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I pushed my squeaky cart behind her, careful to go slow enough not to lose one of the birds off the top.
The cashier counted the containers and rang us up like it was no big deal that we’d wiped out nearly their entire supply of pre-cooked chickens.
“Who is this for?”
She paid with her credit card. “Dennis. We’re going to meet him on Laurel. Do you know where that is?”
“Pretty much. Where on Laurel?”
“Near the south end. You can follow me.”
We split up at the door. After loading the birds and backing out, I found her idling by the front of the store, waiting for me.
The traffic-signal gods were merciful, and I didn’t lose her on the way to Laurel Street. I still hadn’t gotten an explanation of who we were feeding, and on the drive over, nothing rational came to mind.
When we reached Saint Helena’s, Cindy signaled and turned into the parking lot. The sign outside explained that they served food to the poor and homeless here. A soup kitchen, you might call it, but today we were providing chicken.
Dennis was outside waiting for us.
The bazillionaire was donating food to a soup kitchen.
The thought made me smile. It was a nice gesture—better and more personal than just sending a check.
A good deed from a bad man was still a good deed.
* * *
Jennifer
A large groupwas gathered by the front door.
I followed Cindy, who parked by the side door.
Dennis waved over several guys after we stopped, and they grabbed armfuls of chickens and took them inside.
“How many did you get?” Dennis asked Cindy.
“Sixty.”
He gave her a thumbs up. “Good call. The crowd looks bigger than normal.”
Moments later, the original helpers were back for more birds, along with a few more helping hands.
I waited quietly by my car as it was being unloaded, unsure what to do next.
Dennis said goodbye to Cindy and walked my way. “Want to stay and help?”
The question was a simple one. My answer was the hard part.
Staying with him made me uneasy, but leaving would mark me as a jerk. “Sure.”
He pointed back toward the front. “Park in the lot, and then meet me inside.”
I closed up my car and moved it to the parking lot. The question of how to get inside loomed. The front door had a line of people slowly entering, and I didn’t want to look like I was cutting in, so I walked around to the side door where the chickens and Dennis had disappeared.
The aromas of warm food hit me the second I passed through the door. Our dozens of chickens were now stacked behind the counter, and in front of me were several people—including Dennis—serving delicious-smelling plates.
He looked back and noticed me. His hands were full. A jerk of his head asked me to join him. “Wanna help slice?”
