Pieces Of My Life

So I awoke at six am; Packed both kids up to go to the Mobile Food Bank. My ideal weekend does not consist of waiting in line outdoors on a chilly fall morning before the sun comes up with my kids, but alas this is what it's come too to survive. The game is played like this: you show up, wait in line. At some arbitrary time they begin to hand out numbers to receive food. Everyone disperses, (this morning to their cars to warm up) then you wait, sometimes a few minutes sometimes until 9:30. Then when it looks like they're about ready to start handing out food the line reassembles in number order. Then we wait some more, until the line files past an assembly line filing your boxes with whatever food they have that day. If you're lucky volunteers with shopping carts carry your food for you. As if it's some cosmic joke played just on me the shopping carts are on loan from my former employer. Their name sprawled across the side teasing me, reminding me why I'm standing there.

This morning I was lucky number 113. The kids were surprising well behaved considering the ungodly hour I woke them. The rest of the needy in line talked and made faces at the kids as most adults do to cute children. One elderly gentlemen smiled and made faces at my son while saying something top him in Spanish. After waiting in the reformed line for 20 or so minutes a small commotion begins directly behind me. An older woman, frail and visibly poor for quite some time is yelling at a younger well groomed, fit man, "You're not supposed to be near us! You're not my son anymore." As she tosses her Propel Vitamin water on him I want to chalk this up to her being just another crazy poor person.

She shoves him and he yells in a booming voice "Your husband raped your daughter!" The crowd gasps and clears out much like a playground fight. I've never actually been anywhere before the crowd has simultaneously gasped. Given the nature of the accusation I couldn't help but feel it was underwhelming. She shoves him and throws the plastic bottle at him. "Your husband raped your daughter!" he yells. She shoves him. "Your husband raped your daughter!"

I just for a moment think about stepping between them to break it up. I instead move my son's car seat behind my daughters stroller, and myself between them and the commotion. "Your husband raped your daughter!" Whatever issues they may have with each other I'll be damned if it's going to spill over into my kids. I plant my feet firm, there's not going to be any chance they get by me, even accidentally. I look up and the woman's being restrained by the Spanish speaking gentlemen. Every male food bank volunteer has run over by now and the yelling male has been forced to leave. The battle is over. The woman is sobbing and being comforted by what I can only assume was her accused husband, the same Spanish speaking gentlemen who had been cooing at my baby boy minutes earlier and I want to throw up.

With such vile accusations, I suppose I should give them the benefit of the doubt, before judging them. But ... they look poor. And the accuser didn't.

I remain positioned between me and the horrid couple for the remainder of the wait. In fact as the line continued to reassemble in number order, a number of people wound up between us. So my thoughts returned to the task at hand, caring food my kids and getting food. The line inches forward and I watch the volunteers with shopping carts make trip after trip to Chevy Cavilers in the entire rainbow of primer colors. One of the volunteers is a stunningly beautiful strawberry blonde coed in a track jacket. I'm am married but ... I'm still a man, so of course I notice her. And at this moment I want more than anything for the volunteer who helps me to be anyone but her. Nothing will make this more of kick in the jewels than to have a beautiful woman assist me with getting the second hand food to my kids because I'm to much of a failure to provide for them myself. But as luck will have it, I can't even make eye contact with her to thank her for her help.

I don't want to sound ungrateful for the food, because I am very grateful. It's just it's second hand food. It's store stale outs, scraps and flavors of products that never caught on. While the rest of the world eats Count Chocula and FrankenBerry, we're given Yummy Mummy and Fruit Brute. Metaphorically speaking of course, that's way too name brand for the food pantry. It unhealthy or tastes bad, or at the very least, hard to make into a decent meal given the other food we've been given.

High end food tends to stale-out more often. So when we get enough of that to make a coherent meal out of it we actually eat better than we did before I lost my job. Those opportunities are rare though. With today's haul we had Chicken and Cheese Ravioli in Pesto sauce with a Multi-Grain garlic bread. We won't eat close to that again until next month. Most of the time though with the high end food we wind up doing things like putting 100% Natural Organic Ground Beef into a knock off Hamburger Helper because that's what have to make a meal.

The rest of today's haul was unusually bountiful. Lots of meat. All frozen, most likely on the day it expired in store. A package of pork chops, two of seasoned chicken breast, two Cornish game hens, an entire deli peppered turkey breast and six pounds of crovac sealed Cajun deli turkey slices, not opened yet, but most likely ends and scraps from a local deli. You know, the tough bits the cut off before selling it to you normal folk. We also received no less than eight bags of pork rinds in all sizes and degrees of heat, two bags of deep fried onion crisps, four bottles of fitness water seven months expired, and two packages of hot dogs. But not any hot dogs, delicious Hebrew National 100% Kosher Hot Dogs. In my employed days, we never bought beef hot dogs, let alone something as tasty as these. Has my life really come to the point where I want to save the hot dogs for only the most special occasion?

This is my life now.