Chapter 1: DishwasherA Chapter by Shannon The soup kitchen, some of the people in it and a disappointing start. "Hey, Red." I turn towards the voice, a scold at his lack of originality forming in my mind. I encounter a short, stout man, with lots of silver-grey hair. He is wearing a clean apron, the white dimmed by time and repeated washings. His mouth is not smiling, but his eyes are alive with humour and challenge. "You here to work or just look around?" the stout man says. There's the challenge. With all the courage I can muster, I announce, "Work. What can I do?" The kitchen is large, with two old metal commercial stoves gleaming at one end, framed by equally elderly and glinting oven units. The man tilts his head towards the other side of the kitchen where a walk-in cooler and four deep stainless steel sinks take up most of the space, along with a small restaurant style dishwasher. A woman is loading plastic cups into the dishwasher. "She'll show you what to do." Not what I want to hear. I've done dishes every second night since I was eight, this is not why I have volunteered at Meals Shared. I want to do something more important than dishes. He adds, "If that’s too hard, I'll find you something easier." Ha! I've got five years of experience. It can't be that different. I march over to help the woman. She’s maybe twenty-five, but looks exhausted. She gestures with her arms, adorned in homemade tattoos, for me to tie my hair back. I sigh, thinking about the nickname my hair has already earned me in this kitchen, as I dig into my pocket for a covered elastic. I’ve had red hair, that lightens to strawberry blond in the summer, and freckles, that do the opposite, for my whole life. Like I've never been called ‘Red’ or ‘Carrots’ or a dozen other names before. "I'll run the machine, you take care of the sinks. You'll want gloves. Third one's got bleach in it." She thrusts a pair of yellow rubber gloves at me before she turns to stack more cups into the tray. The full tray is shoved into the dishwasher, which closes with a clunk. I lean down into the deep sink and start to wash the first of many huge pots. It's hard work maneuvering the heavy pots, with the high sided sinks being low to the ground. I debate with myself whether the job would be easier if I were taller than my five-foot-two, because the edge of the sink would not cut into my stomach when I reach to scrub the bottom of the pot, or more difficult, because I would have to lean over farther yet. I’m about halfway through the mountain of dishes, presumably having correctly guessed one washes in the first, soapy sink, dips in second, dips in the third, before a final rinse in the fourth, when Mr. Stout comes over. "Com'on, Red, let's go find some supper." Relieved, I remove the sticky gloves. Following him to the food line, I notice that he is not short and stout so much as very square. He lists heavily to one side, pulling his right leg behind him in an uneven gait. The line is shorter than it was when I had arrived, an hour earlier, so our plates are quickly loaded with mashed potatoes, liver and onions in gravy and chunks of boiled carrots. I pass on the bread bowl and grab a glass of sweet-smelling red drink from a jug. Mr. Stout limps over to a large round table where a few older people are sitting, along with a woman who has two small children in tow. The adults stop talking as we sit down, but one little girl is smiling at me from across the table, head tucked low, so I can just see her upturned mouth. I smile back and wiggle my fingers instead of a full wave. She beams widely and digs into her plate with gusto. "I'm Leonard," my boss turned supper companion says. "Sarah," I reply. "What made you come in today, Sarah?" "I want to help." "Sounds good. Why here?" Leonard gestures vaguely to the room around us. The building had been an old, run-down bar until it was seized for back taxes. The carpet covering most of the floor is decades old, dark and patterned in a large orange, brown and green floral; dark with stains or white where it is wearing through in spots. One wall is covered in a man-made rock treatment that was popular when the carpet was installed, the serving station built in is used for drinks and desserts. Three volunteers serve supper from another alcove. Circular and rectangular tables are surrounded by a mix of plastic and wooden stackable chairs. The room is lit with noisy overhead fluorescent lights and yellow-tinged wall sconces. No natural light enters unless someone opens the back entrance, designated for staff and volunteers to enter. Patrons enter through the front door and walk down a hall, made dimmer by dark wood paneling, past public washrooms to get to the eating area. Here anyone who comes can get a free meal five days a week, except a few holidays, when the Salvation Army takes over. "Because food is a human right," I begin, "and Canada signed the Human Rights Charter… " I taper off as Leonard lets out a low chuckle. "What else is a right?" Is that amusement? "That all people are born with dignity and freedom..." I begin. "That's a good one," he declares. "So I saw Meals Shared in the paper and thought I would come help. I talked to Bev and she said it was okay?" I was surprised when I saw the article. How do people in Canada not have enough food? It said the soup kitchen needed more volunteers, so I asked my mom about volunteering. She told me to phone and find out more, to see if after school would work. The director Bev said four o’clock was good, so I made plans to come in. "’Course it's okay. What else do you do, where do you go to school?" "I'm in grade eight at the academy," I tell him, referring to the girl's school which is less than twenty blocks from here,” I like to swim and read and I believe in people!" I am used to that amused look from adults and take it as a good sign. So I ask, "What about you, how long have you been coming here? Do you work here, like Bev? What else do you do?" "I volunteer. Used to be a cook, but messed up my back a long time ago, Now, it’s too bad for me to work." I think back to the the stool Leonard was sitting on, while chopping up things and coaching other volunteers through cooking meals on the giant stoves. Oh, it's hard for Leonard to stand? When dinner is over, we go back to the kitchen. He walks volunteers through clean up. I get back to the pile of pots, which has grown in my absence. **** I yank the staff door open; I know the routine. I pull my hair back as I enter the kitchen and start the water running in all four sinks. Leonard calls: "Hey, Red," like he has every week for the last three. I wave back as I add soap to the first sink and measure bleach into the third. I got here earlier today; the stack waiting for me is a bit shorter. Sweat is trickling down my forehead when Leonard decides it’s time to have supper. "Let's get some food, Sarah." Waiting in line, Leonard asks me about school and my swim meet. As I tell him about my English test and finishing a hard swim, with an admittedly dismal time, he looks over my shoulder. Pausing my monologue to glance towards the front of the line, I see a woman holding a baby, a toddler close to her legs. "I'll just go..." I start to explain to Leonard, but he is already smiling and nodding. "Need a hand?" I ask the woman, who doesn't seem much older than me. She has darkness under her eyes, one side not only from lack of sleep. She nods her head at me, then hands me a bundle of blankets, with a nose and eyes peeking out. Not sure I’m actually qualified for this duty. I bounce the bundle like I saw the mother doing, as she loads up a tray for herself and her son. Since she is heading for a table, I follow. No need to invite me! The mother sits down and I attempt to hand the bundle back, when the boy knocks over a drink, orange liquid splashes across the table. The woman's face begins to crumble; it looks like toddler and mother are both about to cry. I get some napkins and a cloth from the dessert station to help clean up. Seeing she has enough to manage, I keep the bundle in my arms and sit down. "How old are they?" I ask, searching for a topic. Don’t know if I’ve ever talked to an adult who looked so worn out. Or one with a black eye. "John’s almost three, baby’s… two months, already” she says, glancing at both of them, her tired eyes brighten for a few seconds. "John is really busy… " I start, watching him kick his legs under the table, while taking bites of a sandwich. "You don't even know! This morning, I was changing the baby in the bedroom. Come out and can't find John. The door is still locked, check the bathroom. I’m thinking he's f*****g lost or stolen. Then the little monkey starts to giggle. He climbed the fridge! Lucky he didn't kill himself!" As she is talking, Leonard limps his way to our table followed by another volunteer, "Edgar brought you supper." Edgar, like Leonard, is older than almost all the volunteers. He is tall and lean, with a grey beard that touches his chest. Maybe he hopes it will make up for the lack of hair on top of his head? He wears silver wire glasses, a pair of worn jeans and a red plaid button down shirt that appears a bit newer. I haven't met Edgar yet; he’s usually out front, working at the dish bins and dessert/drink area, while I do the never ending dishes. "Thank you," I say. He nods and walks back to his station with long sure strides. I look down at the tray: the steaming hot vegetable soup, I saw Leonard orchestrating earlier, sandwiches from a local corner store, whose best before dates are tomorrow and an orange drink. Then I look at the bundle in my arms. A sandwich will have to do, because there is no way I am bringing hot soup anywhere near a baby! Our mealtime is quieter today. Leonard makes conversation between eating with both me and the mom, periodically talking to the boy, too. It all fades into the background as Bundle opens his eyes. And smiles at me. Only he and I exist until he opens his mouth and lets out a squall. His mother lets out a deep breath and holds out her arms to reclaim Bundle, concealing him beneath a blanket to feed. It’s time to get back to work. I grab the finished trays to take to Edgar's station. Leonard catches my eye, "They need more help out here, Edgar’ll show you what to do." "What about dishes?" "Someone else can do dishes," he dismisses. "Okay!" He doesn't need to tell me twice. I try not to bounce on my way over to the alcove where the dish bins are kept. I've been promoted! © 2017 ShannonAuthor's Note
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Added on September 24, 2016Last Updated on February 26, 2017 Author
ShannonCanadaAboutI like to explore the world through the human experience, at once both varied and singular. Reading, writing and meeting people makes one's world larger. I enjoy connecting with people, learning.. more..Writing
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