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Out of the rain, into some turkey
God’s Extended Hand
Outside the mess hall
It’s 6:30 at night. Dark already. The rain’s dropping in sudden downpours and then disappearing. Tents line the chain-link fence of the vacant block on J Street. And then, in the gloom, you realize those who don’t have tents are just sprawled out across the sidewalk. I can’t believe it. People lying in sleeping bags just let the rain come down.
This is around 15th, a block from the Pinnacle apartment tower and new hip cafés pushing East Village eastward. Up 16th, the bobbles of hoop tents grow thicker. People cluster around the entrance to God’s Extended Hand meal hall. They wear upside-down black plastic bags to try to keep dry.
Living outside in the rain
Javier guards the entrance
Harry on the serving line
Turkey, pineapple, spuds
“Fuck yeah!” yells this guy as he crosses 16th. “People going to listen. Fuck yeah!” A little old lady in a shawl with a packed shopping cart stands next to an old gent with a dignified carved walking stick. She ignores the yelling guy.
“You should be here at six for the service if you want a meal,” says Javier, the door guard. But he lets me in. “Take that seat by the kitchen. Last row on the right.”
Inside it’s warm. Maybe a dozen long tables packed with people, families, kids, elderly, blonde, dark, the whole spectrum. Across the table I’m at, a Spanish-speaking couple with a kid, a young white guy, black gal, heavy-set older white woman. Behind them, this guy in the line of servers, in a red Father Christmas apron, gets handed a huge roasted turkey from the kitchen behind him. He lays it on his carving board. His name’s Harry.
“Okay, here we go!” he says as he grabs the carving knife and fork. The trays start moving down a line of servers dunking stuff into the molded dips in the trays.
Pretty soon someone is sliding the full trays to us along each table. The room quiets down as people get into their food. Lots of coughs, scraping of plates. My plate comes last. It’s got a lot: Rough-mashed potatoes, slices of turkey, coleslaw, a lettuce salad, a big slab of beet root, slice of bread, a cinnamon roll, and a big chunk of pineapple. There must be drinks around but I don’t get to them.
The guy across from me is wrapping up some of his to go. Dante. Part-time cook. Helps run an anarchist website called “It’s Going Down.” Needs a full-time job.
“Next time, come for the service,” says Javier as I leave.
Outside, things are less raucous. There’s a kind of contented burble radiating in the dark. Laughs. Two kids coming out are holding hands with this guy and gal and chanting, “He’s in love with Jane! He’s in love with Jane!”
Round in a dark driveway, a guy leans over and tucks the hood of a sleeping bag around his lady’s face as she lies there on the ground looking up at him. She smiles.
Up the hill, the Pinnacle tower glows.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Out of the rain, into some turkey
God’s Extended Hand
Out of the rain, into some turkey
God’s Extended Hand
Outside the mess hall
It’s 6:30 at night. Dark already. The rain’s dropping in sudden downpours and then disappearing. Tents line the chain-link fence of the vacant block on J Street. And then, in the gloom, you realize those who don’t have tents are just sprawled out across the sidewalk. I can’t believe it. People lying in sleeping bags just let the rain come down.
This is around 15th, a block from the Pinnacle apartment tower and new hip cafés pushing East Village eastward. Up 16th, the bobbles of hoop tents grow thicker. People cluster around the entrance to God’s Extended Hand meal hall. They wear upside-down black plastic bags to try to keep dry.
Living outside in the rain
Javier guards the entrance
Harry on the serving line
Turkey, pineapple, spuds
“Fuck yeah!” yells this guy as he crosses 16th. “People going to listen. Fuck yeah!” A little old lady in a shawl with a packed shopping cart stands next to an old gent with a dignified carved walking stick. She ignores the yelling guy.
“You should be here at six for the service if you want a meal,” says Javier, the door guard. But he lets me in. “Take that seat by the kitchen. Last row on the right.”
Inside it’s warm. Maybe a dozen long tables packed with people, families, kids, elderly, blonde, dark, the whole spectrum. Across the table I’m at, a Spanish-speaking couple with a kid, a young white guy, black gal, heavy-set older white woman. Behind them, this guy in the line of servers, in a red Father Christmas apron, gets handed a huge roasted turkey from the kitchen behind him. He lays it on his carving board. His name’s Harry.
“Okay, here we go!” he says as he grabs the carving knife and fork. The trays start moving down a line of servers dunking stuff into the molded dips in the trays.
Pretty soon someone is sliding the full trays to us along each table. The room quiets down as people get into their food. Lots of coughs, scraping of plates. My plate comes last. It’s got a lot: Rough-mashed potatoes, slices of turkey, coleslaw, a lettuce salad, a big slab of beet root, slice of bread, a cinnamon roll, and a big chunk of pineapple. There must be drinks around but I don’t get to them.
The guy across from me is wrapping up some of his to go. Dante. Part-time cook. Helps run an anarchist website called “It’s Going Down.” Needs a full-time job.
“Next time, come for the service,” says Javier as I leave.
Outside, things are less raucous. There’s a kind of contented burble radiating in the dark. Laughs. Two kids coming out are holding hands with this guy and gal and chanting, “He’s in love with Jane! He’s in love with Jane!”
Round in a dark driveway, a guy leans over and tucks the hood of a sleeping bag around his lady’s face as she lies there on the ground looking up at him. She smiles.
Up the hill, the Pinnacle tower glows.
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