As always, i've changed people's names or used their first inital to protect their privacy.
The Homeless talk about food. A lot. We compare food at the different "soup kitchens" in town, tell each other when food boxes are being distributed, and when churches are handing out bag lunches in a nearby park. Weekly, a church or charity will hold a "feed" in a park where hot and cold dishes are served buffet style. Occasionally, someone will drop off sandwiches or bags of chips or donuts at a day shelter and everyone will move in the direction of the food with a single-minded intensity that is quite unnerving when you realize you're moving along with them. It comes from from involuntarily skipping meals.
It takes just one night of going to sleep with your stomach growling to wonder what your grandparents did during the last Great Depression. My mother was born in the middle of that era in 1934, and although she grew up a grocer's daughter, she didn't always go to bed with a full tummy at night. As an adult, she was a food hoarder, fighting weight issues all her life.
For her job, she once had to put some belongings in long term storage, never again taking them out. That was left to her daughters once she had passed on, who were flabbergasted and greatly amused to find she had packed cans of soup in with her kitchen spices and utensils. We laughed about it, and her "silly fears" at the time. Lately, i've been thinking a lot about what makes a person so fearful of not eating again they will do extreme things to ensure they always have "a little something" in their bags, a candy bar, a banana, just somehing to tide them over until the next decent sized meal.
"Come on, Let's eat"
"T" is shaking me awake late sunday morning. It's almost noon and sunny and warm out and i'm a little put out that he's just awakened me. We're hanging out at Transition Projects, Inc. the homeless day shelter we frequent. I ask where and he tells me over at O'Bryant Square, a brick block in downtown Portland that is located above a parking garage. Once we arrive, on foot, I'm hot, tired, and sweaty, having carried my backpack and rolled my cart over block after block of green space muttering "we could've taken the MAX, dammit" Undaunted, "T" continues to egg me on, "just one more block", "just over here". We arrive and get in line. "T" turns to me and says, "I told you we should've taken the MAX", cackling with laughter as i roll my eyes at the little joke. After despositing me in the line, he ditches me to find his friends closer to the front. Of course. But, oh well, i've been curious about these "feeds" and here I am at one at last. I look around and and see a lot of the same people i've seen around the soup kitchens and day shelters around town.
Not long after I arrive in line, it starts to move and eventually, come to the front where a staffer, a big bear of a man, gives out small tickets with numbers written on them. I am number 85. I've been told they will begin serving about 3PM. As it's only about 12:30, i look around for a spot to plop down and finish reading my book, a historical fiction novel about Etta Place, girlfriend of The Sundance Kid. In the novel, Place came out west to work as a "Harvey Girl", early waitresses of the old west. I'm amused to recall my own history as a waitress as I'm sitting on my beach towel waiting for the buffet to start. Soon after i sit down, a white van shows up and a different charity begins handing out bag lunches of PB&J sandwiches, bags of cookies, chips, and containers of applesauce. Everyone gets a bottle of water, it being a hot day. I sit back down and eat my lunch and wonder if I will be able to eat dinner when they start serving.
As the afternoon plods on, I watch an odd little bike marathon take place on sw 9th st. Groups of kids and their parents on bikes riding back and forth for three blocks for some charity.
Finally, 3PM rolls around and i pull on my pack and pull my baggage cart behind me to the parking area and descend into pandemonium. Hundreds of people are milling near the entrance to the buffet area, two separate buffet lines, each stocked with the same foods in the same place.
"1-10 Please" the woman taking tickets screams at the crowd. As dozens of people clamor to the front of the entrance, bumping into the sizable crowd of people standing in front of it. People stand and sit around the underground parking lot, waiting for their number to be called. It's loud, but not rock concert loud. As i wait for my number to be called, i look around for a place to sit once i have my food. Not many places look very clean, and i'm glad i carry a spare garbage bag for just such an emergency. (i can't believe i've become one of those "bag ladies" that always has plastic bags available, but under the circumstances, they come in handy)
Finally, i hear "#1-90" and i move toward the entrace, but not before someone who has #19something steps in front of me and tries to get in. "No, it's not your turn yet" a staffer tells him, checking his ticket and gently pushing him out of the line. A staffer takes my ticket, #85, and i am given a plastic fork wrapped in a paper napkin and a paper plate. I choose my food and carefully balance everything in one hand, pulling my cart behind me and spot the beverage table. I put my cart in a spot outside the food area and go get a cup of coffee. I slowly maneuver everthing over to an empty spot on a concrete slap that others are sitting on and put my bags down and sit down and dig in. Everything is good and i'm enjoying myself people watching, spying "T" and a lady friend of his walk by after eating. Fully satisfied, i go to throw everything away in all the various recepticals, noting we have to throw away our forks in a small bucket. As i leave the complex, i spy the last person in line and ask him his number. He turns and shows me his ticket...
#617
"Gimme Five"
I'm standing in line at Blanchette House, waiting for the line to move forward. It's 6:30 in the morning and surprisingly not raining in Portland or even cloudy. Summer has finally arrived. Listening to the foreman tell the staffer outside how many people may enter to sit down, we are quiet and trying to wake up to the day. Until the dinning room is full, we hear, "gimme five" (meaning a five-top) "gimme four", etc. When it is full, we will hear, "gimme two, "gimme one" as people trickle out. My turn arrives and walk in, am handed my fork and drop my pack and cart in the corner, as the room is too tight for everyone to take their belongings with them. We have to deposit them in the corner, which, when the room is full, is tricky to navigate in order to leave.
I sit at the table where i was told to sit and discover to my delight, pancakes. I pour myself a cup of coffee and take an old mustard container that's filled with maple syrup and pour it over my pancakes. As usual, we also are given a piece of fruit, today it's a banana and a slice of bread, most of the time half a bagel. I briefly glance around the room while i eat, my tablemates trading bagel halves because someone can't eat poppy seeds. Strangers will frequently trade desserts or fruit when they don't like what they receive. And sometimes, someone will throw a temper tantrum or "have an episode" and have to be told to leave. After finishing quickly, i strap on my pack and grab my cart, tucking my banana in it for later, and squeeze past the volunteer bussers and servers and walk back out. I ponder whether to get back in line for seconds and decide not to, judging the line to be too long. As I'm leaving, i smile up at the apartment building opposite the line where some cats are talking to some of the people in line, who are teasing the felines in the upper unit. The cats sniff the air and meow, rolling on their backs in submission, waiting for pets from hands that can never reach them.