The building was a former Mexican restaurant. When it had gone out of business, it had been left a total mess. It had enabled the founders of the soup kitchen to obtain the property cheaply, even though there was plenty of work to be done.
I hadn’t been around in those early days—I was still a teenager then—but the place had been in operation for seven years and there were still things about the building that were reminiscent of the restaurant that had been there before. The outline of the original sign on the front of the building was still visible, despite the lettering being removed, and on the inside, the floor was covered in Mexican Talavera tile. The bar had been taken out, allowing for more seating to be installed. Now it was a large, open space that could hold around a hundred people.
A few small changes could make the place much nicer, but that was secondary to the mission on the La Playa Soup Kitchen. Any money that was raised went toward feeding as many people as possible. The tables and chairs had been donated, so they were a mismatched hodgepodge of styles and colors, but they functional, which was all that mattered here. As long as people had a place to eat, no one cared if the chairs matched.
Parking on the side street nearby, I popped my trunk, where I’d stashed a box of non-perishable food. Most of the food for the soup kitchen’s pantry came from donations, and I liked to contribute as much as possible.
Carrying the box with both hands, I made my way to the entrance. The door was pushed open just before I reached it, and I was greeted by the smiling face of Sean Haggert, the man that ran the place.
“Hey, Sabrina,” he said, stepping forward to take the box from me.
Sean was an Army veteran that had fought in the Gulf War. He’d had a hard time adjusting when he’d returned from overseas, and the lack of support for PTSD had resulted in a downward spiral that had ended with him self-medicating with alcohol and losing everything. He’d lived on the streets for ten hard years and it was his own experiences that made him so good at this job. He remembered what it was like to be one of the people that we helped here.
Sean shared his story with everyone, showing that he was unashamed of the darkest time of his life. I admired his strength, turning his life around and dedicating himself to helping others.
“I was starting to get worried,” Sean told me as I followed him to the kitchen. “You’re never late.”
“I got caught up talking to my mom. You know how she can be.”
He’d met her at Christmas, at the same time he’d met me, so I didn’t need to elaborate. She left an impression.
The kitchen was the most up-to-date part of the building since that was where the food was prepared. Certain standards needed to be met. There was a double oven, two deep fryers, and a steamer. Stainless steel tables provided the work surface and an industrial dishwasher stood in the corner.
Another volunteer, a woman named Annie, was already there, cutting vegetables. I didn’t know her well yet, since she’d only been coming for the past two weeks, but I smiled at her warmly.
Checking the menu, I saw that we were making chicken and wild rice today. The menu changed depending on the food that had been received. I’d been surprised over the last few months to find that the food could be of very high quality, depending on who donated it. Once, a seafood restaurant had overordered and donated their excess inventory to us. We were given the ingredients to allow us to prepare lobster linguini.
As I set to work, prepping the chicken to be baked and putting the rice into the steamer, I felt myself relaxing, moving with a rhythmic ease that I possessed only in the kitchen. This wasn’t exactly my dream kitchen, though. That would be in a little restaurant with me in a chef’s jacket. It was what I really wanted to do with my life, but instead of going to culinary school, I’d attended the University of California and studied political science. It was what my parents expected of me.
Now I made up for it as well as I could by cooking at home, which required working around whatever diet fad my mother was trying out, and by preparing food here. I was allowed some creative freedom with the menu here, cooking whatever desserts I wanted to make with the food available. I got the chance to show off by creating unique dishes.
By the time we opened for dinner two hours later, there was already a line of people outside. I loved serving my food to people, but I hated seeing so many unfortunate souls that couldn’t afford to feed themselves. The children were the worst. I could see the stark hunger on their faces, as they weren’t able to hide it like the adults that clung to their dignity. The soup kitchen was open seven days a week for dinner only, so that meant that this was the only meal that most of these people got in an entire day.
And my mother asked why I came here. How could she not understand?
Annie and I served the food in a cafeteria-style setup with the pans of food being kept warm on a steam table. The line formed, with every hungry person holding their trays out to us to be filled. Meanwhile, Sean worked his way through the room, interacting with everyone in the dining area. He cleared plates and washed dishes as needed, providing a welcoming presence for our guests. We worked as a unit in the chaos as the place filled up.
When we were finally done, everyone had been served and we were down to our last pans of food. I looked around the room with a feeling of pride swelling within my chest. That was the real reason that I kept coming back here. Helping these people gave me a satisfaction that I’d never known before. I was making a difference here, helping people. Of all the galas, silent auctions, and dinner parties I had attended that were designed to raise money, I’d never felt like I was really doing anything worthwhile for a cause before I found this place.
I glanced to my right and saw Annie scanning the crowd with a crease forming between her brows as she nibbled on her bottom lip. She’d been quiet all day.
“Everything okay?” I asked, putting lids on the food to keep it from drying out under the heat lamps.
“Yeah,” she said absently, not turning to look at me.
I wasn’t buying that.
“You sure?” I pushed, turning to face her directly. I wasn’t one to beat around the bush, and this wasn’t the first time I’d noticed Annie doing this. Her focus on the people here wasn’t casual. She was looking for something.
She looked at me this time, and when our eyes met, I saw sadness in the lines of her face. Annie was about ten years older than me, in her early thirties, and I knew she had a young son, but other than that, we were practically strangers. Despite this, I moved close to her and placed a hand on her forearm.
“Can I help you in some way?” I asked.
Shock radiated through me when she swallowed hard and tears filled her eyes. I glanced around and saw that no one else had come in for dinner in the time we had been talking, so I guided Annie back to the kitchen to continue the conversation in private. Once we were alone, she took a shuddering breath and blinked a few times. Once she had herself under control, Annie let out a sigh.
“I’m looking for my brother,” she confessed.
I wasn’t exactly surprised. It fit with her behavior and the anxiety coming off of her in waves.
