Shelley was especially good at smiling, and because her red hair was on the wild side, she got lots of smiles in return. We watched from the kitchen doorway as Mrs. Gladys pointed out some of the “regulars”: Miss Ruth, who wore gloves when she ate to protect herself from germs; Gordon, who was recovering from a leg amputation and used a crutch; Wallace, who lived under a viaduct; Mrs. Strickler, who had been claiming for the past three years that her son would be visiting soon. Some of our diners were drug users; some were alcoholics; some had been conned out of their savings, crippled by illness, fired from their jobs, forsaken by family, or had such a run of bad luck that they were simply out of hope. As I passed from table to table pouring coffee for those who wanted it, more than a few of them thanked me politely. “Much appreciated. I’ll take me a second cup.” Some gave orders: “Fill it to the top,” a scowling man told me. “You never fill it to the top!” Some explained: “I have to have three sugars and one sugar substitute for my diabetes,”
