Feeding Time
 
They gathered from all over the downtown and the neighborhoods around, from the shelters, the alleys, the parks and the woods, coming at the certain time, alone or in groups, quiet or talkative or downright loud, some drunk and stoned, clean or dirty or just plain filthy, sick or smiling, male and female, young and old, but hungry for sure. They came to this place a couple times a day, six days a week. The big old brick building pulled them in like a magnet does paperclips, people from all walks of life, from all parts of the country, yet in the same situation now for the time being, living the everyday urban existence.

Some forms are sleeping along the sidewalk, passed out perhaps. Others sit in groups just down the street, with brown bags of beer in hand. There are big backpacks and small knapsacks, duffel bags and plenty of plastic supermarket sacks, cardboard boxes and suitcases strapped to carts, supermarket carts full of clothes or aluminum cans. There are forms wrapped in dirty blankets or quilts, carrying their bedding with them. There are shoes and clothes left in the street, along with all the empty cans and bottles.

A small market nearby does a thriving business with the homeless crowd, though the owner won’t let them hang around the store. Take your beer and wine elsewhere, he tells them. He is smart enough to have the cheapest beer, wine and tobacco in town. He opens early and stays open later than any other downtown store. His store is open every day of the year; people can count on that.

There is yelling and loud raucous laughter, singing and profanity, some gabbing on cell phones or listening to headsets. Some look like they’re just barely putting up with the atmosphere, silent with tight mouths and far off stares, but too hungry to leave. Some sit on their packs or lean against the building, the heat having taken the energy out of them. Some work their way down the line, looking for change or a smoke.

There are sudden shouts of recognition, hugs and strong handshakes, and a catching up on the latest installments in their stories, an asking about mutual acquaintances. This is definitely a social occasion for some. There are whole families here, and single mothers with baby strollers.

All colors, all ages, all shapes and sizes knowing it is the feeding time. Get it when you can, for who knew when they would eat the next time. Some would be blowing out of town that very day. Some would probably be in jail or the hospital. And most would just go through their day doing the best to feed their heads and bellies and making the best of it someplace close by. Some had doctor appointments to get their prescribed medicine to help them cope. Some had to go get their food stamps, or free food or clothes from some place or other. They knew the “homeless” circuit.

But all that had to be done on full bellies, and you can see the volunteer workers looking out the windows now to see how many bodies are out there. Are they going to be overwhelmed this time, or will they get a break? A door is opened and the smell of food comes out and quiets things down, briefly, as a volunteer takes a quick head count. There are shouted demands to know what is on the menu. Some are pleased with the answer, some grumble and threaten to leave. Some complain that it is the same old thing.

Some of the volunteers are waking bodies up along the sidewalk, for it is feeding time. It is better that they see the volunteers standing over them rather than the cops. And the cops will be driving by, looking for the “troublemakers” who stand out, or the forms so inebriated that they can’t stand on their own. There may be some ID checks, for it wouldn’t be a surprise if some of these tramps had paper out on them. This is an area of town that the cop cruisers patrol like hungry sharks, living on their daily diet of morsels from these dirty streets.

The two main doors are open now and the line tightens up quickly, bodies jostling for position. There is, of course, some cutting and angry complaints (for empty bellies make for quick tempers) as the group of tightly packed bodies surges forward and the volunteer at the door yells for one at a time. They don’t want a “bum rush”. Everybody’s going to get something to eat! There’s plenty of food! One at a time!

Laughter, disgusted shakes of the head, complaints, babble, yelling, greetings, as the bodies press forward under the sway of that smell. It’s chow time, folks, someone yells, laughing in anticipation.



© M. Blake