By Chris Milam
We all squirm because we are all early; the volunteers haven’t emerged from the kitchen yet. Staring into the hive of havenots, two thoughts occur: Who can I bum a cigarette from? and I hope they serve cheeseburgers with absolution.
Teenagers finally float from the back carrying trays of meatloaf, green beans, and applesauce. I inhaled four plates plus three oatmeal cookies. The kids were mannerly and soft-spoken and angelic. They won’t land here on a Friday evening when they’re my age.
A smiling, faithful woman hands me two meals in Styrofoam boxes to take home. It’s almost cruel.