In the last installment Bill learns of the fate of the deceased Frank Allen, who is to be cremated and brought to the city’s mausoleum for the poor because he has no family to pay for a proper burial. Soon after, Bill and Kittie are approached by a woman in a burgundy business suit they believe to be a cop. They find out the women, Eileen Bell, is an in fact an attorney representing Frank’s estate who has come to notify Bill that he has been named in the will. She hands him a business card with a note advising him to meet her the next day, as it is in his “best interest.”
Going to the office of a high-class lawyer like Ms. Bell meant I had to get cleaned up a bit. Her Connecticut Avenue office building was bound to have a security guard, and getting past him while smelling of three days of sweat and grime would be like trying to slip a popsicle stick through the eye of a needle. It just wasn’t gonna happen, whether I had an appointment or not.
When Homeland Security woke Kittie and me up at our usual crash spot on the west porch of the Old Post Office Pavilion at 5:30 a.m. the next morning, we decided that Miriam’s Kitchen at the corner of 24th and G streets northwest would be our first stop. After a 20-minute walk, we arrived at the gate which, when opened, would lead down to the basement of the Western Presbyterian Church. We had another 20 minutes to wait, before Tyrone, the security guard at Miriam’s, let us through at 6:30 sharp. Besides Kittie and me, a line of about 50 other homeless and needy people milled through the gate and down the winding double set of stairs leading to the basement.
Catherine, the simultaneously mellow yet perky deputy director of Miriam’s Kitchen, was waiting at the bottom of the steps to hand out the numbers on plastic cards that determine the order in which people are served breakfast. She greeted everyone as they walked through the open door. As we walked in, the barest hint of a grin came to my face as the aroma of fresh coffee hit my nostrils. We found seats at a round table close to the kitchen. I fished through my backpack and pulled out my most prized possession, a plastic Au Bon Pain coffee cup, and walked over to the industrial-sized coffee urn in the back, where I poured myself a cup. I grabbed a ceramic mug from a nearby rack and filled it with hot water. A table next to the coffee urn was laden with plastic pitchers of milk, tall ramekins of sugar, bins of plastic eating utensils, coffee stirrers, tea bags and two different brands of sugar substitute. I helped myself to a splash of milk and a generous portion of sugar. I dropped a tea bag into the hot water and added some milk and sugar. All Kittie would have to do was stir and she’d have a cup of tea just the way she liked it.
Making my way back to my seat, I found that Kittie had gotten each of us a bowl of Cheerios, heavily sweetened with more sugar. I took my seat and handed her the cup of tea.
“Thanks,” she said as she started stirring her tea. “I see you had to get your drug of choice.”
Kittie can’t stand coffee, not the smell nor taste of it, and she never misses an opportunity to tease me about my near-obsession with it.
“My dear, anything less would be uncivilized,” I teased back, using the same accent and inflection as that guy from the famous Grey Poupon commercial.
Kittie, the social butterfly and general motormouth that she is, turned to the Hispanic guy seated across from us at the table and said, “My friend here needs to go to NA for his caffeine addiction. Juan Valdez is his drug dealer.”
I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the guy as I watched Kittie drag him into our ongoing joke. He gave her a really confused look, rolled his eyes, and went back to eating his cereal without a word. I’m not even sure he spoke English. I stifled a chuckle and stuffed another spoonful of Cheerios into my mouth.
I looked over and noticed that the clothing line had started to form. If I was to meet with a power lawyer like Ms. Bell, I needed to upgrade from the dirty T-shirt and jeans I’d been wearing the last few days, so I got in line. When I got to the volunteer standing behind the lightweight wooden podium, I put in an order for a button-up collared shirt, tie, slacks, dress shoes and socks, as well as a clean pair of drawers.
As I went back to my seat, the roll-up blind in the window that separated the kitchen from the dining room slid up, and Catherine announced the breakfast menu in a loud voice.
“Thank you for coming to Miriam’s Kitchen. Today’s breakfast is buttermilk pancakes, with your choice of strawberry or maple syrup; scrambled eggs, plain or with ham and cheese; your choice of homefries or grits; salad, fruit, and your choice of pastries. Thank you again for coming to Miriam’s everyone, and enjoy your breakfast.”
