David – Some days, he has shoes. Other days, barefoot. He wears a heavy canvas belt wrapped around his torn and smeared dress shirt. Visible through the open collar, a plastic rosary hangs with homemade necklaces. Beautiful graying hair frames a dark, wrinkled face. He looks a disheveled prophet, like the Peruvian Robert Pirsig; not very composed but aware and appreciative of his insanity. He eats in silence but always says thanks.
The Twins – Boys, around 11 years old. Stick thin and well mannered. They sit patiently at lunch while other kids lunge for plates. When I hand them their food, their bodies jump slightly, hands shoot upwards an inch, almost involuntarily, until their conscious reels them back. They are hungry enough to be impatient but polite enough to fight the urge.
Simon – Physically and mentally handicapped and incredibly expressive. He walks in the door of the comedor everyday at 12:40, stands, looks around like he’s not sure if this is where he’s supposed to be, and then catches a familiar face. Exuberance erupts. When eating, his mouth has one position: full bore. A single grain of rice could be on his spoon and his jaw almost becomes unhinged.
The Shouting Brothers – When they enter, they shout. When they talk to the person sitting next to them, they scream. They shout a goodbye as they run out the door. They do not, however, shout when I bring trays of food from the kitchen. They might start, might take a sharp inhale, rise out of their seats, maybe even open their mouths to start yelling, but I give them a quick look, raise a finger, and they reply with a silent nod.
The Crazy Talker – She’s crazy and she talks to me, in rapid, incessant Spanish. I’ve told her numerous times that I don’t understand what she’s saying. She’ll pause in her story, look at me like I’ve said something entirely impossible, and then resume her anecdote.
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