Chapter 11
September 1972 – Yale University
Angela leaned in on the last turn of the track. She concentrated on her breathing - in through her nose, and out through her mouth. Finally, her long stride flew over the finish line, and she slowed to stop. Dropping her head back, she exhaled loudly, and slowly started her walk to the sorority house. At least the twelfth lap is easier than the first, Angela thought sardonically. I'm so glad that's over!
The more Angela had run, the more confident she became – not just in running, but certainly there. Once she was able to jog for twenty minutes without stopping, she said a literal goodbye to Route 148, and moved her workouts to the track. She couldn't comfortably spare the travel time from her studies, and she also found that she was proud of herself. She worked hard, and now felt she fit in just fine with the other students on the track. People were friendly; guys even. She didn't speak much to the other runners, but there was a silent respect among them. They all knew what it took out of them to work on themselves, and a simple head nod or smile spoke volumes.
Angela was down thirty pounds, and felt strong when she ran. She sweat right through every piece of clothing she ran in, but was still frustrated. Despite her continued efforts, she hadn't been losing as much recently. It was her senior year, and she had spent more than a few nights anxiously snacking. She'd think, I worked out. This is fine. Or she'd be itching to eat when she wasn't hungry, and figure a handful of chocolate chips wouldn't cause too much damage. She always felt lousy afterward, but had a really hard time caring about that the next time. This went on for a few weeks, and she started to feel like it didn't matter what she ate. After all, she was running as hard as ever - and it was only a few indiscretions here and there - so she clearly wasn't going to lose any more. The morning after the binge that line of thinking instigated, Angela ditched her scale. She decided she was looking for any excuse to over-indulge, and didn't need another one. That afternoon, she ran an extra two laps.
Walking up the steps to the sorority house, Angela got a strong whiff of butter and garlic. It did not sit well, and she crinkled up her nose in disgust as she hustled to her room. But after a long, hot shower Angela's stomach started to growl. The scents that so recently repulsed her were now gently kissing her upper lip.
Angela exhaled roughly, and snatched up her books. She'd grab a turkey sandwich from the Commons on her way to the library. She had to get out of the house. While waiting in line at the Dining Hall, Angela noticed a flyer on the bulletin board: "SOUP KITCHEN - Help Feed New Haven's Children". She tilted her head to one side. I've always wanted to do that. She worried her brows. I can't stand the thought of little kids not getting enough to eat. The flyer said the kitchen was near the campus. She could try it this weekend. As the line moved forward, she snatched off a phone number tag and tucked it in her backpack.
That Saturday, at 11am sharp, Angela walked into the soup kitchen. An older man with short, curly, salt and pepper hair, came up to her with a smile.
"You must be Angela. I'm Skip. You'll be working with me today."
"Oh, hello! It's wonderful to meet you," she said, shaking his hand.
"Alright then. Come on. The kids get here at noon, so let's get started." He sounded like he was smiling, but he had already turned around toward the kitchen, so Angela wasn't entirely sure.
The shelves and cabinets were made of cheap plywood, and the Formica counters were scratched and chipped. But the smell of some kind of vegetable soup simmering on the range was as inviting as any home she'd been in. "We're assembling sandwiches for lunch to go with the soup," Skip said happily. "It's a big deal. We don't often get donations of deli meat."
Angela swallowed hard. This was going to be harder than she thought. "I bet the kids will love them," she said quietly.
Skip piped up loudly and directly. "Alright then. We'll make like an assembly line. I'll lay out the bread. You take the meats. I'll add the cheese. You wash the lettuce. I'll add it as you get that done. Then we'll pop on another piece of bread, and wrap them up."
"Got it," Angela said with a swift head nod.
They set to work, Angela following Skip's lead. In the middle of the second package, the meat looked a little funny, and she examined it more closely. She understood this was hard to come by, but felt torn. "Uh, Skip? This doesn't look right. Should we still use it?"
"Nope. Don't put out anything you wouldn't serve to your little brother or sister," Skip ordered kindly.
"Right," Angela agreed, and smiled. Angela threw away the affected meats, and kept going. She liked Skip's answer. She liked being here. She liked treating everyone like they were worth the best. In the end, Angela tossed an entire head of lettuce, and didn't feel the slightest bit ambivalent.
When the kids came in, they lined up with their trays and picked up their sandwiches. She ladled Skip's soup into their bowls as they came by. Skip walked from table to table, filling up their cups of milk. Angela tried to focus on not spilling, but she was observing everything. The kids looked like every other kid she'd ever seen. She half-expected them to look like they crawled out of the Les Misérables by her nightstand. But they were just kids - kids from 1972 Connecticut; kids who would wake up in their homes, and look for cereal in their bare cabinets. Some looked like siblings. Some looked all alone. Most returned her smiles. The whole experience felt odd, like she had stepped into reality. She wasn't worried about her senior year, landing a job, or how inadequate she felt with men. She felt like she was helping something very real here. And she felt like she was doing a good job.
The kids were all gone in about 45 minutes. "Alright then. Time to clean up!" Skip pointed toward the sink, where a sponge and dish soap waited for her. She let out an internal sigh, and wet the sponge. She wiped the counters, while Skip put away the leftover soup. When he was done, he brought the stock pot to her at the sink, and went out to fold up all the chairs and tables. She looked after him and smiled. He really is an amazing human being. He'd be doing this all alone, if I weren't here. He has been doing that. Shaking her head, she squirted some dish soap into the pot and got to scrubbing.
"How long have you been helping here?" Angela asked him as she dried the last cup.
"16 years," Skip said. Angela's eyes grew wide, and he smiled. "It's hard to not come back."
"Yeah," she said, looking out to the room where the children had been eating. "I can see that." He nodded, and turned off the light as they walked out. "Uh, Skip? Can I come by next Saturday, too?"
"I'd be grateful for the help. You're a good worker, Angela."
"Alright then," she smiled.
Angela tied up her laces, and looked out at the track in front of her. She didn't feel like running today. Usually when this happened, she'd grab a fist of her flesh somewhere, to remind herself of what she wanted to fix. Her self-loathing would propel the first few hard laps, at least.
But this time, she looked straight out ahead of her in gratitude. She got to do this. She had the ability to make herself healthier. She wasn't hurting. She didn't have other responsibilities demanding her attention. She had the ability to choose whether she would fuel and care for her body like it mattered. And, that afternoon, she found she wanted to.
