced. "Let's hope he knows his role a little bit better than our dear Mr. Barrymore," she said archly.
"How dare you say that?" The first woman turned to her friend, blocking all traffic and apparently not giving a hoot. "He was charming in that show. Marvelous, in fact."
"Marvelous?" The second old woman shook her head firmly and looked behind her at a grime-coated bag lady for support, receiving a crazed glare in reply. "The man didn't even know his lines," she finally countered. "Only God knew what was going to come out of his mouth each night. He thought he was in a different play every night of the week."
"I am not one of the Barrymores," T.S. interrupted firmly, before the argument escalated into hair pulling. "And my role is to serve you lunch." He plopped the chili on their plates and they took his hint with ill-disguised irritation at being rushed in such an unseemly manner.
"You're right," the first old lady sniffed to her friend. "He hasn't got John's dash at all." They moved primly down the line.
T.S. didn't have much time to ponder the insult. Too many people were waiting to eat. He soon got the hang of ladling out chili and, although a few people mentioned that it certainly smelled spicy, there was no one who complained about either its taste or its peculiar dark brown texture. He was just getting into the swing of things— accept plate, plop on chili, turn quickly, hand it over—when his rhythm was interrupted.
"That's Franklin," the rice volunteer told him, pointing out the next person in line. "He gets two big scoops of chili. He needs it."
Franklin certainly did. He was an enormous black man. Not enormous as in big for a human being, but enormous as in big for a bear. He was well over six feet tall, broad faced and broad shouldered, with deep brown skin that exactly matched the mysterious tint of Auntie Lil's chili. He was dressed in overalls that seemed at least as large as a double-bed quilt and he wore a baseball hat turned backwards over a crop of gray-peppered hair. His hands were massive and the size and texture of baseball gloves, but he waited patiently as T.S. piled on the chili, accepting the plate with shy politeness.
"Thank you, sir," he said, nodding his head before rumbling on down the line. The use of "sir," not to mention its second syllable, confirmed Franklin's Southern upbringing. What was he doing in New York City? If not for his size, he'd be eaten alive.
The hungry faces soon stretched back into one long blur of worried brows, tightly knit mouths and murmured automatic thanks. Just as T.S. was scraping the bottom of the