Trenton Soup Kitchen: A Short Story

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My Grandpa used to tell me “No one has ever become poor by giving.”
Friday, August 19th, 2009, I shall never forget what I learned at the “Trenton Soup Kitchen”. I never expected to be serving homeless people; after all, it was my birthday. My Grandpa picked me up in his 1956 red station waggon. I remembered the stories he used to tell me about how every summer he used to take his car to the annual “New Jersey Car Festival.” He would come home with a metal on his chest and a smile on his face. My Grandpa told us that one day we might be lucky enough to drive his car ourselves!
The heat was oppressive, sweltering and exhausting, it sticked to my perfect white skin and made ovens out of parking lots. I wished for the cold wind to blow on my face, and a cold pop from Seven Eleven. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen in the marvelous blue sky. I closed my eyes and listened to the music coming out of the radio.
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Two big, black bouncers gave my Grandpa a full pat down. They said “Clear” simultaneously, and we walked into the dining room. It was so loud that I couldn't even hear myself think.
People were yelling “Where's my food” as if we were there slaves.
The Soup Kitchen was the size of my house, I felt like there were a million crabs living in a crevice. In that moment, I knew that I could find something more important than to serve food to homeless people. I asked myself, “Shouldn’t I be out at celebrating my birthday?”
On the other hand, I got in line to pick up food, and the lunch ladies plopped a big chunk of beans onto the tray. It looked like the beans were going to grow legs and run out of the restaurant themselves. wiping the sweat off my face from the miserable heat, I was more determined than ever to deliver this pile of beans to a table.
The owner said “Table 7,” and pointed to a family in the far corner of the

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