Thanks-for-giving

Deloris’s bony arms struggled to pan the grotesque canned Tomato ‘surprise’ soup special that was to be served to the soup kitchen’s patrons.  She was garnished in the finest filth of an apron, and ripped hairnet you could ever see.  The plastic latex gloves engulfed her puny hands like a set of alligator jaws clamping down on its innocent lunch.  Her apron adorned tomato smudges across it for what seemed like miles.  She ran her spotted forearm across her wrinkle-seized forehead, and flicked the labor induced sweat away from her dried face.  Deloris had been working at the local soup kitchen for 15 years, and this was, by far, her most busy Thanksgiving week.

Quitting time finally rolled around, and Deloris was the first one out.  She nearly dragged herself on her hands and knees towards her little grey Oldsmobile, recently, the slow, reluctant trek to her car had become habitual.  It got to the point where she even began regretting leaving the soup kitchen.  She’d rather labor for 40 days and 40 nights than step another inch into that front door threshold she once called her home.  When Deloris first began working for the soup kitchen, it was more of a hobby " just something she did on the weekends, but then her marriage hit rock bottom.

 

Her husband of 20 some-odd years, Paul Wesley, always had a reputation as being a bit of a swinger.  He was never a ‘ladies man’, but he had a calm, soothing voice that made almost any women want to get in bed with him.  From the beginning Deloris’s friends and co-workers tried to warn her of what her husband did while she was away.  She was young though, and young love can be just as catastrophic as it can be mesmerizing.  Deloris was so blind to Paul’s fling, she wouldn't have accepted the fact that Paul was cheating on her unless he brought his love affair into their bed at night.  Once she did find out though, she went from being the most exuberant, blissful, lively person you could ever meet, to Count-Frankenstein-Dracula’s grandmother.

It got to a point where Deloris had lost all of her energy, and even more so, her hope.  Every day she pulled those navy blue covers off of her aging, aching body and slipped into those vanilla white house slippers with navy blue tulips on the sides, she lost a little bit more of herself in the sea of sorrow her life had dived headfirst into.  Her husband could not even look at her the same way, nor could she even bring herself to acknowledge his presence.  Most mornings consisted of a “What are we having for dinner?” from Paul, nothing more, nothing less.  On the rare occasions that they did have the energy or the 4.5 seconds it took for them to lift their heads and look at each other, it was to ask for the salt and pepper at the dinner table.

Sometimes life works like that.  Sometimes you life is perfect, but even in times of joy,  you’re wondering what you did wrong, or what you could’ve done better.  Deloris, like many other distressed people, turned to work to create some sort of peace for herself.  She went through the motions.  Serve a homeless guy here, a crack head there, a welfare recipient here, the normal things you’d see at a soup kitchen.   People passed through the lines in such a rush, no one ever seemed to take their time anymore.  There was always this one peculiar fellow who went by the name “Skinny” "  he had been there something like four thousand times in the last 15 years or so, just about everyone knew who he was, including Deloris.  Skinny was the exact opposite of his name, though.  He was an enthralling massive hunk of 280 lbs of stocked together fat, all forced into a 5’11 frame, compiled with a beer gut the size of an 11 month pregnant woman.  He always wore a brown and black checkered coat and the pattern, coincidentally, was situated exactly like a checker board.  His hair was always semi-decent for him to be homeless, and you could see that he tried to keep the majority of his body at least somewhat clean, although his hair was always messy, and looked matted and dirty every time she saw him.

“Hey skinny, what canna’ getcha’?” Deloris always did favor Skinny because he was a very picky person, even to be homeless and rummaging through a soup kitchen on an almost daily basis.  He had confidence and carried himself in a very content manner.

“Yanno’ Delawris’, da’ uzyual.” Skinny chimed back in his slurred words.  By now, he had visited the Yokel’s Pub and filled up his glass with Smirnoff Vodka.  Even prestigious people have a drink or two.

Deloris prepared Skinny some of that Tomato ‘surprise’ soup, a small side of corn mixed in with some fried carrots, broccoli, peas, and two warm Hawaiian dinner rolls.  As expected, Skinny ate at his own leisure, without any worry, as if he had all the spoils of the world.  Deloris plopped her elbow on top of the smudged kitchen counter and laid her chin atop her balled fist for support, all the while, her wolf’s mane silver eyes observed Skinny as he casually picked and chewed at his food.  Out of sheer curiosity, she decided to go and have lunch with him.  She’d might as well; it was closing time in 15 minutes.

Her calloused hands ran down her filthy apron four times, each time she pressed harder, like she was trying to coat it over with Tomato ‘surprise.’

“Skinny, can I ask you something?” She said softly.

“Sure thin’, ‘lawris’, g’head.” Skinny retorted.

 

“For the past 15 years I've seen you come in here so calm and without’ worry. “ She paused, and ripped out the faulty hairnet that was torn precisely down the middle. 

“How d’ya do it?  You poor afta’ all, homeless and all ‘dat, how are you so... at peace all the time?”

 

“’Cause, ‘lawris, there jus’ some thin’s in life ‘dat you gotta’ know you can’t get mad ‘bout.  I believe’s... y’know... sumtime’z you gost’a appreshiate da’ little thin’s in life.  If you goin’ tru’ da’ worl’ wit’ a frown on yo’ face all da’ time, ‘den of course you’s gonna’ has lotsa’ problems.  If you release all yo’ stress, yo’ life’a be much.. eazier.  Appreshiashun iz’ da’ key. “,

 Skinny himself was even surprised that he could string even that semi-comprehensible sentence together.

 

“Oh please, Skinny, you’ just talkin’ nonsense.  You need to lay off’a ‘dat Vodka.” 

Deloris obviously wasn't buying what a drunken hobo had to say about issues as deep and concerning as life.

 

“What?  Yu’ think’s I don’t like none ov’ da’ stuff you does fo’ me?  I be payin’ attenshiun’, ‘lawris.  I be payin’ lotsa’ attenshiun.  Fo’ 15 years I done come up in here, and every time, you done fed me.  Errywhere else I wen’, ‘dey rejected me ‘cause I wazn’t nuttin’ butta’ homeless, wurfless piece’a trash to ‘dem, but you, you showed me compasshin’.  I love’s you fo’ dat.”

 

Deloris’s eyes lit up in both embarrassment and surprise.  In 15 years, she had not once been told “I love you.” by anyone, not even her own husband, let alone a fat homeless guy.  Startled, and shocked, Deloris jolted out to her car, and covered her hands atop her bun-wrapped hair in a futile attempt to cover her icy grey/whitening hair from getting abused by the medium snowfall from the November skies.  Her work boots crunched as she jogged to her Oldsmobile.  She finally thrust herself into the driver’s seat of the car, closed the door, and just sat there.  Her face suddenly streamed tears of relief, and she heaved in one big breath in the middle of her sob.  Fifteen years of suffering, deceit, and betrayal suddenly found themselves at the forefront of Deloris’s mind.

 

“I love’s you fo’ dat’.” echoed in the back of her mind.  Deloris didn't go home that day.  Her co-workers found her in the driver’s side of her Oldsmobile, dead.  To this day, it is believed that she died from a heart attack, but some think it was a happy one.  Old Deloris had finally found the solace that she had been seeking for 15 years.