The Soup Kitchen

Last year, I met a man that changed my life.

"Do you really have to go to that kitchen thing tonight, Andie?" My best friend Megan asked me as I drove her home from school.

We had just finished up the last day of classes before Christmas break. Even though we were juniors in high school and Megan had had her license for almost a year now, she still didn't have a car of her own, so I drove her home a lot in the car my parents had gotten me for my sixteenth birthday. It was nothing fancy--definitely not what they could afford to buy me--but my parents have this big thing about not spoiling me too much. They're all about inner beauty, which is ironic since they're both plastic surgeons.

"I really do," I sighed as I turned onto Megan's street. "You could always go with me, you know. It could look good on a college application."

Megan rolled her eyes. As if her 4.0 GPA, stellar standardized test scores, and hours of community service spent at the recycling center wouldn't guarantee her the college of her choice. "You know how I feel about that place," she said.

My parents were, naturally, forcing me to work at the local soup kitchen they're always donating a ridiculous amount of time and money to. Normally I don't mind it too much, but this was the first night of Christmas break and I would much rather be going to the movies with Megan and a bunch of our other friends. I've spent tons of time at the soup kitchen, usually doing behind the scenes stuff like researching local job openings, editting resumés, and arguing on the phone with Department of Human Services employees about who they're denying food stamps or rent assistance. Soup kitchens can do a lot more than just feed people, which is lucky for me since I'd hate to work with food. Megan never comes to the soup kitchen with me because she has this thing about homeless people. She says she just can't see the point in helping people that don't help themselves. Personally, I'm half in agreement with her, and half with my parents. I believe that a lot of the people genuinely need help--I just don't see why I personally have to be the one to give it. My parents donate more than enough money.

"Yeah, yeah," I said to Megan. I pulled into her driveway and she jumped out of the car. A blast of cold air swooped into the car as soon as she opened the door. "Good luck!" She called out before she slammed the door shut and raced through towards her house.

I cranked the volume up on the radio and sang along with Britney Spears as I drove a couple of streets over to my house. When I went in, my mother was waiting for me in the living room. She had changed out of her dressier work clothes into jeans and a plain button-down shirt in an attempt to blend in a little more, but her gorgeous Chanel purse gave her away as a rich volunteer. My mom's big weakness is bags. I've inherited it somewhat, mostly since I always got tons of them from her for every holiday and birthday. In fact, I had big hopes that a particularly amazing silver Prada bag was hiding in her closet right now, just waiting to be moved under the Christmas tree. With my name on the tag, of course.

"Are you ready to go, Andrea?" Mom asked, and pulled on her coat without waiting for my answer.

"Sure," I said, and followed her out the door. I climbed into the passenger seat of her tiny little Saturn and pounced on the radio before she could pick some horrendous oldies station. After we'd been driving for a few minutes, my mom turned down the radio a little and fixed her Doctor Look on me. The look all doctor's get when they're about to share seriously unpleasant news.

"Andrea," she said. "Your father and I have been talking, and we'd like you to do a little more hands-on work at the kitchen today."

"Hands-on?" I asked her skeptically. She'd obviously never had to call the DHS before if she didn't consider that hands-on enough. There was this one supervisor that was a real bitch--honestly, I don't know why you'd bother to work at the Department of Human Services if your greatest joy in life was to deny people help they really needed.

"Yes," Mom said. "We think you should work in food services today."

My jaw dropped. Food services? She wanted me to stand behind a counter like a lunch lady, dishing out spaghetti and canned corn to people that hadn't bathed in weeks? "Uh, why?" was the only protest I could manage, I was so shocked.

"We feel you're not really getting the full experience," Mom explained. "You shut yourself up in the office and barely even interact with the other volunteers, let alone the people coming to the kitchen. I'm not saying you're not doing a lot of good, but I think every once in a while you need to get in the thick of things. You might not believe it, but there are a lot of interesting people. Volunteers and visitors."

She was right. I didn't believe it. As far as I had seen, all the other volunteers were either rich do-gooders like my parents, or ambitious high school students that needed to make their college applications more well-rounded.

"Mom, I really think that I can be the most helpful in the office." And avoid coming home covered in food stains and smelling like gravy.

Mom looked at me. "I'm not going to force you..." she began. "But I can tell you that I think that this is a valuable experience you shouldn't miss."

Yeah, yeah... I thought, already reaching to turn the radio back up.

"And," Mom continued. "If you were to help out in food services at least twice this week, I could guarantee that there will be a certain very expensive Prada bag under the tree for you on Christmas morning."

I froze with my hand on the radio's volume knob. Woah. My mom must really want me to do this to be resorting to bribery. "Ok, I'll do it," I agreed quickly, before she could change her mind.

* * *

When we got to the soup kitchen, my mom led me back in the kitchen and introduced me to the man I'd mainly be working with. "Andrea, this is Stuart Fitzgerald. Stu, this is my daughter Andrea Dalton."

Stuart was an older guy, probably at least in his late 60's. He was a husky man, bordering on fat, and his hair was nearly white, with just the last touches of gray holding on. He looked vaguely familiar, so I said, "Nice to meet you. I think I've seen you around here before."

"Doubtful," he said with a smile as he shook my hand. "This is only my third time volunteering here."

"Oh, sorry. Must have been someone else," I said. His smile widened.

"They say I have one of those faces."

Mr. Fitzgerald got me started washing and peeling a huge stack of potatoes while he made a massive pot of instant gravy, the gross powdered kind that comes in packets. "So, Andrea, what made you decide to come volunteer today?" he asked me.

"My mom," I said without thinking as I struggled with the potato peeler. Mr. Fitzgerald raised his eyebrows at me, and I noticed he actually had very nice blue eyes. "I mean..."

"Not much for volunteering?" he asked.

"No, no..." The potato skins were coming off in fat chunks instead of curly strips like my mom could peel them. "I'm just not much into cooking."

Mr. Fitzgerald took one of the potatoes and peeled the entire thing in one long strip. "I didn't use to be either," he said. "But you can learn anything if you practice it enough."

The next couple of hours dragged by as Mr. Fitzgerald and I finished making the mashed potatoes and gravy and helped serve it alongside the fried chicken and (predictable) canned corn. At the end of the night, I was covered in smears of potatoes and gravy and facing a huge sink full of dirty dishes. And when I say huge, I’m talking about dishes for 200 people.

“Sit down,” Mr. Fitzgerald said, handing me a plate full of food. He had an identical one for himself. The thought of the cheap filler food wouldn’t normally have appealed to me, but I was starving. I sat down next to him and tried a bite of the potatoes. They could have used some extra butter, but they weren’t all that bad.

“So how did you like working back here?” he asked me as he dug into his food.

“It was ok,” I said as I picked some chunks of raw potato out from under my French manicured fingernails. “Messy, though.”

“Yeah, that’s true. But I think it’s more rewarding to get into the thick of things.” This guy was sounding way too much like my mom.

“I don’t know,” I said, with a glance at the overflowing sink. I was going to be washing dishes for at least another two hours.

“You’re probably too young to understand.” He smiled, and I wondered why it was he suddenly looked so familiar. “Maybe when you’re my age…well, it’s not really age, I guess. It’s…it’s having everything. You need to have had everything to really realize how little it’s all worth.”

“What?” I was confused about where he was going with this.

Mr. Fitzgerald polished off the chicken leg on his plate before he answered me. “You wouldn’t guess it now, but I used to be a very rich man.”

“Yeah?” I asked, skeptically looking him up and down for any obvious signs of past wealth. He was wearing worn out jeans and a plaid shirt that had probably come from K-mart. Nothing to indicate he had ever had anything but a lower middle class income.

“I gave it up,” he said. “Best thing I ever did.”

"You gave all your money away?" I tried a bite of the chicken. Honestly, I wasn't paying his story a huge amount of attention. He seemed like a nice old guy, but I wasn't exactly in the mood for Tales of the Elderly.

"Something like that."

"Hmm," I said politely.

"You might not see it now, Andrea, but helping people with your own two hands is one of the greatest pleasures there is in life."

"My mom said this was only your third time here," I pointed out.

"At this kitchen, yes. But I've been to many others. Soup kitchens, homeless shelters, even a couple humane societies. We travel a lot, me and my dog, Priscilla."

"You named your dog Priscilla?"

He shrugged. "She reminds me of a Priscilla I once knew."

“So you just travel around the country in your motor home and volunteer at soup kitchens and stuff?” I asked him.

“It’s the only thing that’s ever made me happy.”

“Well…I think that’s great, Mr. Fitzgerald,” I told him, hoping I sounded sincere. Because I did think it was great. Crazy, of course, but it was still nice to know that were people like him out there. People that were happiest when they were helping out others.

Mr. Fitzgerald smiled at me. “Why, thank you, Andrea. Thank you very much. But you can call me Stu.”

* * *

The next day Megan and I were at the grocery store picking up supplies to make a batch of Christmas fudge. We were standing in the checkout line when the cover of the National Enquirer made me do a double take.

“What are you looking at?” Megan asked me as she added a pack of Dentyne gum to the things we were buying.

“I’m not sure,” I said, picking up the newspaper so I could study it closer. “He just looks so familiar…”

“Uh, of course he does,” Megan rolled her eyes at me. “It’s Elvis. He always looks familiar.” She grabbed a Snickers bar and pretended it was a microphone. “Thank you. Thank you very much!” She said with an exaggerated lip curl.

Why, thank you, Andrea….Thank you very much.

“No way,” I said.

“What? You don’t like my impersonation?” Megan started to sing Jailhouse Rock, still using the candy bar as a make-shift microphone.

I frantically dug through my purse for my cell phone. When I found it, I whipped it out and dialed my mother’s number.

“Is Mr. Fitzgerald going to be working at the kitchen tonight?” I asked her the second she answered, not even bothering with a greeting.

“Andrea? What--?”

“I said, is Mr. Fitzgerald going to be working at the kitchen tonight?”

“No, honey. Last night was his last night,” My mom said, sounding more than a little peeved at my lack of manners. “I understand he travels a lot, he said he was moving on, although he didn’t specifically say where—“

“Thanks, Mom.” I interrupted and hung up the phone. I grabbed the National Enquirer and flipped to the Elvis story. It was just the usual garbage—Did Aliens Cause Elvis’ Disappearance? the headline asked.

“Why are you reading that?” Megan asked as she counted out money for the cashier. “You know it’s junk.”

“Yeah, I know…I’m just…” I struggled to put together my thoughts as I grabbed one of our grocery bags before we headed out to the car.

It sort of made sense, I thought as I drove Megan and I back to my house. He couldn’t stay in any one place too long. Oh, and the dog! Wasn’t Priscilla Elvis’ daughter? Or was it his wife? Either way…

I guess he really was a rich guy .

No, I told myself. I don’t actually believe this. There is no possible way that Elvis Presley faked his own death and now travels the country working at soup kitchens.

That’s what I told myself.

But for some reason, I couldn’t help calling my mom and volunteering to work in Food Services at the kitchen for the rest of the week.

Looking back, it was the best thing I ever did.





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