Whenever it was someone’s birthday, word would somehow reach Mrs. Peebles. She would demand that we all sing “Happy Birthday.” If it was a child’s birthday, somehow a present would appear.
When each person in the room had been served, Mrs. Peebles would lift the plastic tablecloths off three long tables piled with bread, boxes of donuts and coffee cakes, dried milk, pears, and apples, and she would announce, “The cakes and clothes are now open. SHARE, PLEASE!” Many of the crowd would rush to get a box of donuts or some fruit and to pick through the secondhand clothes neatly hung on racks or folded on the long tables. Those who grabbed too many donuts received a Mrs. Peebles tongue-lashing. “Now, I told you to share so everybody can have some!”
Everyone was to be treated with dignity and respect. There would be no making fun of the middle-aged, quite portly woman in an ill-fitting flowered dress and jean jacket holding a frying pan over her head, saying, “The Iraqis are coming. The Iraqis are coming! Get a pan. Get a pan!” Or the skinny fellow who said he had found a tunnel to outer space in the woods off Wycoff Road. “You can walk into the tunnel and go to Mars, or Venus, or Jupiter,” he was heard saying. “I’m charging twenty dollars a ticket to get in.”
Mrs. Peebles had her eye on C. She knew that at any minute he could create havoc by jumping on the table and announcing he had seen the devil the night before and Satan was, indeed, coming to take us all, or by inciting the crowd into a rousing rendition of the hokey-pokey.
There were “normal” people, too, who entered into discussions about who had the best french fries—McDonald’s or Burger King.
But everyone knew C. They knew he probably had a few bags of premium smoke in his pocket. But he never sold it or gave it away in The Lord’s Diner. “You don’t need that stuff,” C would say. Or “I don’t have any right now.”
If one listened, one could learn a lot. There were men who had been to Tangiers or Istanbul, women who had been instructed to ride in the back of the bus in Mississippi, and children confident that pop star Pink was the best female vocalist in recorded history.
My favorite dinner companion was Ray, a Polish man who was born in Brooklyn. He hesitantly gave me his last name, suspicious I might track him down and rob him. “What’s the difference?” he shrugged when I asked. “It’s Polish. You can’t spell it or pronounce it.” He was right. Ray was a Dodgers fan, until the team packed up their bags and moved to Los Angeles. “Them bums!” he said. “They broke my heart.” He had seen many of the greats play: Williams, Cobb, Podres, Koufax, and Rose. “Hey, can you tell me why these pitchers nowadays can’t pitch more than six or seven innings?” he asked. “Don Larsen, Johnny Podres, and Sandy Koufax always finished their games, or else they were mad!”
I joined the scramble to the tables of treats and picked up a box of coffee cake and a box of croissants. As I was weighing in my mind just which one I wanted, I saw Ray guiding his walker as deftly as possible among the tables and the throng of humanity. “No croissants left?” he asked with great disappointment when he reached the table. “They’re my favorite.”
“Here,” I said, handing him the box I had just picked up. “I was trying to decide, and you just made my decision easy.”
“You sure?” he asked.
“Well, the coffee cake looks pretty good too,” I said as we moved down the line. As Ray bent over, I could see the edge of a plastic diaper sticking up from the back of his trousers.
The Diner was not a stimulating place to discuss politics, but that seemed to be the topic of the day. It was always quite boring, because there were so few Republicans. The homeless and the poor didn’t like Republicans. They were still waiting for Ronald Reagan’s “trickle-down economics” of the eighties to finally trickle down to them. Diners could be heard saying things like “The Republicans made sure it trickled over to Enron and places like that!” Any Republicans who didn’t like the comments usually kept quiet, or moved to another table—all two of them, and their ranks no longer included me. With forty million of the two hundred and eighty million people in the country living below the poverty line or homeless, including one in five children—some in this very room—they knew they had no defense. Tough talk about individual responsibility and making your dreams come true by working two or three jobs, twenty hours a day, were meaningless here. Many had already done that and now were here, cold, tired and hungry.
About fifteen minutes into my four- (or five-, according to C) star meal at The Lord’s Diner, a young man came rushing by, cupping his mouth with his hand, whispering, “The cops are here.” He spread the word to about four tables and three men got up and headed briskly for the back door just as two policemen were coming in the front. They quickly scanned the room and headed for a table at the back.
Their target was a tall, lean, clean-shaven young man wearing cowboy boots and a T-shirt. He froze, mid-bite. He knew they had him, and he put down his fork. They asked his name. One cop pulled a notepad out of his top pocket and read him his rights while the other turned him around, leaned him forward on the table, frisked him, and put him in handcuffs.
The others at the table carried on as though nothing had happened. They continued eating and talking about the Bingo and dance coming up at the Elks on Friday night. “I’d like to go,” said one lady, “but I don’t have any money. Plus the bus doesn’t run out there that late at night.” Her tablemate responded, “That’s okay. I can pick you up in my car, and I’ll lend you five bucks to play.”
“Okay. Let’s go,” announced the cop, and they led their suspect from the room.
“Whew,” said C, leaning toward me. “I’m glad they’re out of here. My yams are getting cold. That’s pretty unusual for the cops to show up here. This is usually a sanctuary. He must have been a really bad guy.”
The episode had apparently unnerved Mrs. Peebles, who was fidgeting with the keys around her neck and watching from a distance. Careful not to be observed while observing her, I cocked my head just right and saw her let out a big sigh and head back toward the kitchen to check the oven.
“There’s all kinds of drama going on here you’re not even aware of,” said C. “Take Sally, the short-haired woman over there,” he said, nodding in her direction. “She has a restraining order against Brian, who’s sitting way in the back. Maybe a hundred feet, I guess. They used to be married and she says he hit her. And the man outside the window smoking a cigarette—well, he’s waiting for his ex, Peg, to leave. The judge said they can’t be in the same room together. He says she hit him. Drama, drama, drama . . .”
I excused myself to go to the restroom.
As I reached the hallway to the men’s room, I saw a man with wild gray hair lying on the floor, partially hidden by the people eating at a big table. His head was peeking out of a coat someone had placed over him. I recognized him; it was the fellow I saw on my first day at Sally’s. He had staggered in, quite intoxicated. I struggled to remember his name. Artie? No, no. Andy! That was it. A lady at the table saw me staring and caught my eye, putting her finger to her lips. I understood and moved on to my own business.
Andy wasn’t upright. They were hoping that no one, particularly Mrs. Peebles, would discover him. But moments after I returned to my table, and just as a forkful of lemon meringue pie was melting on my tongue, the paramedics arrived, carrying a stretcher and a heart defibrillator. An EMT ambulance and a fire truck were parked outside with their engines running. Someone had already called Andy in.
The lady that had shushed me grabbed her coat from Andy’s body. He didn’t notice. He was in a peaceful, passed-out stupor. The paramedics did their job, awakening Andy. A few people cleared a nearby table to make room for the stretcher and then watched as the paramedics cautiously lifted him up. They flashed a light in his eyes, startling him back to reality, and took his blood pressure. They all knew Andy.
“Come on now, Andy. Don’t fight us,” one of the medics said, as Andy crossed his arms in a small sign of rebellion. “How
are you, Andy?” another asked.
“I’mmm okaaaay,” replied Andy, softly. “I’m a liiittlllle coooold.” His words were slow and slurred.
Andy was one of the medics’ best customers. They had picked him up many times before, and it was always the same routine, prescribed by law. The medics knew it, and Andy knew it. “We’re going to have to take you back to the hospital, Andy,” they informed him.
“Oh, nooooo,” was his reply. Andy looked sadly into the eyes of one. “Do you haaave to?”
“We do, Andy,” was the medic’s response. He reached for Andy’s wrist and tried to guide it through the strap on the stretcher. Andy pulled his arm away. “Come on, Andy. Don’t fight us. You know the routine.” He reached for the wrist again.
“I cannnn waaalk, youuu know,” said Andy.
“But, this is better, Andy. Safer,” the medic replied.
Andy lowered his eyes, swallowed, and surrendered, dropping his arms to his sides and then lying back on the stretcher.
They finished strapping him down. As they wheeled him between the tables and back to the ambulance, the man sitting next to me said, “They’ll take him up to the hospital. A doctor will look at him, and he’ll be out by nine o’clock.”
I went back to finishing my pie and attempted to make eye contact with one of the serving girls. I needed a coffee warm-up. Actually, after that whole scene, what I really wanted was a cognac. Preferably a Courvoisier!
The Lord’s Diner had a routine. After people had finished eating and had gathered some clothes, Mrs. Peebles would bring out boxes of cereal, cans of food, sometimes candy bars, soap, razors, and toothpaste—all to give to those in need of them. Then, if you hung around long enough, she would pass out Styrofoam to-go containers, and everyone would get leftovers.
I got up the nerve to ask Mrs. Peebles why she did what she did each weekend. “Because,” she said, matter-of-factly, “it needed to be done, dear.” And she dashed off to the kitchen.
There was an unspoken love in the room. I couldn’t know it then, but during the next year, her food kept me alive. Her table setting and the atmosphere she provided kept my mind off my troubles, her dinner guests made me laugh, her clothes kept me warm, and it all gave me hope. I never got a chance to say how much I loved her. I was afraid.
This was my first dinner at Mrs. Peebles’, and I left with a full belly, a loaf of Jewish rye bread, a cream-cheese coffee cake, a can of pork, four high-energy bars, a large can of creamed corn, a like-new Cleveland Indians baseball cap with “Chief Wahoo” embroidered on the front, and a to-go box with three pieces of melt-in-your-mouth sliced ham which I shared with Willow.
But The Lord’s Diner was just the start of C’s tour of free food for me over the next week... and we always took our “hobo review” along.
“Impeccable!” C exclaimed, as he tasted a small morsel of lasagna at Family of God Lutheran Church on Fairgrounds Road. He used his fork to gently lift the pasta like a brain surgeon doing intricate work. “What do you think, Richard?” he asked.
“Can we do a six-star?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “We must stay within the ratings.”
“Then it’s a solid five!” I announced.
Marianne caught our act and laughed.
“Mamma mia, this is magnifico!” C said, saluting the cook and then blowing her a kiss, which sent her giggling into the kitchen.
The Lutherans also had clothes, even more than Mrs. Peebles’ array of garments. And bread and sweets, and little bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and hand cream they had collected from Best Westerns, Westins, Red Lions, Sheratons, and even Disneyland.
I walked out of the Lutheran Church on my first visit feeling quite Italian, wanting to fashionably burp, and wearing a quite serviceable pair of $225 tan Montefiore loafers with very little wear and a Tommy Hilfiger polo shirt, carrying four cherry turnovers and a platter of German chocolate brownies marked to expire at midnight on Monday. “Where do they get nice shoes and shirts like this?” I asked C, holding out my arm and lifting one foot off the ground.
“Death, divorce—who knows?” C responded. “It could be you are walking in a dead man’s shoes. How do you feel about that?”
“It doesn’t bother me in the least!” I replied.
On Wednesday night at six, there was dinner at Our Savior’s Lutheran on 11th, which specialized in barbecued chicken and all the milk you could drink.
And the really hungry could double up, because the Church of God, a tiny church up on 8th, served dinner the same night—the likes of homemade beef stew with fresh-cut carrots, potatoes, celery, and onions. That was topped off with a homemade dessert—bread pudding of exquisite consistency, not too dry and not too milky. Grace and Gladys, the proprietors, spent the day making the entrée and the dessert. And you’d swear you were being welcomed aboard a cruise ship as Grace greeted you by name with a warm smile. On Friday night, the Christian Community Center, another small church, served dinner at six-thirty. Their basement was easily filled when word got out they were serving their delicate chicken strata, layered to perfection.
The United Methodist Church served dinner the final Friday of each month, the time when money was the leanest for state and federal check recipients, and their tuna casserole and baked salmon rivaled any such dish in town.
Then it was back to Mrs. Peebles on Saturday and Sunday.
It was the older women in these churches—for the most part, feisty ladies—who cut potatoes, tomatoes, and meat into chunks and cooked all day for the privilege of breaking bread with the poor for maybe half an hour to an hour.
They didn’t seem to need a thank-you.
They didn’t seem afraid of being hot, tired, or dirty.
They seemed to be called by a voice few ever hear.
In a few weeks I saw C’s waistline beginning to expand. I wanted to laugh, but mine was expanding too, from 32 to 34, then 34 to 36, and—oh no! I was pushing 38! It was a good thing they were giving away pants, too.
Chapter 7
SANCTUARY AT THE HOSPITAL
I needed to find some sanctuary from the cold February rain, which had fallen nonstop for seven straight days.
All my socks were wet, and my tennis shoes squeaked when I walked.
The street people told me they sometimes found protection from the elements at the local hospital up on the hill. There was a waiting area just inside the main door with a television, a coffee shop, and newspapers that people had left behind. The family members and friends of patients would often hang out in that lobby as they awaited word on the surgeries being performed on their loved ones on the floors above.
“Just watch out for the security guards,” I’d been warned by Ron, the guy who had told me about the refuge. “The guards do a sweep from time to time. They can spot vagrants and homeless people, and they aren’t too polite about kicking them out. Visiting hours end at eight, and you’ll have to be on your way by then.”
I found parking in the covered garage and went into the hospital. There was a bathroom just off the lobby. I used the hand dryer to dry off my tennis shoes, and then, quite awkwardly, I held one foot at a time up to the machine in an attempt to warm and dry my feet. It was about twenty minutes before I was able to get my shoes and socks at least partially dry, and then I walked out into the waiting area.
It was about six p.m., and the local news was on the old Magnavox TV. A couple of sofas filled the center of the room, and several comfy chairs were lined up along the wall. There were no security guards in sight, so I sat down on the sofa in front of the TV. There was only one other person in the room when I entered, a man sitting in an armchair near the back. He had his legs crossed and was reading a magazine by the light of a lamp.
I looked around casually to see if anyone was watching, and then I slid my right hand down behind me, searching for lost coins beneath the cushions. I found a dime. I moved over on the sofa a little and used my left hand to fish for more, this time retrieving
a quarter and a penny. I tried yet again, this time along the side of the sofa, and my hand hit a bigger coin. It felt like a silver dollar. I was hoping to get enough change for a cup of coffee. When I pulled the coin up from its hiding place, it turned out to be a ten-year Alcoholics Anonymous chip. I placed it on the coffee table in front of the sofa, knowing that somebody worked very, very hard for ten years to earn it. I made a mental note to drop it off at the reception desk later.
“DOCTOR HUNTER TO E.R., STAT. DOCTOR HUNTER—E.R.” A voice called over the hospital intercom as I dug into my pockets for any change I had left. My quarter and nickel, combined with the coins I had found in the sofa cushions, still left me thirty-two cents shy of the ninety-eight cents I needed for the coffee. I turned my eyes to the TV.
“If you are tired of the rain now, we have some bad news for you,” the newscaster was saying. “We will be back with the weather report and the havoc it is causing, right after this.”
As a commercial came on, I noticed a candy striper pushing a lady in a wheelchair. They were coming my way. The lady in the chair had an IV in her arm. A tube led to a bag attached above to a metal arm and hanger bolted to the chair. The lady had a round, pretty face, and her head was covered with an off-white scarf. A gold chain hung around her neck, from which dangled a gold cross highlighted by a small ruby in the center. Her neck was weathered and wrinkled. I guessed her age to be fifty-five or so. A pink-and-green print dress peeked out from under a white hospital gown, and a small red-and-silver sequined purse lay in her lap.
“How’s this spot?” asked the young volunteer, as she positioned the wheelchair beside the couch in front of the television. “You can see your husband coming, through the big windows, and you can watch TV until he gets here,” she said.
“This will be fine,” said the lady. “Thank you so much. My husband should be here soon, and I’ll have him push me back to the room.”
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