“Just Another Saturday” Kristen…. NonFiction Workshop Kristen, slender, wearing long skirts and beads, a student of Joe Zeppetello’s Nonfiction Workshop writes creatively of her experience at the Beulah soup kitchen “Just Another Saturday” “Ed steps off the bus onto the corner of Mill and Catherine at 10:36 Saturday morning. He tugs the knit scarves a little snugger around his small children’s necks and shoves his frozen, worn hands deep into the pockets of his second‐hand coat. With the Beulah Baptist Church now in sight, Ed quickens his pace, anxious for what awaits him behind the heavy wooden doors. The children are laughing and running ahead of him. It’s not mass that Ed is focused on, but rather the only meal his family will have today. Ed lost his job after eleven years at a packaging plant. Management said he became too unreliable – taking extra days off and coming in late. The truth is, Ed was left with his two small children that he needed to take care of after his wife died; sometimes the baby‐sitter didn’t show, sometimes the school bus was late, but his boss didn’t want to hear any excuses when he could hire someone new at a lower wage. So Ed was forced to take the first job he could get – working for $6.30 an hour at McDonald’s. No one else will hire him with his G.E.D. and little experience. He’s saving up for some night classes at Dutchess County Community College. I guess you’re never too old to learn something new. Besides, Ed is only 28. Ed’s kids run down the stairs into the basement of the church. As they turn the corner, I watch the innocent smiles slide off their faces. Their eyes look down at their frayed sneakers as they wait for their father to catch up. Ed searches for a table with three empty seats amongst both strange and familiar faces, while the two boys stay close behind, silently elbowing each other in the ribs. I can’t help but laugh out loud. They remind me of Two Grumpy Men. Then a wave crashes over me as I realize their lives are no movie. These two little angels, neither older than five, have had quite a tough life already. And it probably wasn’t going to get any easier. Damn, here I go again. I force better thoughts into my head and concentrate on folding clothes for the donation table. “Wha’ chu doin’ there, girl?” I look up. “Uh, I’m just straightening up, I guess.” “Don’t chu want som’en to eat?” A short skinny lady dressed in layers of shiny material full of paisleys waves a withered, crooked finger at me. “No, I’m fine,” I nod. “Ain’t chu hungry?” “Nah.” “Girl!” “I had a bagel on my way over here,” I explain. “Wha’ chu talkin’ ‘bout, girl. You had a bagel?” I meet her eyes. Should I not be talking about food? I’m not sure what to say next. “Girl, you got a place to stay?” “Sure, I live over in New Paltz.” “In a house?” “In a house.” It’s just like me to get caught up in a conversation with a crazy lady. I went back to folding clothes. “With my friends. I live with my friends.” “You go to school?” “Marist.” “Girl! You go ta college?” “Yes,” I laugh. “Girl, I thought you was homeless!” She picks up a yellow blouse from the table, shakes it out with her one free hand and wrinkles her nose at it. She throws it back onto the pile and moves on. She’s not interested in me anymore. I refold the blouse. My patience lasts longer here. The women in the kitchen insist they don’t need any help preparing the food so I’m stuck at the table now, letting my eyes wander around the crowded room. I notice a man in his early 60s with white hair wearing a flannel button‐down and an unzipped black jacket. I feel my heart skip a beat – I thought, just for a second, that he was my Uncle Mike. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him sit by himself and patiently wait to be served. He’s looking down at his hands solemnly folded on the table and I can’t help but wonder, why isn’t that my uncle? “’Dis ya first time here?” A tall bony man smiles at me. “Yeah,” I nod, thankful for a reason to stop neurotically folding the same pair of beat‐up Gap jeans. “I know ya,” he says in a melodic Jamaican accent. He bobs his head as he speaks. “You know me?” I laugh. “Jah, I know ya’ ting.” “You know my thing?” Now I’m curious. “Let me tell you. Catholic school girl, ya whole life growin’ up wit everyting ya want. Wit lotsa friends and lotsa boys,” he smiles. I feel my face burning red. Not because he’s making me angry but because he’s right. “Paarrrr‐ty girl,” he sings. “Party girl,” I smile. “You do drugs.” The look in his eyes tells me what he already assumes. I look away and laugh but it comes out sounding stiff. Looking back up at him I say, “I don’t do drugs.” “It’s all good,” he says. He’s still swaying his head. “It’s all under control,” I wink at him. I want to end the conversation. “Tom,” he extends his skeleton arm. “Kristin.” I can’t help but notice how frail his hand feels in mine. “Are you working here, too?” “Yah.” I’m surprised by his answer. “Ya should come whenev’ya can. It’s good ta be here. ‘Tis people have no’ting. Not like ya, eh? Not like me.” I stare at him. “Yeah,” is all I can say. “Time for da prayer.” He turns to get the crowd’s attention. Across the room I see Ed lean over to whisper at his boys. The older one takes off his baseball hat and sits silently during the prayer. The younger one sits with a white plastic fork in his hand. They finish their spaghetti, throw out their plates and run over to a box of old toys in a corner where other children are already playing. I decide to forget folding the clothes and join the kids instead. “Hi,” I call to no one in particular and sit on the floor next to a little girl with tiny braids in her hair. “Hi!” she jumps up and pulls the back of my sweater. “Come with me,” she reaches for my hand. She pulls me to a closed door. Her five cousins follow. “Where are we going?” I ask. I wasn’t in the mood to baby‐sit. ”I’m gonna take you on a tour ‘n see my mama.” She is pulling me up the carpeted stairs faster than I wanted to go. My tour began: “This is the coat room ‘n this is where, um, I don’t know ‘n this is an office and it’s for Father James ‘n – “No,” calls out a pudgy boy with a shaved head. “Yes!” The little girl spins around to glare at her cousin. “No! That’s –“ “No!” All of a sudden I’m in the middle of six screaming kids. I try to quiet them down but I can’t even hear my own voice. I look through the glass double doors into the parking lot and spot my car. I want to make a run for it. “Tanisha!” A voice rings above all the rest. Immediately all the children are silent. I turn to face a girl no older than me peeking out behind a wooden door. “That’s my ma,” the girl with the braids whispers to me. The woman closes the door without another word. “They practicing.’” “For what,” I ask. “The choir. They good.” Her voice is drowned out as the organ begins to play Amazing Grace and a warm voice radiates through the closed door. “That’s my mama,” Tanisha says again with obvious pride. I stand with the kids for a while and listen to the music. No one speaks. The song abruptly stops in the middle of the chorus, and I decide to lead the kids back downstairs. They help me clean up the plates and wipe down the tables. There is a teenage girl sitting on a folding chair with her head leaning on her boyfriend’s shoulder. They have a physically handicapped son who is standing next to them, tugging on his mother’s sleeve; he wants to go home. I notice Ed is gone. I feel kind of disappointed that I didn’t see him leave but I don’t know why. I finish cleaning up and say good‐bye. I walk out the door, past someone’s shopping cart full of clothes and discovered treasures – someone else’s trash – to my car. On my way home I spot Ed waiting for the bus on Mill Street. He is holding his small boy close to his chest as the other one stands behind him, hiding from the wind. I wave to them as I drive by. Only the older one notices. He waves to me with his bright red mitten‐hand. I hope I’ll see them next Saturday.”