The Other Side of Greed by Lily Zante
Chapter Two
KYRA
“We have more pasta. Just give me a moment, okay?” The woman smiles at me. There is embarrassment in those eyes. I see this same look every time I hand out hot food, drinks and napkins to the people standing quietly and politely in line. We’ve run out of pasta, but Fredrich quickly empties out a big pan into the serving platter.
We do this every Wednesday night; provide food for the homeless and hungry. It’s something that Redhill, the company I run, decided to do when the factory was up and running, and started to become successful. We make blankets, sleeping bags and clothes for homeless people. They’re made from lightweight insulated waterproof material and are easy to roll up and put into a bag without taking up a lot of space.
They are made by homeless people and victims of domestic abuse which I hire from homeless shelters. The food program was born out of Redhill’s mission that every person deserves to live a good life; has enough to eat, has a place to live and has some type of employment.
Simona says I’m not content until I’ve fixed the world’s problems, and then she tells me I can’t. But I can try.
The evening goes on without drama. Everyone is obedient and grateful. They thank us for everything we give them as they go down the line. I put a couple of scoopfuls of pasta into polystyrene boxes and Simona adds a few slices of bread. The other servers add in fruit, crackers, bags of chips and cereal bars. Fredrich takes care of the drinks. There are plenty of water bottles to be handed out and there are also urns for tea and coffee.
On another table, we have other necessary items. Sometimes it’s women’s sanitary products or warm items for the winter. As it’s summer here, those aren’t needed as much, but we have sleeping bags and tents, and a few items of clothing. It depends on what our funds can buy.
“We’ve got two more pots of pasta left,” Fredrich informs me.
I eye the line which is about one hundred deep. “It should be enough.”
He nods. Gargantuan, with hair as wild as Hagrid’s, he’s a tattooed sweetie pie and the best IT person I could have ever asked for. He joined the company and was one of my first employees, along with Simona, my second mother.
Redhill has quickly become one of Chicago’s fastest growing nonprofit organizations. My brainchild, that’s what the media refers to it as when they want to butter me up in an attempt to interview me or to get me on their shows. I don’t have time for such things, and I don’t trust organizations, per se, but I’m aware that I need publicity to help spread the word. Though I am secretly pleased that we’ve done amazingly well without going out and courting attention.
Over the next hour, we manage to feed everyone. They tend not to hang around for too long. Some eat quickly, hovering around the serving table, and sometimes they come back for a second helping, which we always give them. Others take the food away. They return back to the streets. Some stay overnight at the homeless shelter, but at least we know they’ve had a hot meal.
They come here every week to the makeshift area we’ve set up. It’s a stone’s throw from the factory, in the wide-open square at the back. This also makes it easier for us to keep a list of the food items in our store room.
Everything is laid out and cleared away with military precision. There’s a small core team of about ten helpers, and everyone brings something. Tables, food, cleaning supplies and disposable food service gloves which we use to serve the food.
Doing this grounds me. It makes me feel humble and grateful for all that I have.
“I hate to think what would happen if we ever had to move,” grumbles Simona when we start to pack things away at the end.
“We’re never going to move.” I heft a box of unopened crackers and start to head towards our rickety old van.
We have a good group of shop and business owners here. Some businesses have folded over time, but we’ve held strong. The area was on its way down a few years ago—which was how I was able to buy the factory building outright, and then grants and funding helped me to set up the business. The buildings around here might look like eyesores from the outside, but inside they are solid. They might not have state-of-the-art interiors, but they are fully functional.
The area has slowly been changing. Over the years, we’ve had our fair share of letters from big-ass property development companies wanting us to move. They’ve offered tempting compensation packages but they haven’t managed to persuade us.
I have plans to expand—either by taking over another building close by if and when an existing business owner leaves, or we’ll go ahead and build a new factory.
“One day we might get an offer that is too good to ignore,” says Fredrich as he lines the empty pots and containers into his pickup truck. With his six-foot-two frame, he has enough ink on his arms to print a book. He’s also the muscle of the company. I would be stuck without him especially because he’s the one who returns these items to the restaurants which were kind enough to donate food for tonight.
I wave my hand, dismissing his comment.
“But what would you do?” he asks.
With my hands on my hips, I square off with him. “We’re not moving.” This part of the city is becoming more gentrified. It’s up and coming, and Redhill is positioned perfectly in the center of it all. “I’m going nowhere. We’re going nowhere. We’re staying put.”
“And what about the ‘eminent domain’ issue you were worried about?” he asks.
“Don’t worry about that.” I try to keep abreast of these things and am aware that the government can take private property and convert it for public use under certain circumstances as long as they offer us what they claim is fair compensation. Yeah, right. Fair compensation is anything but that.
And, as far as I'm concerned, we're already doing things that benefit the public, though they don’t see it quite like that.
We also have donors who are rich and famous, like Elias Cardoza, and Callum Sandersby, the Hollywood movie star his sister is dating. High-profile donors will rally to my cause if and when I need them. The eminent domain issue is a worry, but I try not to dwell on these things. Besides, with the business growing so fast, I have numerous other things to think about.
“Have a little faith, Fredrich.” Simona brings over a box of napkins.
“Kyra!” I turn at the sound of something calling me. One of the staffers raises his arm at me. A woman, someone I don’t recognize, stands next to him. “Do you have a moment?” he hollers and sends the woman over.
I wipe my hands on my jeans in anticipation. The people who come here don’t usually ask for anything. They take their food, thank us, and leave.
“Are you the woman who makes those blankets?” Her voice is louder and clearer than I am prepared for.
“Yes.” I nod. “What can I do for you?”
She looks bruised and battered, not physically, but in her stance. There’s a defeated look in her eyes. Her hunched body and tiny frame give me that tell-tale signal.
“Do you …” she straightens herself up, growing an inch or two taller before my eyes. “Do you have any work? I need to work. I’ll even take less than minimum wage.”
“I would never expect you to work for less than that.” Minimum wage is a joke as it is. She doesn’t look as if she’s living on the streets. She looks cleaner, her clothes aren’t as dirty or rumpled as they would be. Her hair looks brushed and yet she seems in a bad way. Desperation slips unmasked out of her eyes, even though the tilt of her chin tries so hard to prove otherwise.
“We’re hiring all the time. What can you do?”
“I can do anything. I’m a good learner. I can help in the factory. Or in the office. I’ll work anywhere you’ll have me. I’ll even clean if you want me to. I’m good with my hands and I can sew. With a little practice, I’ll be able to make those clothes and things you make.”
She’s done her research. People on the streets or surviving in shelters during the night don’t have laptops and phones with which to find out such things. Many come to me with no idea of what we make, even though when we show them the products, many have heard of them. We have given out countless jackets and blankets.
“Why don’t you come by tomorrow, and we can talk then?” I don’t recall seeing her in the line for people wanting food, and I wonder why she’s come to me now. “Did you … would you like some food to take back?” Wherever ‘back’ might be. The woman shakes her head. “I ate before I came.”
“What’s your name?”
“Yvette.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Yvette. Take this.” I hand her my business card, just so that she’ll have my details, but there are also the numbers of the local shelters and soup kitchens on the back of it.
She nods, and thanks me before slipping away into the night. Unless something goes badly awry tomorrow, I decide that I will take her on. I hope I don’t come to regret it.