'Yep. There's one hypothermia shelter the city graciously opens when the temperature drops below freezing. That might be her only chance, but I'm sure it's packed tonight. The city is then kind enough to close the shelter when things thaw.'
The sous-chef had to leave, and since I was the nearest volunteer who wasn't busy at the moment, I was pressed into duty. While Mordecai made sandwiches, I chopped celery, carrots, and onions for an hour, all under the careful eye of Miss Dolly, one of the founding members of the church, who'd been in charge of feeding the homeless for eleven years now. It was her kitchen. I was honored to be in it, and I was told at one point that my chunks of celery were too large. They quickly became smaller. Her apron was white and spotless, and she took enormous pride in her work.
'Do you ever get used to seeing these people?' I asked her at one point. We were standing in front of the stove, distracted by an argument in the back somewhere. Mordecai and the minister intervened and peace prevailed.
'Never, honey,' she said, wiping her hands on a towel. 'It still breaks my heart. But in Proverbs it says, 'Happy is the man who feeds the poor.' That keeps me going.'
She turned and gently stirred the soup. 'Chicken's ready,' she said in my direction.
'What does that mean?'
'Means you take the chicken off the stove, pour the broth into that pot, let the chicken cool, then bone it.'
There was an art to boning, especially using Miss Dolly's method. My fingers were hot and practically blistered when I finished.
Eight
Mordecai led me up a dark stairway to the foyer. 'Watch your step,' he said, almost in a whisper, as we pushed through a set of swinging doors into the sanctuary. It was dim, because people were trying to sleep everywhere. They were sprawled on the pews, snoring. They were squirming under the pews, mothers trying to make children be still. They were huddled in the aisles, leaving a narrow path for us as we worked our way toward the pulpit. The choir loft was filled with them too.
'Not many churches will do this,' he whispered as we stood near the altar table and surveyed the rows of pews.
I could understand their reluctance. 'What happens Sunday?' I whispered back.
'Depends on the weather. The Reverend is one of us. He has, on occasion, canceled worship instead of running them out.'
I was not sure what 'one of us' meant, but I didn't feel like a member of the club. I heard the ceiling creak, and realized that there was a U-shaped balcony above us. I squinted and slowly focused on another mass of humanity layered in the rows of seats up there. Mordecai was looking too.
'How many people . . .' I mumbled, unable to finish the thought.
'We don't count. We just feed and shelter.'
A gust of wind hit the side of the building and rattled the windows. It was considerably colder in the sanctuary than in the basement. We tiptoed over bodies and left through a door by the organ.
It was almost eleven. The basement was still crowded, but the soup line was gone. 'Follow me,' Mordecai said.
He took a plastic bowl and held it forth for a volunteer to fill. 'Let's see how well you cook,' he said with a smile.
We sat in the middle of the pack, at a folding table with street people at our elbows. He was able to eat and chat as if everything was fine; I wasn't. I played with my soup, which, thanks to Miss Dolly, was really quite good, but I couldn't get beyond the fact that I, Michael Brock, an affluent white boy from Memphis and Yale and Drake and Sweeney, was sitting among the homeless in the basement of a church in the middle of Northwest D.C. I had seen one other white face, that of a middleaged wino who had eaten and disappeared.
I was sure my Lexus was gone, certain I could not survive five minutes outside the building. I vowed to stick to Mordecai, whenever and however he decided to leave.
'This is good soup,' he pronounced. 'It varies,' he explained. 'Depends on what's available. And the recipe is different from place to place.'
'I got noodles the other day at Martha's Table,' said the man sitting to my right, a man whose elbow was closer to my bowl than my own.
'Noodles?' Mordecai asked, in mock disbelief. 'In your soup?'
'Yep. 'Bout once a month you get noodles. Course everybody knows it now, so it's hard to get a table.'
I couldn't tell if he was joking or not, but there was a twinkle in his eye. The idea of a homeless man lamenting the lack of tables in his favorite soup kitchen struck me as humorous. Hard to get a table; how many times had ! heard that from friends in Georgetown?
Mordecai smiled. 'What's your name?' he asked the man. I would learn that Mordecai always wanted a name to go with a face. The homeless he loved were more than victims; they were his people.
It was a natural curiosity for me too. I wanted to know how the homeless became homeless. What broke in our vast system of public assistance to allow Americans to become so poor they lived under bridges?
'Drano,' he said, chomping on one of my larger celery chunks.
'Drano?' Mordecai said.
'Drano,' the man repeated.
'What's your last name?'
'Don't have one. Too poor.'
'Who gave you the name Drano?'
'My momma.'
'How old were you when she gave you the name Drano?'
''Bout five.'
'Why Drano?'
'She had this baby who wouldn't shut up, cried all the time, nobody could sleep. I fed it some Drano.' He told the story while stirring his soup. It was well rehearsed, well delivered, and I didn't believe a word of it. But others were listening, and Drano was enjoying himself.
'What happened to the baby?' Mordecai asked, playing the straight guy. 'Died.'
'That would be your brother,' Mordecai said.
'Nope. Sister.'
'I see. So you killed your sister.'
'Yeah, but we got plenty of sleep after that.'
Mordecai winked at me, as if he'd heard similar tales.
'Where do you live, Drano?' I asked.
'Here, in D.C.'
'Where do you stay?' Mordecai asked, correcting my vernacular.
'Stay here and there. I got a lot of rich women who pay me to keep them company.'
'Two men on the other side of Drano found this amusing. One snickered, the other laughed.
'Where do you get your mail?' Mordecai asked.
'Post office,' he replied. Drano would have a quick answer for every question, so we left him alone.
Miss Doily made coffee for the volunteers after she had turned off her stove. The homeless were bedding down for the night.
Mordecai and I sat on the edge of a table in the darkened kitchen, sipping coffee and looking through the large serving window at the huddled masses. 'How late will you stay?' I asked.
He shrugged. 'Depends. You get a coupla hundred people like this in one room, something usually happens.
