Paul Grondahl with Poppy’s Story in seven chapters (thanks, Brendan). Here’s the first: ALBANY — “I ain’t nobody, boss. I ain’t nobody.”
The man was wrapped in three layers of thermal wear: coveralls, snowmobile suit, down jacket. He wore a wool hat with earflaps.
He had come to a South End food pantry for a free lunch on a Saturday in January. Outside, it was wicked cold. A biting wind knifed up from the Hudson a few blocks away — lip-chapping weather.
He’d spent the night outside, he said, and had been living on the streets, more on than off, for eight years. Right now, home was a blue-tarp shanty near the 787 overpass, down by the river.
“Wanna see it?” he asked. He leaned in close, gauging my reaction.
He smelled of damp earth and stale beer.
Before I could reply, he requested a cup of tea and off I went to fetch it. He wasn’t drinking the watery coffee poured from the spigot of a big silver urn like the others at the pantry.
My daughter had come to the pantry with a friend as part of a middle school community service project. I joined them in table-waiting duties.
The man expertly made breakfast tea and sipped it with a practiced, delicate touch, pinky extended.
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