Page 6 of The Ecstasy of Sin
Even this late, the streets are crowded. This particular part of the city isn’t the safest either, which means shady individuals are weaving in and out of the shadows as I walk. I keep my head down, my eyes locked on the pavement at my feet.
It takes forty minutes to get there, and when I finally lift my gaze, I take note of the long line as it snakes down the sidewalk and around the corner. It’s no surprise that there are so many people waiting outside of the doors, since this place tends to have the biggest, most nutritious meals available.
Dinner runs late too, which is helpful for those of us that are fortunate enough to have a job. It stings when I realize I can’t count myself as one of the lucky ones anymore.
I take my spot in the line and wait. By the time I make it inside, I’m trembling from the drop in blood sugar. I haven’t eaten much since coming here yesterday for dinner, and I can feel it now in every unsteady step I take.
Gathering my hair in my hands, I secure it into a ponytail just as I step up to the long counter. I offer the attendant a small, tired smile. She hands me a tray without a word, already reaching for the next one in a logical attempt to keep things moving.
I hold it tightly in my hands as I turn to survey the crowded hall, my gaze sweeping slowly across the mass of people before finding an open spot near the back corner.
I weave through the packed rows, each step dragging, my eyes fixed on the open chair.
I can’t help but wonder, and not for the first time, if this will always be my life. Soup kitchens, overcrowded shelters, and arevolving door of jobs that never last because people tend to lose their patience fast when employees keep missing shifts.
It doesn’t matter if the reason is a valid medical one.
Losing my dad seemed to be the catalyst for my life truly falling apart. I managed to graduate from high school and earn my diploma, but a year spent in a foster home had me falling between the cracks of society in the wake of my newly compounded grief.
It could have been worse. My foster family mostly ignored me, and asked me to do the majority of housework, but other than that they didn’t bother me much.
As soon as I turned eighteen, they handed me an old backpack, a list of resources, and a phone number and address to a fast food joint willing to hire me for part time work.
Unfortunately, the stress of my life and the fear for my future immediately triggered a cluster of migraines. I tried to work through it, but ended up passing out in the kitchen in a pool of my own vomit.
I lost the job after five days, and it’s been nothing but the same endless cycle since. It’s hard to keep a positive attitude when my situation feels so hopeless.
Sitting down, I slide my tray closer, and eat in silence.
The meal consists of a bowl of warm, thick stew, a large slice of stale bread, an overripe banana, a chocolate chip muffin, and a small carton of apple juice.
I finish every bite, even though it makes my stomach cramp after being empty for most of the day. I don’t know when my next full meal will be, so I eat like it might be my last.
With what little cash I have in my bank account, and this pitiful final paycheck—I’m forced to choose between food and medication.
And medication has to win, because I can work through starvation, but I can’t work through an unmedicated migraine.I still don’t have enough money to fill the expensive medication I need most.
Finding another job is the only way to survive, so hunger must be my constant companion.
Inflation is its own kind of cruelty. The healthy food I want to eat is unaffordable, so I’ll be rationing cheap, high-calorie junk until the money runs out. Which won’t take very long.
When I’m done eating, I carry the empty tray to the counter and give the attendant a quiet “thank you.” Then I turn and head for the exit, glancing at the clock high above the double doors, and frown.
It’s really late now. At this hour, there’s no guarantee I’ll get a bed at the women’s shelter. The doors lock in about an hour.
I pick up the pace as I descend the steps, the line outside much shorter than it was when I first arrived. My tired feet carry me toward the same shelter I’ve been frequenting since I became homeless seven years ago.
An uneasy feeling coils in my gut as I hurry down the street, just in time to pass an exchange between a drug dealer and a man who reeks of sweat and cigarette smoke.
Just ahead, the familiar women’s shelter comes into view, and my pace quickens. In the alleyway to my right, a pair of menargue, their voices rising as the conversation devolves into swearing and shoving.
I don’t turn my head to watch as the situation escalates, keeping my sights on the doors up ahead.
I’m awash in relief as I practically jog up the short set of stairs to the front doors, bone-deep exhaustion nipping at my heels.
I instantly recognize the security guard, Kevin, who nods at me as I approach. He uses the keycard attached to a lanyard around his neck to open the doors for me. “It’s busy tonight.”
I nod, and he begins ushering me inside, just as the two angry men from the alley stumble out into the street and begin exchanging blows.
