Member-only story
Masks Required in the Soup Kitchen
The Deacon and the Stranger
The air in the church basement was warm and heavy. The Deacon knew that soon the food would be gone. Ushering the pack back out to the cold, he would offer encouraging words and the hopeful invitation to return when more was available.
From the center of the seating area, a man suddenly farted. Loud and long. Against the metal folding chair, the fart’s reverberation sounded like a snare drum, and it served the same purpose. All eyes in the room snapped to him.
Blobs of sweat had dampened the edge of his face covering. He stood up shakily, clutching at the corners of cloth. “I — WILL — NOT — WEAR — A — MASK!”
Without a word, the Deacon put down the utensils and stepped out from behind the serving table. He grabbed a handful of the man’s hoodie and headed for the exit.
Returning, he latched the door and stomped the snow from his feet. He resumed serving with a silent smile.
Outside, the man shuffled down the walk. His backside smarted from the wet boot print. Maybe, he thought, I can score a coffee at the Burger King.
