Work the line

Faye slaved away for hours on the line, spooning ladelful after ladelful of soup into the paper bowls of the eager, outstretched hands of the city's shamefully large homeless popluation. She knew most of them by name. Benny, Jake, Bettie, and Miles. She used to sympathize with them, but she felt her heart getting just a little jaded. One guy, though, always got her. Old Man Caleb. He was one the one's with the street signs that say "the end is nigh!". He always wanted to kiss her hand when she gave him soup. Faye's face went red every time he did it, but she obediently held her hand out for him to peck, every day.

She scooped her last bowl of soup into the last bowl, and realized she hadn't seen Caleb. "Hey, Jake, you seen Caleb today?" she asked, biting her lower lip. Jake was a hulk of a man, and as crazy as clownshit. "Yeah, I see'd 'im. Ee was coughin' 'is lungs up tree alleys down. Prolly die in a couple days." He drank his soup in one big, boiling gulp, and walked off.

Faye bit her lip again, and leaned against the wall. She pushed the red hair back behind her ear, and made a quick decision. She spooned three helping of the chicken noodle soup into a tupperware container, and shouldered her way into the alley.

She hastily made her way down the alleys behind the Mission, stepping over bums too drunk to make breakfast, her own headache a painful reminder. She found him by his coughs before she saw him. What a pathetic sight. 65 years old, face marked with scars and sores, quivering, coughing, and reeking of gin. Faye sighed, and kneeled beside him. A trickle of blood had escaped his lips and nose.

"Mr. Caleb?" she asked, putting her delicate hand on his shoulder.