Faster Than Dignity at the Food Bank

           

            When I arrived at the food bank on Wednesday, June 1^st, a garbage truck was in front, dumping the contents of the food bank’s two wheeled bins into the back. The big Rastafarian guy was sitting in the Muskoka chair near the tree where I lock my bike. Something relating to Indian culture was playing on his smart phone.

            There was no discernible line-up at all, but I oriented myself at a place near the sidewalk that felt like it would be where I would end up if everyone that was sitting around were to suddenly take their positions. The garbage truck rolled away, leaving behind the odour of rotten potatoes.

The outgoing, big, 30-something woman who is always there on Wednesdays had been sitting and smoking with another woman on the slanted cellar door that is probably technically not part of the food bank property. A few minutes later she walked up to me and asked if I’d been there before her. I answered that I was pretty sure I’d seen her there when I arrived. She asked her friend though, who confirmed that I’d been there prior to her. I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t going to argue about it. Anyway, she concluded that she was in line behind me, “Because we wanna be fair!” As it came closer to the time when they were supposed to start giving out numbers, all the people who’d been sitting or standing elsewhere came to take their places in line.

Ahead of me was a 40-something woman with whom I’d spoken the week before. She enthusiastically pointed out to me the red and white baseball cap emblazoned with a maple leaf and “Canada” and told me she’d bought it at Dollarama for three dollars. I think that she thought that I knew her better than I did, because she started a story that I found it hard to follow about somebody’s truck. “Whose truck?” I asked. “Al’s” she told me. “Who’s Al?” “Ken’s friend.” “Who’s Ken?” “My boyfriend!”

She told the big woman that someone they both knew had called her “psycho”, which she was clearly still upset about. She said that in response she’d called her “bitch”. The big woman commented that when people call her a bitch, it’s no big deal, because since she’s a woman, of course she’s a bitch, and then added, “I tell them to come up with something original!”

The big woman lit a cigarette, and though she was standing a meter away from the line, the breeze was coming from behind her. I told the person behind me I was stepping out of line because of the smoke. I went a few meters behind the big woman and read my book. When the line started moving though, I felt the need to return to my place, but she was still smoking and remained between the wind and I as she moved with the line to keep chatting with the woman in front of me.

At the point when I was at the very front of the line, Bruce came out and sat in the chair that was exactly between the wind and me. Then the vegetable lady came out and sat down beside him. He offered her a cigarette and when she took it she commented, “This place would make anyone smoke!” Well, it certainly makes everyone smoke second hand. I was choking as I waited for my turn to go inside. Just as Joe was about to light up a cigarette in the doorway, it was time for me to go in. I got number 11.

I rode to the bank to take out my rent and phone money, and then I went to Wind Mobile to pay for my monthly plan. Almost as soon as I got home the superintendent came for the rent.

I went back to the food bank at 12:30. The sunshine was warm and pleasant but I had to keep moving around to avoid the cigarette smoke. When numbers 11 to 15 were called, I walked in and didn’t need to sit down. While my helper was with me at the first shelf, offering me a choice of olive oil spray or curry paste, I was still getting my bags out, as I usually at least have time to do before my number is called. Bruce was with another customer behind me, already verbally offering her the same choice. He called out to my helper and told him to hand him a jar of the curry paste. He hesitated because he was still waiting for my choice. He finally handed him the jar and Bruce commented, “I thought you were gonna give me a hard time!” Then my helper gestured with his hand for me to hurry up, which I didn’t appreciate. Food bank customers should at least be given the dignity of the time to be discerning shoppers. I took the olive oil spray.

Lower down I took a box of organic crackers, which I predict will be horrible, but the word “organic” seems to have me trained like one of Pavlov’s dogs to salivate at the sound of a ringing bell, even though I’m disappointed almost every time. Or maybe it’s not so much the fact that something is organic that sways me, but rather what “organic” represents. Since organic food is more expensive, it gives me the subconscious impression that it’s more valuable. I would never pay the extra money for it in the supermarket, but when it’s offered for free it suddenly becomes attractive.

There was a choice between bottles of ice tea and one bottle of Jones orange-mango soda. I picked the fancy pop, but my helper gave me an ice tea anyway, which was nice until I got it home and realized it was another one of those artificially sweetened drinks.

From the bottom, my helper grabbed a handful of granola bars and a couple of 170-gram packages of honey glazed almonds and put them in my bag.

I was glad that I didn’t want any pasta, rice or sauce because it put me ahead of the people behind me and took the tick-tock pressure off of me.

I looked among the canned beans for pork and beans with molasses, because the homemade version was my favourite meal when I was a kid, but it never seems to turn up at the food bank. I took instead a can of beans in tomato sauce with pork.

From the top of the last shelf I took a family size box of multi-grain Cheerios and there was also a bag of granola lower down.

Across the aisle, Sue offered me a choice between a flavoured yogourt and six eggs. It wasn’t much of a choice. The yogourt would have lasted one meal whereas six eggs are good for three. When they offer eggs though, they are always just in a plastic bag and so one has to be extremely cautious while putting them in a bag, to make sure they stay on top. Couldn’t the food bank cut up the cartons the eggs came in and use the pieces as packaging for the eggs in order to protect them better?

Along with the eggs came a package of Carver’s Choice bacon. There were also a variety of fancy homemade frozen granolas. They’ve been offering those for the last several weeks, and some of them are almost as sweet as candy. I avoided the strawberry flavoured kind that I got a few weeks ago, that isn’t even really granola, but rather made from some finer grain that pours out in great slabs that are hard to break up. Anyway, there was a real breakfast theme to the stuff in the refrigerated section.

I took a loaf of whole grain bread and a couple of raisin buns.

The vegetable lady had whole bunches of bananas, but when I reached down to touch them I could feel that they were way past ripe. I shook my head and straightened up. She shook her head as well, perhaps in disappointment at my pickiness. I think she wanted me to take her rotten bananas home to make banana bread. I asked for potatoes and she gave me two. She inquired as to whether I would like a bag of strawberries. “You’ve got strawberries?” “Yes, in this bag that I’m holding up to your face!” I think the bag was behind the potatoes she was handing to me.