Pacific Garden Mission

Grig stirs a third cream into the coffee with his pinky, overtaking a swoop of bubbles and bending them against the styrofoam rim. Shelter coffee. Burnt bitter rust barely above room temperature. The reverend points at the stack of pamphlets, goes on about needle eyes and mustard seeds.

I’m just here for the donuts.

It’s a big room, warped linoleum, a tin ceiling oxidized green at the seams, transoms sealed shut under uncountable layers of paint. A lunch counter or Chinese laundry, seventy years ago. Early spring drizzle is bleeding gray light through the huge storefront window—all window, folding chairs against the radiator running its length. A few drunks still doze on a shot couch, paperback bibles under their folded hands.

All the donuts you want son. All you want. Have a seat.

Grig knows better. Once you sit down the real pitch starts. It’s warm. It’s dry. The leftover chicken kiev and lasagna would be here in a few hours, after the downtown catering services drop off their lunchtime surplus. Sit. Stay.