Shattered (4 page)

“Okay, no problem, Mr. MacDonald.”

“Call me Mac.”

“Sure … Mac.”

“So is this just a one-night thing or are you supposed to be here for a while?” he asked.

“Forty hours.”

“Is this like a court-ordered thing?” Mac asked. “Court-ordered … what do you mean?”

“You got convicted of something and were sentenced to do this instead of going to jail or paying a fine.”

“No!” I exclaimed. “It's for school!” Did he think I looked like some sort of criminal?

“What sort of school?”
As he was talking he was wiping the counter and stirring the pot.

“My civics class. We have to do volunteer work to pass,” I explained.

“So you
have
to be here.”

“If I want to pass civics.”

“This really isn't something you
want
to do,” he said. “Um … I guess not,” I answered reluctantly, thinking that maybe I shouldn't have admitted that.

“You're not hoping to grow up to be a social worker or something like that, are you?” he asked. He sounded suspicious.

I laughed. “That's just about the
last
thing in the world I'd want to become.” The truth was, there actually had been a time I'd toyed with that idea. Then my father told me how difficult the job was and how badly it paid.

“Even better! Some of these do-gooders who come around here to do volunteer work think they're here to save souls or do therapy instead of serving food.” He paused and stared at me. “You're not here to judge'em or save'em, just serve'em food.”

“I'm not trying to save anybody except myself … from a failing mark,” I said. “I'm just trying to do my hours so I can pass.”

“Good. This ain't no social project. Understand?” He wiped his hands on a discoloured dishtowel tucked into his belt.

“You don't have to worry about me. I'm going to keep my mouth shut, serve food, do my hours, and leave.”

He laughed again. “Sounds like you have a lot in common with the people here.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“None of them want to be here either. And you're smart to keep your mouth closed. Worst thing you could do is ask a lot of questions. That sometimes leads to people getting upset.”

“I'm not here to ask anybody anything,” I said. “I won't even talk to anybody if you don't want me to.”

“Talking is fine. Just don't be giving anybody any crap.”

“I don't give crap.” Unless somebody tries to give it to me first, I thought but didn't say.

“Just be polite and respectful. Don't go asking a whole lot of questions. Something you think might be innocent, just sort of making conversation—like where do you live—might set somebody off … especially somebody who's paranoid. And almost everybody who walks through those doors is at least a little paranoid.”

“Everybody?” I asked.

“You have to be at least a little paranoid if you want to survive living on the streets. There really are people out there who want to rip you off or hurt you. That's the way of the streets. Just remember, just'cause somebody's paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get him.” He chuckled to himself. “I think it's time to let them in.”

I watched as he walked over to the door and opened it up.

“Come on in, boys, supper's waiting!” he called out. The first two men shuffled in and the line snaked in behind them. Mac stood by the door, welcoming people, shaking hands, patting people on the back. He gave one old man—all bent over and dressed in absolutely filthy
clothes—a hug. I shuddered, wondering what sort of diseases and bugs the old man was carrying. My scalp got all itchy just thinking about it. As soon as I got home I was going to take one very long, very hot shower.

The first man stood in front of me, tray in hand. He was wearing a big bulky parka, a thick sweater, and a scarf wrapped around his neck, the standard toque on his head. He didn't look very old, maybe in his late twenties. Across the counter and through the steam and food smell rising from the pots I could still make out the distinct odour of alcohol coming off him.

“What are you serving?” he asked.

“Um …” I didn't know. I lifted up the lid and peered in through the rising steam. “It looks like some sort of stew.” I stirred it around with the big ladle and lifted a scoop. “Beef stew.”

“Mac makes great stew. Ever try it?”

“No!” I exclaimed. Did he really think that I was going to eat food from a soup kitchen? “It's my first time here,” I said, trying to cover up my feelings of disgust.

“If there's any left at the end, you should try it,” he said.

“If there's any left, I will,” I said, although I was just saying that to humour him.

I picked up the big ladle and dipped it in again. I carefully put some of the stew into the bowl on his tray. It actually did smell good. I repeated the process and the second scoop filled the bowl to the brim. The man reached out and grabbed a bun.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You're welcome. I hope it's good.”

“Guaranteed to be the
best
thing I eat today,” he said and then chuckled. “Guaranteed to be the
only
thing I eat today.”

“I'm … I'm … sorry,” I stammered.

“Not your fault,” he said and shrugged.

“Maybe you could take another bun or—”

He shook his head. “Can't do that. Might be taking the last bun away from somebody who gets nothing. Maybe at the end when you get some stew I'll get an extra bun.”

“Sure … okay.”

This really hadn't been what I'd expected. This guy hadn't even eaten today, and he was worried about somebody at the back of the line he probably didn't even know. That wasn't how I was expecting a street person to be.

“You two through gabbing?” barked the man behind him. “There are people here who need some grub, you know.”

I startled and then quickly dipped the ladle into the pot. I fished out a heaping helping and as I dropped it into the bowl it slopped onto the tray.

“Be careful!” he barked. “Don't go wasting my food!” “Sorry, it was an accident.”

He was older and grizzled and there was more than just a
slight
odour of alcohol coming off him. He seemed to be swaying back and forth ever so gently, and as I carefully put a second scoop into his bowl I saw that the tray was shaking.

“You can take a bun,” I said.

“You think I don't know the routine!” he snapped.

“I've been coming here longer than you've been alive, you little—”

“Leave him alone, you old buzzard!” snapped the first man I'd served.

“You want a piece of me?” challenged the old man. “You hassle me and I'll cut ya!”

“Take your food, shut up, and sit down!” It was Mac. “You say another word and you'll be banned for two weeks!”

The old man opened his mouth to answer, revealing a mess of yellowed and missing teeth. He mumbled something under his breath, but turned and walked away, sitting down at the table with his back to us.

“Don't worry about it,” Mac said to me. “You didn't do nothing wrong. Just keep serving.”

I dipped the ladle back into the pot and served out food to the next man in line and then the next and the next. It was funny, every one of them was the same but different. Some were polite, others rude, some were like zombies, hardly noticing that I'd given them food until they were prodded by the person behind them to keep moving. There were those who were cursing under their breath or muttering away, talking to people I couldn't see or hear answer back. Some were angry. Others seemed cheerful, even happy. Maybe they were the craziest of the bunch. Wouldn't you have to be crazy to be happy eating at a soup kitchen and living on the street? There were some who didn't seem that much older than me, others who must have been in their seventies, and a whole bunch whose ages I couldn't discern behind the layers of grime, beard, and clothing. They could have been twenty-seven or seventy-two. Interestingly, there wasn't a woman in the group. Where did the shopping
cart lady go to eat? Was there another soup kitchen for women?

I got to the bottom of the first pot. I was just going to put it aside when I looked back at the line. It was at least as long as when I'd started serving. What would happen if there wasn't enough food for the last few in line? I wasn't so worried about them going hungry as how they might react—how they might react to
me
—if they didn't get fed. What was that saying I'd heard about delivering bad news?
Kill the messenger
… that was it. I'd be the guy to tell them there was no more food. That old man had mentioned cutting somebody and if the man in the park was to be believed everybody in here had some sort of weapon. That is, everybody in here but
me
.

I tipped the pot and scraped the stew off the side, accumulating it until there was a full ladle to dish out.

“That's the way you do it,” Mac said. He had returned from the kitchen carrying more buns.

I put the now completely empty pot off to the side and dragged forward the second pot. I took off the lid. The stew was still steamy hot. Maybe I was hungrier than I thought because it did still smell good to me. I dipped in the ladle and added a second scoop to the bowl of the man patiently waiting. He smiled and nodded his head in thanks.

I caught a quick glimpse of my watch. I'd been here less than forty minutes. It seemed like hours already.

“Do we have enough?” I asked Mac, motioning toward the back of the line.

“I think we'll be okay. Hopefully enough that we get a bowl too. You already eaten?” Mac asked.

“I grabbed something before I left home,” I answered. That something was a granola bar and a couple of cookies. I didn't care how good the stew smelled, or how hungry I was, there was no way I was going to eat here.

“You lyin' to me?” Mac asked.

“What?”

“You lyin' about eating?”

“No, of course not,” I lied.

“Just wanted to make sure. Didn't want you to lie so you wouldn't be taking food away from some of our clients. We won't be taking food from somebody. We'll only eat once everybody has had their fill.”

“It's just that I'm not hungry … honestly.”

“How can you not be hungry for a bowl of this?” Mac asked in all seriousness. “It's my own recipe, made from only the finest ingredients.”

“Where do you get all this food from?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“Some I have to buy, but a whole lot of it comes from Second Harvest.”

“What's that?” I asked as I continued to serve the people in line.

“It's an organization that picks up food from stores and restaurants that have extra. It's all perfectly good food that would go to waste if it wasn't collected and put to good use. The meat for our stew today is cut-up steak from Centros.”

“Centros!”

“You know it?” he asked.

“Who doesn't? Centros is one of the classiest, most expensive restaurants in town.”

“Never been there myself, but that's what I hear.”

I'd been there half a dozen times with my parents. I thought it was best not to mention that.

“But why would they give away food?”

“Sometimes they order too much, or there's problems with the freezer, or the chef just doesn't think it's tender enough. Maybe they just want to do something good. Anyway you cut it, they get a charitable donation receipt and we get to feed some people who really need to be fed.”

Just then there was a commotion over in the corner. Two men, sitting across from each other at a table, had jumped to their feet and were yelling and swearing at each other. It looked like it was going to evolve into a full-fledged fist fight.

“Excuse me,” Mac said. He reached by me under the counter and pulled out a big black baseball bat! I backed away.

Mac moved around the counter and quickly got close to where the two men were screaming at each other. What was he going to do with that bat? Without warning he smashed the bat down on the table between the two men, causing cups to overturn and bowls and cutlery to jump along the whole length of the table!

“Both of you, sit down or get out!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

The whole room had gone completely silent. Everybody had stopped eating or talking; they all stared at Mac holding the bat. Both men dropped back down to their seats without saying another word.

“How you act on the streets is your business!” Mac said sternly. “How you act in here is mine! I don't know
what you were fighting about, but I want you both to forget it. Shake hands and be friends.”

I expected them to argue or get up and leave. Instead they held out their hands and shook.

“That's better,” Mac said. “We'll have no more of this … from anybody.” He looked around the room, holding the bat up. “Isn't life tough enough for us already? Aren't there enough people out there trying to harm and abuse you without doing it to each other?”

A couple of men called out in agreement and others nodded their heads. Mac walked back over, circled the counter, and put the bat away underneath it. The regular sounds of the room—talking, laughing, clinking of cutlery and bowls and glasses all started up again. It was like the whole thing had never taken place.

“Does that happen very often?” I asked.

“Too often for my liking, but not as much as in the past. I'm known to run a pretty strict place here. Those who aren't gonna follow the rules know better than to come here.”

“If they don't come here where do they go instead?” I asked, hoping to avoid that place completely.

“This isn't the only location in town offering a meal. Of course, some people have been banned from some places and others don't ever come to soup kitchens to begin with.”