Brent wrinkled his nose at the gelatinous mound of half-rancid tomato paste, expired pasta and mystery meat passing for Lasagna at the East Side Men’s Shelter.
As he gawked at the row of ex-cons in hair nets, he was glad he didn’t have to rely on this bunch for his sustenance.
After lights out, he and his frat brother would go through the back entrance into a nearby Volvo and cruise over to Staligano’s for a late supper.
After picking up his metal tray, Brent went a foot forward to slide a fork out of an awaiting bin. He clutched one, inspected it and found a gray grain of rice in its teeth. He threw the offensive utensil back and slid out one more closely resembling a clean piece of silverware. He then walked off the chow line.
His ears were assaulted by rapid fire clinks of utensils and conversations about botched hustles, cheating spouses and plots for revenge.
He strode past mess hall benches as snatches of institutional grays and egg-shell whites blurred by, and winced when a damaged fluorescent light flickered above his head.
Any sane person would have revolted years ago.
His eyes soon fell on the sight of Craig Jones. Brent flashed a smile as he approached his bench. He peered at Craig’s bald, lotioned head and wondered why anyone would value their skin being the color of molten ash. As he got closer he eyed Craig’s wide, broad nose and wondered if he ever considered rhinoplasty.
How would the poor bastard pay for it?
“What’s going on bro?” Brent greeted.
“Ain’t nothin’ shakin’ but the bacon.” Craig replied, extending his fist for a bump.
Brent slid onto the mess hall’s bench and set his tray in front of Craig.
“Bro . . . remember Kathy—the blond I hooked you up with?”
“Hell yeah I remember her,” grinned Craig.
“You know she’s been askin’ about ya’ . . . she wants to see you again.”