One Loaf

Don't know why, but here's a little story I wrote.
It's Christmas-y (in that it's set during the holidays...other than that?), so I figured this would be my contribution to our Christmas spirit.

The ending's still rather rough, I think.

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"Only one loaf today, Jerry. I'm sorry," I say, trying not to sound disappointed. It's always hard to smile when we don't have lots of food at the food bank. Especially in these Colorado winters, and especially for Jerry. With some of the people, you don't care too much. They're like vultures, and you want them to go away. But Jerry, he's different. A nobleman in a homeless body, he's happy even when it snows on him at night. He's proud of having all the buttons on his one orange dress shirt with the hole in the left sleeve. And he says thank you, always. Even when I only have one loaf of bread to give him, like today.

But Jerry smiles at me, like always. He says, "That's ok, Angel. One loaf's better than none! And thank you for your most kind service." He takes off his sooty green ball cap and bows; I laugh. "Just be sure," he whispers loudly at me, "that you save a loaf for the new family. Came to the shelter last night, but they wouldn't take them in. Slept in their car, I think. I told them to come this way. Told them my Angels would take care of them." Jerry winks and shuffles away, pushing his squeaky cart to the other end of the warehouse. He waits in the long milk line next to Henry with the perpetual sniffle.

There's a long row of freezers with a few jugs of milk that we save for old people and small kids. There's a table scattered with a few dented cans donated from the grocery store, and a couple shelves with old donuts. And more than anything, there are lines. Lines for milk. Lines for one loaf. Lines for cans. It's almost like those pictures of Russia I used to see when I was a little girl. No food. Just long lines.

I smile as I hear Jerry faintly reprimanding another client "Don't forget to thank the Angel! She doesn't have to give you that milk." We're all angels, he tells us, because we "do good things for people who hurt." But Jerry doesn't bow for all the angels, only me. And I'm glad.

The lady with the green socks and swollen ankles is next in line. I repeat my mantra: "Only one loaf today; I'm sorry." She nods her head (her broken pink curlers slap at each other) and takes the food. Another, and then another time I have to say my phrase. "Only one loaf today; I'm sorry." Days like today, I want to quit. Want to go back to McDonalds, to my easy job selling cheap food to fat, rich people. Dad wants me to quit, too.

“They're lazy, Dana," he told me last night. "Why do you feed lazy people for free? It's not right. You're not helping them." I wanted to tell him that I'm lazy, too, sometimes, but he feeds me. Wanted to tell him that the people there work, they work harder than I do. I hand out loaves of bread during Christmas vacation. They don't have a vacation. "Living off handouts, and they're not even grateful," he muttered as he left my room.

“He's right,” I told the ceiling. Some of them don't work. Some of them, like the green-sock swollen-ankle lady, live off handouts. Why did I give her food? I couldn't say.

As I bend down to pull out a fresh box of stale bread, another figure comes to my shelves. I mumble the one-loaf line from below the table. I hear a laugh, not like Jerry's laugh. This is a feather-bed-rested laugh. "Goodness Child, what a joke!" It's Mrs. Connoly, our biggest donor (in more ways than one). I tell myself to be nice. Mrs. Connoly can afford lots of food. "You are a tease!" Mrs. Connoly says. "I do hope these poor souls appreciate your sense of humor as much as I do."

I glance at the line of hungry people, hoping they didn't hear her robbing them, didn't hear her saying "poor souls," didn't think that their souls were even poorer just because she said so. Like when I got my Strawberry Shortcake bike in the third grade, I thought it was really nice until my big brother wrinkled his nose up and called it "kinda nice." Then I didn't think it was so great any more.

"Mrs. Connoly," I say, "I'm sorry. I didn't know you'd be in today." And I put the bread on the shelf, trying not to be rude to our patron saint. Mrs. Connoly ignores the line and the hunger the moment she has my attention, and that irritates me. I know Mrs. Connoly is important. No. Mrs. Connoly's money is important. Without money from fat rich people who can afford to buy McDonalds, you can't feed poor people. I tell myself to be nice. Mrs. Connoly does have a good heart; why else would she give this money to us? And if she quit giving the money, there wouldn't be a food bank.

"I was out shopping," Mrs. Connoly is talking, "and I thought I should just pop in and see how my little project is going! I thought perhaps I could say a few words to cheer up your boss, but I see Kat's gone to lunch." She purses her pinkish-orange painted lips into a pouty face.

I wish that Kat wasn't at lunch. I wish that I could get back to my one-loaf hungry-people line. But I can't. Mrs. Connoly is dragging me over to inspect "her project": new posters to give our plaster-white walls a "touch of home." Some of these people have never had a home. And they'd much rather have food than posters. And three posters could buy one more loaf. I glance back at my station: a few shelves of day-old bagels, half-smashed Wonderbread, stale crackers, and a long line of hungry people. They're watching me, thirsty eyes following me across the warehouse. And Jerry is watching me, too, from the milk line.

"Well," Mrs. Connoly says, "I was hoping that the posters could be in green; you know, that Martha Stewart green that everybody's going for these days. I think it would go nicely with our slate grey.” She sighs. “But purple? We'll just have to start over."

Slate grey. That's what she calls the cracked concrete floor. "Martha Stewart Green" can't complement an ugly floor. The only thing our floor is good for is holding shelves of food. Lots of it. Lots of food for all the people that walk across our slate-grey floor, for the people who don't care what color the floor is or the walls. I get frustrated with the large Mrs. Connoly who probably doesn't know what color hunger is. And I tell her so, calmly, I hope. "Mrs. Connoly, I am sorry about the posters, but they're done now. And they're up. And I'm sure they're really homey-ish. But if you'll look at the people in line, they're not interested in the posters. The people want food."

Mrs. Connoly doesn't look. She winks at me and whispers, "Well, if the people want food, then maybe they should get a job!" And then she laughs at her wittiness. She laughs so loudly that the "poor souls" can hear her mocking laughter. I want to clap my hand over her mouth, tell her to be respectful. But Mrs. Connoly waddles condescendingly across our dirty slate grey floor before I can do anything about it. She starts taking the wrong-color posters down, humming to herself and looking out the window.

I return to feed my hungry line with just one loaf. "I'm sorry; only one..." I begin to say. But I see Mrs. Connoly huffing toward me like a fat hen in desperate need of a nesting box. She nearly topples the green-sock, swollen-ankle lady who finally made it through the dented can line.

"Dana," she says in a choked whisper, "there's a Mercedes out there! In the poor person lot." She nods her head a few times and repeats, "a Mercedes," just in case I didn't hear it the first time, I guess. "And, they're coming in here." Her manicured hand tugs at my grey sweatshirt. "Look, there they are!" I tell her it's rude to point, but she doesn't stop. "And dressed so nicely, too. I'm going to tell them to leave!"

I grab her silk blouse. I grab it hard, and I don't let go. The hungry people in my one-loaf line stare at me. I look out the window at the car. Mercedes, older, but still a nice Mercedes. The family is in the food bank. Dressed nicely, tastefully, no green socks, no orange shirts with holes in the left sleeve. I feel queasy; they don't need food. Why are they parked in the client lot? "Lazy, just plain lazy. It's not right," I hear my father say. And Mrs. Connoly's squawked "whispers" hit my ear: "Don't you feed them; they're just taking advantage of us." I start to let go of Mrs. Connoly. They shouldn't be here.

“May I help you?” My voice is shaky.

The man answers me politely, “Yes, we came to see about getting...food assistance.” He drops his eyes to the slate grey floor. It must be hard to say “food assistance” when you're used to driving a Mercedes. He hands me some papers. “I lost my job back in January. Here's the list of places I've sent my resume. They repossessed our house this week...the car's all we've got. I know it looks...well, quite frankly it looks like we've got a lot of money, but I spent our last twenty dollars putting an ad in the paper to sell the car. Here's the receipt.” I look at it and so does Mrs. Connoly.

Mrs. Connoly decides without my help. “I don't think we can help you,” she says.

I feel my face getting red, and I don't want to disagree with her. “Mrs. Connoly, I can't turn them away.”

“You can.”

“They've got proof.”

“People will go to no lengths of trouble to get a handout. You should know that by now. These are probably all fake.” She shoves the stack of papers back at the man. He doesn't argue. But I do.

Mrs. Connoly silences me with a sweep of her hand. “I do not give my money to institutions that lack discretion. And I don't think you want me to take these funds elsewhere. That's the end of it.” I stare at her, hard. I have to feed these people. But Mrs. Connoly knows we can't survive at the food bank without her money. She walks stiffly back to her stupid posters. “I want these redone by next week,” she says.

“I'm sorry, Sir, I can't...” I try tell the man, but my words get all stuck. He nods. My toes tighten inside my shoes, and I'm frozen to my spot. All those hungry people looking at me. The family starts to walk away.

“Well, I'll be!” I see Jerry's orange shirt out of the corner of my eye. “Never knew money could make folks so stingy. Well, it's a mighty nice thing I don't have any, then. Here you are, Sir. Hope this helps with the little ones.” Jerry hands the man his gallon of milk. And his one loaf. And his two dented cans of vegetables.

The green-sock lady brushes past me. “Take my bread, too,” she says. “One loaf won't be enough for all of you.” Others come.

Now Mrs. Connoly looks frozen to the floor. I walk over and finish taking the rest of the posters down. “I'll have these fixed in no time, Mrs. Connoly. What color did you want again?”

Posted by stephanie at December 14, 2003 04:51 PM | TrackBack