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After I gathered the loaves from the pantry, I sliced them with a big, serrated knife. I put so much time into this place because it allowed me to channel my passion for cooking, and it felt good to help the needy. A warm glow of pride washed over me whenever they complimented my food, and I rarely had the opportunity to feel good about myself.
Still, the soup kitchen wasn’t a permanent thing. One day, I’ll have a life. And a real job as an editor. I could write about anything: fashion, sports, video games, whatever. I knew I wouldn’t stop until I had my foot in the door somewhere.
I shoved the huge loaf pan into the oven and walked back to oversee lunch preparations. The overpowering grease smell wrinkled my nose.
“Make sure you don’t pour that down the drain,” I said, pointing to the bowl of piping hot grease.
As I looked inside the pot, fire roared up my throat. The beautiful stew I envisioned was now an unappetizing slop. Fuck.
After the mashed potatoes were prepped, the doors opened to the awaiting crowd. A neat row of people filed in line as we placed the steaming trays of food under the window. One of my favorite regulars was in line, and I hoped he’d like the meal.
The smell of comfort food filled the kitchen. We also made a tray of baked squash, pumpkin, and yams. I loved fall, even though it was always the beginning of a lonely time of the year for me. There was never a place for me to go on Thanksgiving or Christmas. I used to go with Natalie, but when she and Ben got serious, I declined her invitations to spend the holidays with her family. It felt weird tagging along and I wanted to give them some space. Natalie always begged me to join them, but I lied and told her I would be fine and already had plans here. With a pang in my chest, I remembered the first time I spent Christmas alone. I sat on my couch the whole day, watched a channel that played A Christmas Story nonstop, and bawled like a baby. After that, I went to the soup kitchen on holidays.
I more or less came to terms with not having any family, but the fact that no one except Natalie would notice if I died brought on the bout of depression. It was pathetic that I didn’t have any other friends that I could spend the holidays with. Absolutely pathetic.
The serving spoon shook in my hands. I can’t spend the rest of my life like this. The sting of tears threatened. In a few years I’ll be thirty. The soup kitchen faded away as depression wrapped its coils around my chest like a python, squeezing me of air. I gave up years ago on a happy, picture-perfect life, but it was hard to bear this soul-crushing despair. Where had it gone so wrong?
When I was young, my long blonde hair was the target of compliments from many boys expressing an innocent crush at school, but I didn’t know how to handle them. I couldn’t deal with the abuse at home— and I still haven’t. I took my scissors into the bathroom after school and cut off my long strands just under my ears, leaving me with a horrible jagged haircut my foster parents surprisingly didn’t care to comment on. The kids at school whispered behind their hands and laughed at me. Pretty soon after that, the boys left me alone.
“Hey honey, what did you make me today?”
The raspy, deep voice snapped me out of my gloom. I smiled as I recognized Frank’s voice. He was a thin black man who always wore a winter coat and cap no matter the temperature.
“Well, I wanted to make you guys a nice stew,” I said as I took his tray and gave him extra helpings.
“Carol being a bitch again?”
I laughed and slipped him an extra bread roll. “Hide it.”
The bread roll disappeared inside his coat. He gave me a quick wink before he moved down the line and continued his banter with the other cooks.
A tiny voice whispered out to me. “It smells so good.”
I never saw her before, and she didn’t want to look at me. A lot of them were like that at first; probably ashamed they had to come here. The Hispanic woman stared at me as I handed her a heaping bowl of stew. Her eyes were red and I realized with a shock that she was crying.
“Bless you. You have a kind soul.”
She seemed unable to say any more. Before I could respond, she moved down the line with her scarf pressed against her eyes.
I smiled to myself. The little things.
* * *
My mood was soaring when I left the kitchen and walked across the parking lot. Everyone loved what I made, even though I was unable to make it exactly how I originally planned. Next time, I vowed to choose a recipe Carol would definitely approve.
The horrible sight of a cracked windshield stopped me cold. A brick sat on the pavement next to the front wheels. I walked around the side of my car to find the driver’s window completely shattered. Glittering glass shards covered the ground like powder.
No, no, no, no, NO!
My hands shook as I unlocked the car door and swept the broken glass from the seat. The glove compartment hung open. My GPS was gone.
Why? Why would someone do this? And why smash in my windshield?
Replacing the glass would cost a couple hundred dollars that I didn’t have. I collapsed beside my car and screwed up my face, but the tears wouldn’t come. It must’ve been one of the homeless. I wanted to blow up the damn place.
“Fuck!”
Simmering with rage, I opened up my phone to search for the nearest auto shop and found one a few miles from the kitchen. I couldn’t believe my luck. Out of all the cars, the asshole chose mine and stole my GPS, which I relied on. Jesus Christ, it was only one year old. Natalie gave it to me for Christmas after I constantly complained about printing out directions all the time. One of the most thoughtful gifts she gave me, and now it was gone.
I pounded the steering wheel in anger as I drove down the street, looking around the cracked glass to see where I was going. A large, peeling sign by the road read, “Randy’s Auto Glass.”
I pulled into the parking lot and parked my car, hoping to God that I could get this fixed right away. A man in overalls with his arms covered in grease peeked out of the garage.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah, someone broke into my car.” I gestured towards it with my thumb.
“Ah,” he said as he saw the smashed glass. “Shouldn’t take more than a couple hours.”
Great.
He led me inside the shop where there were a couple lawn chairs and a TV playing Seinfeld reruns. I threw myself into one of them as I handed him the keys, then texted Natalie my car got broken into and I’d be home late.
How was I going to pay for this? My leg jigged restlessly over my knee as I tried to push my pathetic financial state from my mind. Maybe a couple hundred dollars would miraculously appear in my bank account. An hour and a half later, Randy slapped the keys onto his desk and beckoned me. He printed out the invoice as I listened to him drone on about how everything was repaired.
Still, the soup kitchen wasn’t a permanent thing. One day, I’ll have a life. And a real job as an editor. I could write about anything: fashion, sports, video games, whatever. I knew I wouldn’t stop until I had my foot in the door somewhere.
I shoved the huge loaf pan into the oven and walked back to oversee lunch preparations. The overpowering grease smell wrinkled my nose.
“Make sure you don’t pour that down the drain,” I said, pointing to the bowl of piping hot grease.
As I looked inside the pot, fire roared up my throat. The beautiful stew I envisioned was now an unappetizing slop. Fuck.
After the mashed potatoes were prepped, the doors opened to the awaiting crowd. A neat row of people filed in line as we placed the steaming trays of food under the window. One of my favorite regulars was in line, and I hoped he’d like the meal.
The smell of comfort food filled the kitchen. We also made a tray of baked squash, pumpkin, and yams. I loved fall, even though it was always the beginning of a lonely time of the year for me. There was never a place for me to go on Thanksgiving or Christmas. I used to go with Natalie, but when she and Ben got serious, I declined her invitations to spend the holidays with her family. It felt weird tagging along and I wanted to give them some space. Natalie always begged me to join them, but I lied and told her I would be fine and already had plans here. With a pang in my chest, I remembered the first time I spent Christmas alone. I sat on my couch the whole day, watched a channel that played A Christmas Story nonstop, and bawled like a baby. After that, I went to the soup kitchen on holidays.
I more or less came to terms with not having any family, but the fact that no one except Natalie would notice if I died brought on the bout of depression. It was pathetic that I didn’t have any other friends that I could spend the holidays with. Absolutely pathetic.
The serving spoon shook in my hands. I can’t spend the rest of my life like this. The sting of tears threatened. In a few years I’ll be thirty. The soup kitchen faded away as depression wrapped its coils around my chest like a python, squeezing me of air. I gave up years ago on a happy, picture-perfect life, but it was hard to bear this soul-crushing despair. Where had it gone so wrong?
When I was young, my long blonde hair was the target of compliments from many boys expressing an innocent crush at school, but I didn’t know how to handle them. I couldn’t deal with the abuse at home— and I still haven’t. I took my scissors into the bathroom after school and cut off my long strands just under my ears, leaving me with a horrible jagged haircut my foster parents surprisingly didn’t care to comment on. The kids at school whispered behind their hands and laughed at me. Pretty soon after that, the boys left me alone.
“Hey honey, what did you make me today?”
The raspy, deep voice snapped me out of my gloom. I smiled as I recognized Frank’s voice. He was a thin black man who always wore a winter coat and cap no matter the temperature.
“Well, I wanted to make you guys a nice stew,” I said as I took his tray and gave him extra helpings.
“Carol being a bitch again?”
I laughed and slipped him an extra bread roll. “Hide it.”
The bread roll disappeared inside his coat. He gave me a quick wink before he moved down the line and continued his banter with the other cooks.
A tiny voice whispered out to me. “It smells so good.”
I never saw her before, and she didn’t want to look at me. A lot of them were like that at first; probably ashamed they had to come here. The Hispanic woman stared at me as I handed her a heaping bowl of stew. Her eyes were red and I realized with a shock that she was crying.
“Bless you. You have a kind soul.”
She seemed unable to say any more. Before I could respond, she moved down the line with her scarf pressed against her eyes.
I smiled to myself. The little things.
* * *
My mood was soaring when I left the kitchen and walked across the parking lot. Everyone loved what I made, even though I was unable to make it exactly how I originally planned. Next time, I vowed to choose a recipe Carol would definitely approve.
The horrible sight of a cracked windshield stopped me cold. A brick sat on the pavement next to the front wheels. I walked around the side of my car to find the driver’s window completely shattered. Glittering glass shards covered the ground like powder.
No, no, no, no, NO!
My hands shook as I unlocked the car door and swept the broken glass from the seat. The glove compartment hung open. My GPS was gone.
Why? Why would someone do this? And why smash in my windshield?
Replacing the glass would cost a couple hundred dollars that I didn’t have. I collapsed beside my car and screwed up my face, but the tears wouldn’t come. It must’ve been one of the homeless. I wanted to blow up the damn place.
“Fuck!”
Simmering with rage, I opened up my phone to search for the nearest auto shop and found one a few miles from the kitchen. I couldn’t believe my luck. Out of all the cars, the asshole chose mine and stole my GPS, which I relied on. Jesus Christ, it was only one year old. Natalie gave it to me for Christmas after I constantly complained about printing out directions all the time. One of the most thoughtful gifts she gave me, and now it was gone.
I pounded the steering wheel in anger as I drove down the street, looking around the cracked glass to see where I was going. A large, peeling sign by the road read, “Randy’s Auto Glass.”
I pulled into the parking lot and parked my car, hoping to God that I could get this fixed right away. A man in overalls with his arms covered in grease peeked out of the garage.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah, someone broke into my car.” I gestured towards it with my thumb.
“Ah,” he said as he saw the smashed glass. “Shouldn’t take more than a couple hours.”
Great.
He led me inside the shop where there were a couple lawn chairs and a TV playing Seinfeld reruns. I threw myself into one of them as I handed him the keys, then texted Natalie my car got broken into and I’d be home late.
How was I going to pay for this? My leg jigged restlessly over my knee as I tried to push my pathetic financial state from my mind. Maybe a couple hundred dollars would miraculously appear in my bank account. An hour and a half later, Randy slapped the keys onto his desk and beckoned me. He printed out the invoice as I listened to him drone on about how everything was repaired.
