People Recycle

Those diced tomatoes were not very dispersed in the 24-inch bowl of salad. I found portioning the tomatoes on each plate difficult as a result of this inadequate mixing. Peg, the Caucasian woman in her late fifties who stood to my right distributing cheese, kept on bringing the lack of tomatoes to my attention, so to save her from all this trouble, I placed both hands in the salad and mixed it up myself. Peg was amused.
Each plate, identical in appearance, came and went as each person moved down the line. Whole wheat spaghetti, with the choice of meat or veggie sauce (or both), two slices of garlic bread, a hearty amount of salad, and the option of cheese were the ingredients to each dinner plate on this casual Friday night. One would expect the room to smell, even if just a bit, of tomato-based sauce, or the aroma of freshly-baked garlic bread (no doubt from the frozen aisle of a nearby Safeway). No, the room smelled of asphalt, of sweat, of the lack of hygiene. However, the most pungent of these aromas was the smell of humans, hit hard by the hammer of homelessness, broken by the glances of more privileged humans, eroded by the rainfall and winds unexpected and unprepared for. These humans came to the College Avenue Presbyterian Church looking for a warm, cooked meal, a shower, and some peace aside from the harsh routine of their weeks. They sit together in this room of yellow walls and wooden frames, waiting for their weekly, but perhaps daily, meal.
To each person I would ask, "salad?" Some would reply with "yes, please." Some shook their head in disagreement or disgust. Some would simply ignore me and I would have to nag them a second or third time before they understood that I was addressing them. It was okay, they must have a lot on their minds. This process of salad distributing went on as I scanned each of their appearances. There were only four or five Asians out of these men and women. Blacks and Whites shared their numbers in the crowd. Their clothing suggested a life on the streets, but not in the bloods or crips sort of way. Many were courteous and grateful. There was one man, however, who insisted that one of the helpers was wasting time, and gave the helper much attitude. However, everyone could see that the man wanted to have his cut before the seniors did, which earned him many disrespectful glances from all over the room. Upon receiving his dinner, he left.
I eventually emptied the salad bowl, and took the bowl into the kitchen for the dishwasher to do his work on it. I then returned to the yellow room. The servers were still working for those who wished for seconds. I saw some helpers were conversing with the neighbors they sat next to. The helpers strategically separated themselves to cover the masses. I moved to the trash bin to the right of the room, and there was my first conversation.
Chip was on his way to disposing of his paper and plastic dishes when he noticed my eyes catching his, and gave salutation. I engaged in a conversation with him with a simple question, "How was your dinner, man?"
"It was great, thank you for the meal."
"Do you come here often?"
"No, this is actually my first time."
I turned to the right and noticed the picture of a man with a long face, long, brown hair, and a beard.
"I see I see. You probably know why I am here, and I want to ask you now, what do you think of Jesus?"
He explained his views of Jesus to me in a respectful manner, ending with the belief that Buddha is Jesus's younger brother.
"I'm sorry, but I have to go, my truck is parked outside and I can't afford to pay off a ticket."
"All right man. I am Oscar by the way."
"My name's Chip. Nice to meet you, Oscar."
"Well, I'll see you around. If you ever want to visit me, I work at Kip's. Owned by Chinese people, like you, real nice bunch of Chinese people. See my shirt? Kip's."
He was wearing the yellow Kip's uniform. The emblem of the restaurant sat on the left side of the shirt.
"All right man, I'll see you around."
"It was nice meeting you, Oscar."
"Same to you, Chip."
I scanned the room. There was a Black man sitting with a White woman in the middle of the room who look like they had not been interacted with today. The man was bald, and was playing with a pair of aviators with brown tint lenses and bronze frames. He looked thin and malnourished. I scooped up some courage, asked myself "why not", and went to the pair.
"Hey, do you mind if I sit here?" I asked as my jeans made contact with the bottom of the chair.
"No problem, man," the Black man replied. I smelled sweat.
"I'm Oscar, by the way."
"My name's Will, Oscar. How you doing?"
Will brought out his hand to receive the handshake I offered him across the table. He had dark brown, bony hands, though he shook my hand with affirmation.
"I'm doing good, man. How was your dinner?"
"T'was good, man. Thanks for serving."
The White woman to the right of Will expressed his gratitude as well.
"Oh yeah, here's my friend. I came with her and that woman over there." Will pointed to a White woman in the line for seconds.
"Oh yeah, no problem. It's the first time in my life, actually."
I laughed, and Will proceeded to laugh as well.
"Hey, can I ask you a question?" I asked Will.
"Sure man, what's up?"
"You know, you can probably assume that I am a Christian, as how I am helping out at a church to serve food. May I ask you about what you think of Jesus?"
"Oh yeah man," and Will went on, speaking of his belief in Jesus as a personal Savior.
"So I heard you mention about how you believe that Jesus died for your sins. What does that mean to you, personally?"
Will explained his belief of how the sins he had committed to this day, September 10th, 2010, have been forgiven by God, and he can live happily, knowing that God will take him to Heaven when he dies.
"That's cool man. How'd you come to this belief?"
Will told of how he had always somewhat believed in God, and eventually came to the point where he received Jesus as his personal Savior.
"Nice, nice. Hey, do you want to know my story too?"
"Oh, yeah. Go ahead, man."
And I shared a shortened version of my own testimony to Will and the White woman to the right of him.
"That's good, man. That's good," he responded with a smile. I laughed.
"This means I can call you my brother, right?" I held out my fist. He laughed, agreed, and fist bumped me. Now was the time to address Will's friend to the right of him. The woman was wearing a red plaid shirt. Her hair went down toward her back, and she had on a pair of glasses, and her eyes resemble those of the educated. By the lines on her face, I assumed her to be in her mid forties.
"I suppose you have heard my short story. What is your name?" I addressed the woman. She looked at me indifferently.
"Helena," she said with an accent I have not had contact with before. She spoke like the educated, the professional. She spoke with a more intelligent voice than I did, and I felt even more humbled than when I was speaking to Will.
"Nice to meet you. May I ask you what you think about Jesus?"
"Well, Jesus was a Jew, born of the virgin Mary..." She went on to talk about John Calvin and Michael Servetus. Somehow she connected to her own life (perhaps I asked her about it, I don't remember) and she revealed that she was once a Methodist, but after the death of her mother, she began questioning God. Her questioning led her on a lifelong journey of looking for answers, and she found her peace in a secular humanistic view on Unitarianism. She would continue to talk about her life until we, as the helpers and the serviced, were kicked out of the church (the church needed to close down) and subsequently began our journey home. Helena, Will, and I parted ways at the intersection of College and Claremont Avenues.
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My memory deceives me; I thought I remembered more. I only hope you felt as if you were with me as you were reading this big block of words.