Street Ministry April Morning Shift
The room is packed. Fifty at least, right off the streets or out of the willows.
I'm running the coffee cart, rolling through members of the New American Diaspora here for breakfast.
Two elderly women sit across from one another. One is coloring, the other knitting.
Overheard: “I haven't used a computer in years.”
The man who often calls himself Ronald Reagan looked dazed. He'd probably not understand the irony of me telling him that one of the main reasons he's here is Ronald Reagan.
I fix a Cadillac (coffee and hot chocolate) for a man who keeps a pet squirrel in his tent/tarp domicile that has a television set that somehow receives a free cable feed (never underestimate the ingenuity of the homeless). I ask him if the squirrel watches television. Yes, he answers, but only the news, and only FOX News. (Note to self: narc on this man to PETA later.)
A cooking show plays on the huge screen over the sleeping mat area. It's hosted by beautiful multi-racial people of varying genders. They all laugh together as they whip up a Mexican dish with mangoes. I guess this counts for social progress.
Men play games on their phones. Men charge their phones. One man talks on his phone. Every phone in use is way better than mine.
I hear an electric knife carving up a ham for lunch. It sounds like what I imagine an autopsy sounds like. What's the sound of the American autopsy currently underway? It's probably a mix of chainsaw roaring and an 80s hair metal power ballad.
Overheard: “French Revolution.” Someone is discussing the French Revolution in the street ministry while eating free donuts. “Let them eat donuts!” the new royalty exclaims. Oh, and “let them have phones!”
A man is filling out paperwork to qualify for disability benefits. He tells me: “I want a life like yours.” I answer, “You still can.” He says, “I want a home, a good paying job, benefits, and two weeks off a year.” I decide not to tell him that's not my life.
A woman splayed on a mat reads wet comics. A man near her is sitting upright and reading a novel and silently mouthing the words or whatever it's called when someone does this. I can't catch the title of the novel.
Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. I am on the move like a crash cart in an emergency room. Well, not that fast.
One man drinks 15 cups of coffee.
A woman rolls a baby stroller in and it contains a baby. That's a first for me here. I serve her. The baby is seven months old. Cute little dude. He's got the same name as a character from a Jack Kerouac novel. I don't tell her that.
An angry large woman with colored hair sticks her head in the ministry and calls out to a man sitting at a table that she is going to “kick your ass! Come outside!” He gets up and goes outside. She doesn't kick his ass.
The man who was reading is now writing in a notebook. I'd give anything to read it, but I can't get close enough to ask because I'd have to walk over five or six sleeping human beings buried in blankets decorated with cartoon characters.
Overheard: “We drove to nine thousand feet and then hiked to twelve.” I think he was talking about a road trip to Yosemite.
The cooking show gets changed to a cracking fire in a fireplace. Turn it up!