Walking out of This World

Seven

My eyelids fly open to a view of Warren's face. A slight grimace passes across his lips recoiling from the force of my words. He steps back.

"It's time to get up! You slept through breakfast. I left an egg and bacon biscuit sandwich on your desk."

I rub my eyes with closed fingers. I now understand the awkwardness of the moment. "I'm sorry. It's just that you startled me."

"Jim is waiting for you downstairs. It's your day for community service," he continues, turning toward his side of the room.

The moment ends with the closing of the door and Warren's obvious surrender of the now silent room.

I shake nonsensical thoughts out of my head, thankfully eat the still warm biscuit sandwich, trying to put the pumpkin lamp out of my mind.

I take a quick drive-by in front of the bathroom mirror, combing my unruly brown hair into submission and throwing on blue jeans and a Road House T-shirt.

I hurry down the stairs, not wanting to keep Jim waiting. The remains of last night's initiation heavy on my mind.

I spot a short hallway turning off to the left of the stairs. I see Jim through the open door sitting behind a healthy wooden desk and busily shuffling some papers.

"Come in," he says and gestures for me to sit in one of the chairs patiently waiting in the small space.

"Reporting for community service," I announce.

He looks up from the stack of papers. The expression on his face says this is serious business. "We've placed you at a homeless shelter downtown. When you go to the front desk ask for Paul. He's the volunteer coordinator."

He hands me a business card with the address of the shelter and a bus ticket.

"Okay," I reply.

"Any questions?" He asks, a quick grin sneaks across his face.

"No. It seems easy enough," I say while sticking out my right hand for a handshake to close the deal.

He takes my hand. "Good luck," he says in the middle of turning back to his desk.

The bus ride is uneventful. We pass by brick buildings tall and short. Cars are pulling in and out of metered parking spaces and people are moving back and forth on the sidewalks.

I see the Wright Street and First Street stop ahead. I reach up and pull the white cord that wriggles down the top of the windows. The bus stops with a whoosh.

I walk past more red brick buildings that still stand proud and strong. There's a bar announcing its name in neon and an open door—Sally's.

There's two old guys snuggled up to the bar talking around their pitcher of beer.

I look to the left and see the homeless shelter. It's a two story, non-assuming brick structure wedged uncomfortably between two taller ones. A motley crew of shifty-looking characters are hanging around the front door. On the left is this small space guarded by a tall chainlink fence, where hazy figures are lounging, puffing on cigarettes—enveloped in a smoky mist.

"Excuse me." I throw the words behind me while making my way to the a waist-high counter strategically waiting in a large room a few paces beyond the entrance.

" John Foster. I'm looking for Paul."

"Happy to meet you," the words cascade out of a big smile. Shoulder length hair and a well trimmed black beard confront me behind a confident greeting.

He turns and winds his way around the the counter. "Follow me."

I follow down one side of a room full of long tables and gray folding chairs. Paul reaches out and pushes a door open that stands to one side of the large room. A waist-high counter merges in a rectangular space, large shiny metal pans covered with aluminum foil seem to be waiting for orders.

"Hey, Grace. I have another victim for you!" Paul yells out between the clattering metal cooking tools and busy voices.

A young woman joins us. Gently curled coal black hair cresses a brown face and dances to her shoulders. A hint of pink on her lips and a friendly smile, glistening black eyes project kindness.

"Welcome, I'm Grace." A welcoming hand invites a customary greeting.

"John." A warm feeling pushes a responding smile across my lips.

"Okay, John. You'll be stationed on the serving line." She turns and moves toward the serving counter. "You are in charge of the potatoes and gravy." Her face turns to a different part of the kitchen. "Ted, Karen, Liz, we're ready to serve."

The three take their places to the right and the left. "Well...Looks like you'll be serving the green beans as well," she continues.

I pick up a long-handled metal spoon.

"I loves mashed potatoes," a tanned leathery face declares.

I plop a load of white fluff on his plate. His plate pauses for a brief moment to allow me to follow up on the potatoes with a wash of brown gravy and a small pile of green beans.

The line of bodies trudges forward, plates filling, moving slowly to waiting tables and hushed talk. Their faces carry lines etched into unwilling skin, pained expressions explaining unforgotten histories.

A tall scruffy guy stops the movement of his plate with an obvious invitation to add to its contents. His forehead carries deep creases drawing skin together in little rope-like lines that fetch up the notion of a questionable history. A full beard hides any consenting clues that his face might reveal.

His eyes turn their focus on my t-shirt. "You from the Road House?" He growls.

He's probably someone I wouldn't want to have a friendly conversation with in some secluded ally way. "Yes, sir." Then I spoon a large helping of mashed potatoes and gravy on his parked plate.

"Hold the beans!" The words work their way quickly through an overstuffed beard.

A slow but purposeful movement of his left hand maneuvers a dirty slip of folded paper under the plate, which he' elevates to finesse the exchange.

"Give this to Warren!"

"Sure." A lingering thought follows him down the line.

Warren! I immediately shove the note deep into my jean's pocket while forcing its ambiguous intentions to the back of my mind.

The sound of chain links rattling together shakes me out of the thought swamp that has temporarily frozen me in place. The little mini garage door is being pulled down, leaving my side cut off from the rest of the dining hall.

The sights, sounds and smells of eating are hidden while pans and utensils are taken to the washers at the back of the kitchen.

I feel a soft touch on my shoulder—from behind. I turn to meet Grace's invitation. "We're going to grab some food and relax in the dinning room."

"Shh! Don't mention Warren."

In the hands of a shiver that thought is lifted out of my head.