Food Court: Back away from the lunch lady

I've decided to slow down on the visits to Manna Meal. Hands down, it's the most depressing thing I do, but I'm not giving it up. I'm merely trimming back from four or five days each week to one or two. I still eat better there than I do anywhere else, but I needed to remove some of the desperation I was feeling about the place.

And really, it was screwing with my head. Mostly, I think, because the quality and variety of the meals was better than I was making for myself, which can only be depressing.

By the way, I had beans and a little spinach for lunch today.

Also, I was gaining weight by eating at Manna Meal --not a lot of weight, but enough.

I haven't been in a week, but should be sitting down to break bread at the church later this week --maybe Saturday. The grub is better on the weekends and it's pretty good to begin with. The last time I went in, I'd come directly from the plasma center, which seemed to complete the whole nosedive through the bottom layer of humanity kind of thing.

Also, it seemed to help me blend in and that's part of what I'm trying to do: blend in.

It's all part of a larger theme. I'm just not sure what the shape of it is yet.

Food Court: Speaking in tongues

She was new here, sitting at a back table where I found a seat. A man in his late twenties sat across from her, though he could have been older or younger. Age is a hard thing to judge in a place like Manna Meal where some of the people look like they've been pulled out of a John Steinbeck novel, though reinterpreted with new costuming.

I'd seen the man both at the church and on the street holding a cardboard sign and panhandling. He had the sunken eyes and drained expression of an addict of one kind of another, but not one so far gone as to have given up basic hygiene. His clothes were ratty and dirty, but he was not.

Methodically, the young woman ate her barbecue, chewing rapidly. She had overly bright eyes that flitted from object to object. Occasionally, she looked over at one of us and smiled.

"I don't much care for the barbecue," the young panhandler said. "But when I get hungry enough, I'll eat anything."

She nodded, a shaky bobble of her head.

"I'm Andrew," he said.

"Virginia," she told him.

"So, do you live around here?"

"Just up the street."

He nodded. He understood and, like me, took it that she meant the shelter for women.

"Maybe I'll see you around," he told her then carried his tray away, leaving the two of us alone at the table.

I admired the panhandler for his ability to strike up a conversation. Of course, his motives were probably a bit different than mine, but I admired the ease. Since I've started taking lunches at Manna Meal, I've only barely muttered a handful of words to anyone. Others talk. They chatter like crows in a corn field, but not me. It's always, "Please, pass the salt," "thank-you," and "Can I get another spoon of the chicken?"

Part of it is fear. I don't want to intrude. Coming to a soup kitchen to eat is difficult enough without having some asshole trying to unnecessarily relate.

She seemed safe, didn't appear to be overtly crazy or particularly dangerous, but I drew a blank on what to say. The only thing that came to mind was "So, do you come here often?" which sounded like a particularly low-rent pick-up line and besides, I knew the answer: no.

She looked at me, expectantly. Evidently, she was used to a certain amount of light dinner conversation.

I finished my meal, looked up and told her, "I like your t-shirt."

"Thanks," she said and watched me leave.

Maybe I'll try again tomorrow. Maybe the panhandler will be there. I'd kind of like to ask him about his job.

Food Court: chain

"Thanks for the lock."

The long-haired man in the ball cap nodded then took a drag off his cigarette. The pair of them, one black and the other white, stood together on the back stoop. The black man might have been 50 or he might have been younger. Not everybody looks the age they're supposed to be around this place, but he seemed older than the long-hair.

Under the ball cap, the man's face looked weathered and graying, like unpainted wood left outside for too long. The lines cut into his face from want or chemical hungers were pressed into young flesh. He might have been 30. He might have been 40. It was impossible to tell, but he moved like he was young and angry.

The black man gingerly eased his bicycle out of the shade and away from the rail where he'd kept it tied, while the white man reeled in a length of dirty, gray chain. The chain was heavy-duty, meant to stitch shut the heavy doors of a storage shed or the chain link fences to an auto junkyard, not an old ten-speed with bald tires and rust freckled spokes.

The younger man shoved the chain in a thin, plastic bag, along with a combination lock as big as his fist. He looped the top of the bag through his belt and hung it by his hip.

"You have to lock everything down," he complained. "Those motherfuckers will take it all if you don't have it secured." He explained, "I got me a shower yesterday at Covenant House and those fuckers stole twelve dollars off me."

The long-hair did not know who the motherfuckers were. He shook his head. The loss of the cash still irked him, but it was his own fault.

"I wasn't watching," he said.

The other man nodded sadly. Yes, it was his fault.

"Motherfuckers," he agreed, then pedaled away.

Food Court: Got A Smoke

There was an unpleasant, musky odor in the air at lunch --the vintage stink of an unwashed crotch. From the smell of it, I'd guess somebody had gone the better part of a month without once hosing off their junk or changing the bandage.

For a minute, I tried to pin it on the food --a taco casserole of some kind made with beans, tomato sauce and a little bit of meat (I had two scoops, but no corn chips) --but it seemed kind of doubtful.

I scanned the room trying to locate the likely culprit. The crowd today was small --maybe half the people who are usually there and only a few of those I'd recognize as regulars.

Of course, government checks had kicked in over the last couple of days. Not everybody needed the free lunch. Some of them had taken their checks or their government debit cards to the store. They were loaded up --at least for now. Maybe. Not that I really know. I'm still not talking to anybody. It could have also been the stench.

The smell was strong and a little sickening. Looking about, it could have been anybody (except me) and it made me wish I'd never given up smoking. I never used to smell things like that. I never used to have to smell anything, really.

A Camel right now would sure help.

Food Court: Dieting

I've been working out at the gym for well over a year. I'm in fair shape --still a bit too heavy, but thanks to the regular health scans at the plasma center, I know my blood pressure is very good -- slightly less than 120 over 80. My pulse resting is 70 and the stuff in my blood is just fine -lots of iron, lots of protein.

I lift pretty close to the range of some of the more experienced muscle-heads, I show up, follow a routine, take notes and seem pretty serious about it, but the results around my midsection are slow moving, indeed --and I guess, a few people are paying attention.

"What kind of diet are you on?" The muscle-head asked.

"Um, not really much of any diet," I said. "I'm trying to watch my carbs, but that's been harder lately."

Harder, because I've been taking lunch at a soup kitchen and carbs figure prominently in the meals, even if I turn down the bread and the sweets, which I do most of the time.

He nodded. He had not come to judge, merely to offer some advice.

"You need to cut out the carbs and stick almost entirely to lean proteins." He looked me over in a way that wasn't the same as when the old gay guy does. "You do that and you'll lose around the middle."

I listened to him, but I think it's more complicated than following a diet. I've had issues with food since I was a teenager and developed new ones as an adult. Going to the soup kitchen, for however long, may actually be more helpful than I thought.

As crazy and as shallow as it seems, when you eat as poorly as I have been eating (and really, I think, I've been in denial about that) and are presented with something other than the same thing you've been eating twice a day for months on end you might overreact. This might be why I tend to binge whenever alternatives are offered. Hence, why my weight hasn't changed in months --since things got really hard toward the end of winter.

Something I've noticed in the last two weeks since I stopped bringing my lunch and started mostly eating at the church, I'm not binging in the evenings --even if all I'm eating is beans. I'm not panicking about being hungry. I'm not rifling through the cabinets looking for anything, even things I hate because they're different than what I'm subsisting on. I'm not racing to beat the dog to my kids' scraps or looking for ridiculous ways to make what I eat taste different (ever try blue cheese dressing on beans? How about maple syrup?).

No, mostly, it's all very much in control. I feel more in control.

So, I told the guy I'd look into it. Eventually.

Food Court: Picky Eater

The line moves quickly and in some ways, it's like being in junior high all over again. You hold up your tray and the folks on the other side scoop and dump something from the pot or pan in front of them. You have to tell them "no, I do not want that strange cucumber dish covered in what appears to be white wash." Otherwise, you'll get a spoon of it and will have to wonder what it is you're sort of obliged to eat.

Of course, not everybody feels like I do. I think most do. I think a lot of the people who come to Manna meal are very aware of where they are. Some people get the food, pick at it, but never try it. If they like it, great. If they don't, it goes in the trash and they step back in line for seconds --like this is a Ryan's. But this is not Ryan's. It's not a buffet. It's not even your Mama's house for Sunday brunch. It's charity in a church meeting room.

I take whatever they give me, though I speak up if it's something I don't like: no cucumbers in white stuff, no egg salad -not even at gunpoint, and I don't eat bread or much dessert. I will on days when I sell blood because I need the extra calories.

I don't want to take anything somebody else might want and if I end up taking something I can't stand, I'll get it down. Today, it was yellow squash, cleverly hidden in some kind of egg-cream casserole.

I hate yellow squash.

When I was a kid, my father cultivated this really remarkable garden. We ate from it all summer long and well into the fall. In my mother's basement, there are still jars my mother canned from when I was eleven and twelve, but not everything was to my liking. I remember forcing my way through plates of steamed vegetables, which invariably contained yellow squash. We always had plenty and I hated the smell. I hated the texture and there was never enough salt and pepper to cover the taste or enough milk to wash it down.

I ate it. Funny. It wasn't that bad. I still hate it on principle.

A few of the volunteers and staff are starting to recognize me. When I come through the line, I'm a little picky. My choices are odd and they notice. I'll take the collard greens and the eggplant, but will shake my head when they offer a cookie or rice pudding.

"Maybe a muffin?" I say and the lady laughs. She lifts the pan of cookies and hands me one of the muffins wrapped in plastic underneath.

"You're a pain the ass, you know?" She doesn't mean it.

I nod and smile. I think I am.

Food Court: Beef Stew

I'm still getting the hang of the place and trying to fit in. Today, I think I chose poorly with my wardrobe. I wore my Captain America t-shirt, which looks really good on me, but got nothing but stares at Manna Meal.

I looked a little out of place, I guess.

So far, I've seen about everything from a couple of guys showing up in collared shirts and ties (of course the shirt was fuchsia and the tie plum-colored and was a little like out of the Prince "Purple Rain" collection) to overalls, camouflage, and a whole host of t-shirts and jeans.

A guy with a red, white and blue shield on his chest might have seemed weird. Plus, I'm new, look healthy, have no tattoos or piercings and don't have any obvious mental issues. My clothes are clean and I'm not black.

A couple of the staffers have noticed me coming around. They don't know what to make of me. The young, red-haired woman who seems to be acting as some kind of hostess, I think, is working up the nerve to come talk to me, to figure out what my deal is.

I haven't figured out what to tell her except I'm hungry and broke and if I eat lunch here, I can conserve what little resources I have elsewhere. Maybe eventually I can catch up on the utilities, the rent and everything else.

I'm just trying to get by.

Today, I shared a table with an ex-con. I knew him by how he ate, hunched over his food, almost hugging his tray. The times when I've broken bread with people who've done time, particularly a bunch of time, some of them have a habit of guarding their food. We didn't talk. He just kept looking at me with seething hostility. Any second, I expected a low growl to leave his throat.

I'm seeing some familiar faces --regulars. The grubby couple I saw warming up for a nooner in the back, some of the old people and a guy who gets by with a cane, though painfully. He and I seem to hit the door at about the same time.

I'm also seeing people from the outside world --a couple of shoplifters I recognize from Books-A-Million, including the famous one-armed bandit, a wheelchair bound man with only one arm who stole, among other things, a porno mag. He seemed to be doing well, though he was talking about running afoul of some woman's boyfriend who did not appreciate his attention to her.

Today's meal included beef stew, which was a lot of potatoes and carrots, a little beef and a thick broth, as well as a salad. The salad was mixed greens, lots of vegetables and a none of the animal semen dressing from the previous couple of days. Today, it was some sort of vinaigrette.

I didn't take the sweets. There were slices of pie (including what looked like coconut --a personal favorite) and some sweet rolls from the last couple of days. The pie looked pretty good, but I didn't take any. I would have liked to, but I guess I didn't feel like I deserved it.

Food Court: BBQ

Today there was meat. It was gloriously seasoned, completely unidentifiable, tomato-ey barbecue --probably pork, but maybe a mix of beef and pork or pork and raccoon for all I know.

After the past couple of days, I thought, well, lunch is going to be vegetarian --not Vegan-- just vegetarian and that seemed OK. As much as I try, I don't get enough vegetables --other than beans. I get a lot of beans, primarily pintos which are cheap and eat because everybody else in the house will typically eat them.

Not so much on northern, cranberry or black beans, which I like, but pretty much everybody else hates or gets tired of pretty fast.

And mostly, when I have meat these days, I have it in small amounts. It's a little bit of sausage or hamburger that goes in with the beans. Every now and again, I'll get something to use in a stew.

It was good to have the barbecue, whatever it was made of (pork and possum? pork and dog?).

Today, I sat with a few people. Nervously, I asked if it would be all right if I took a chair. They shrugged and nodded. I grabbed a seat and the man across from me looked up, smiled and said, "Oh, wait. A prayer."

He bowed his head, closed his eyes and said grace. I wasn't sure if he was saying a blessing over my food as well, but I went along until I realized I had no idea who I was praying to. Still, I took it that he meant to bless my food. I appreciated it.

The other man at the table never stopped chewing.

We didn't talk. I wasn't sure what to say. We might have talked about the barbecue or discussed the lack of ice in our little glasses or anything, but conversation just didn't ignite. Instead, we piled through our food very businesslike and I watched the crowd. Heated discussions were being held at the the next table about the government --mostly what to do if U.S. soldiers came kicking through the door during the end-times, right before Jesus shows up with his flaming sword or his cosmic fishing pole or whatever.

They agreed they would meet violence with violence because probably that's what the Lord would do.

At another table, they were talking about work or getting work and I noticed a fair number of people prayed before their meals. There is gratitude in a place like Manna Meal, but of course, the barbecue was pretty good. I almost went back for seconds, but I had the potatoes, too.

Leaving and crossing the corner, a young guy tried to hit me up for a dollar. He sang and rapped at me about how my life would improve if I gave him a dollar. I smiled and wished him luck. He and his friends left me in peace, though probably a little disappointed. I like money, too.

They walked a few feet, turned and took my place inside the church.

Food Court: Cabbage

Today, it was cooked cabbage, salad, stewed tomatoes (I think), some sort of cucumbers drenched in white dressing and sweet rolls.

I went through the line and felt like an asshole when I turned down the tomatoes, the cucumbers and the sweet roll. I also didn't take the bread.

The lady looked at me and seemed concerned I wasn't taking something from every serving tray. I just shook my head, thanked her then took my seat.

The salad was much better today, though again, I don't know what the dressing is. It still looks like the first prize in a circle jerk, but the cabbage was very decent. It tasted buttery and there were caraway seeds, which was pretty good.

I went back for seconds and stuttering, told the server, "The cabbage is very good."

She smiled. I fit in real well here. She gave me a heaping second scoop.

There were a lot of familiar faces and some new. I saw two tables of families with both parents and kids. These were complete families with two parents and a couple of kids. They broke bread together. The kids laughed, but the men with them scarcely looked up. I could imagine how hard it might have been for them to bring them.

In back, a grungy couple made out between the courses, while the people around them continued to eat. A few people watched, but as they went on and on with the tongue to tongue tango, most of us got bored.

I still sat alone. I think I need to get used to the water before I can really swim. Right now, it still feels weird to be coming here --not that it necessarily matters. I need to do this.

Food court: Naked lunch

A small but noisy bunch clustered on the sidewalk outside the church. They ranged in age from around 50 to about 20. A small, black man with a slight build ushered out a toddler dressed in pink, passing a group of gangly meth-heads wearing wife beaters and jeans slung low on their ass.

I almost didn't go in, but then I saw the man with the bicycle helmet from yesterday pumping forward full of purpose. He didn't seem to recognize me, and like Alice following the white rabbit, I trailed him through the side door into Manna Meal at St. John's.

He was gone by the time I got in the hallway, but I followed the low rumble of chatter, watched carefully and got in line. Today, they were serving mixed bean soup, some dodgy looking cornbread, a salad and a thick, crusty blueberry cobbler that was more bread than berry.

Since, I'm watching my carbs, I stuck with the soup and the salad. The soup was good, but could have used a little salt. The greens of the salad were wilted and crushed. The whole thing was marinated in an indeterminate dressing the color and consistency of semen.

It tasted like vegetable oil and maybe a little sugar.

The place was about half-full. Friends and passing acquaintances gathered together. Some of them were dirty, possibly homeless. Others were old and several of them work in town. I recognized them, if only by sight.

I sat alone with a knot the size of my fist in my stomach, ate my beans and watched. Across the way, a woman I knew from my earlier days in Charleston, back when my night job included talking the mentally challenged into taking credit cards sponsored by the KISS Army. She was still in college, struggling with her parents who could no longer afford to send her to the college of her choice and groaning under the weight of a love affair she no longer really wanted.

I remember her well. She was the last person who ever had a crush on me before I was married again. I have no idea what the attraction was, but she sat next to me when we took calls and followed me out into the dark to watch me smoke when they gave us a break. Mostly, she did the talking. I was exhausted and hated the job. It was all I could do to not run screaming.

The weekend before I got married the shift boss announced my impending wedding. She looked at me once, took her headset off then walked away.

I've seen her around here and there. She got married, I knew, graduated, I suppose and got a real job, but some time had passed. I don't think she remembers me anymore, which makes the whole experience of the time very strange. At times, I even doubt it, except of course, it happened.

She was sitting at a table across the room, chatting with a couple of the diners. She had a cup of coffee in front of her, in a mug, and not a small glass of ice water --pretty clearly, a volunteer or employee and not one of the "clients."

She looked over at me and for the first time in seven years, I think she recognized me. It was an awful, awful feeling.

I finished my beans, picked through the salad and took my tray back.

This was my first day.