1



The time is 7am. Our bodies are hot and sticky. It’s incredibly humid, unbearably warm—the second day of a heat wave. We slept nude. August finally figured it’s too hot to lay with us and found a cool spot on the floor. He lay panting softly.

I roll over growing a slow erection. Her backside and bare ass stare at me. She’s deep asleep. Her body shines from the sticky film of thick, hot air and dewy sweat. I massage her soft breasts and tickle her nipples. She mechanically turns over; her face slowly alters, changing from blankness of deep sleep to cognizance of what I’m attempting to do. A smile forms on her oily face. Her eyes remain closed. I feel grimy and greasy though aroused…


2



I arrive at the pantry door. The First Ebenezer Zion Church. I don’t believe in god. A small round West Indian woman answers the door and asks if she can help me. She seems skeptical of my presence; her tone of voice is firm. I explain to her I am the new Pantry Chef Instructor—PCI. The round woman smiled then pushed the door open, playfully proclaiming that she did not request a man for the volunteer position. I smiled and entered.

Setting up my station I pulled the apron I received from the PCI orientation, out of my bag. A tall, wrinkled, light skinned man complimented it saying it was nice. I thanked him and explained how I acquired it. He didn’t seem to care.

The church gave certain relief from the sweltering heat outdoors. The AC pumped avidly, quiet, effective. People lined up outside along the church’s service entrance awaiting their share of fruits, vegetables, meat and cheese. I hadn’t much to do today. The West Indian woman asked that I give a brief talk on some of the unusual vegetables of the ration.

I gathered a tray of Japanese turnips, red chard, purple haze carrots, yellow wax beans and sugar snap peas. The latter could be eaten raw and in it’s pod, perfect for sampling.

The heat is unforgiving. I stand in the middle...

1



The time is 7am. Our bodies are hot and sticky. It’s incredibly humid, unbearably warm—the second day of a heat wave. We slept nude. August finally figured it’s too hot to lay with us and found a cool spot on the floor. He lay panting softly.

I roll over growing a slow erection. Her backside and bare ass stare at me. She’s deep asleep. Her body shines from the sticky film of thick, hot air and dewy sweat. I massage her soft breasts and tickle her nipples. She mechanically turns over; her face slowly alters, changing from blankness of deep sleep to cognizance of what I’m attempting to do. A smile forms on her oily face. Her eyes remain closed. I feel grimy and greasy though aroused…


2



I arrive at the pantry door. The First Ebenezer Zion Church. I don’t believe in god. A small round West Indian woman answers the door and asks if she can help me. She seems skeptical of my presence; her tone of voice is firm. I explain to her I am the new Pantry Chef Instructor—PCI. The round woman smiled then pushed the door open, playfully proclaiming that she did not request a man for the volunteer position. I smiled and entered.

Setting up my station I pulled the apron I received from the PCI orientation, out of my bag. A tall, wrinkled, light skinned man complimented it saying it was nice. I thanked him and explained how I acquired it. He didn’t seem to care.

The church gave certain relief from the sweltering heat outdoors. The AC pumped avidly, quiet, effective. People lined up outside along the church’s service entrance awaiting their share of fruits, vegetables, meat and cheese. I hadn’t much to do today. The West Indian woman asked that I give a brief talk on some of the unusual vegetables of the ration.

I gathered a tray of Japanese turnips, red chard, purple haze carrots, yellow wax beans and sugar snap peas. The latter could be eaten raw and in it’s pod, perfect for sampling.

The heat is unforgiving. I stand in the middle of the wayward line—more like an organized crowd—I begin to speak of the vegetables on the trey. These individuals awaiting their rations are mostly people of color. Black Americans—or rather, Black Caribbean Americans. They are mainly middle-aged women and were very receptive to me. I take advantage of their attention. I begin flirting and charming an interest of the food in my hands. I feel as though they are all distant relatives. I am in the presence of aunts and grandmothers I had never known existed before today.

There were a few Asian families. One family consisting of three older women and a middle-aged man were the most affable. After de-veining it I offered a sugar snap pea to the eldest—or so she seemed. She was uncertain what to do with it and did not speak English. Finally, taking my lead—I ate one—she motioned toward her mouth; I nodded, confirming she could eat the fat green pod. I watch her hand, it’s wrinkled, pale wheat hued and spotted brown, her knuckles are swollen and misshapen. As she placed it in her mouth it seemed her old age would melt away, the fresh, raw vegetable would rejuvenate her youth.

Back inside, where the church volunteers packed brown paper bags with the pantry items, everyone seemed to be finishing up and near ready to open the doors. The round West Indian woman offered to lead us all in prayer. I felt awkward and uncomfortable—somewhat reluctant. We formed a semi-circle and the round woman with her firm voice uttered a profound oration, imploring god to help us end hunger…

3



Later in the day I had an appointment for an information session with a political activist group Working Peoples Rights—WPR. The session was lead by a young white man. He had fluffy shoulder length hair tucked behind his ears. His face was slightly scruffy with a thick mustache under his nose. He wore a neatly tucked plaid shirt, close fitting blue jeans and boat loafers—no socks. He’s a hipster. He spoke swiftly, weaving in jokes that were executed dryly. I liked his humor. The information session lead into work opportunities. Paid work. Mostly, those of us interested would go door to door to elicit voters to support grass-roots candidates.

I’ve been here before. I worked for this group two years ago; depressed, suicidal, my existence in peril and jaded toward their efforts. I didn’t care about the groups cause. I simply wanted a check. I needed cash to drink away the realities of life. Depression usurps one’s joy when life seems to cease existing like some form of art—a film, spectacularly written prose or a bittersweet song where the guitar strings never cease their strumming. Monochrome. Living death. All that’s left is the stench of raw reality. I worked for this political movement when such a stench haunted my every breath … Now actively involved in my own cause—uttered in a prayer, not my own—motivated and aware, what could I do for them and what could they do for me now?

The Day
JA Freeman
2012/6/25