(All names have been changed for the protection of the clients at the Other Place.)

Today was just like any other day at The Other Place. The normal crowd of homeless men and women were sprawled out in the small waiting room area. One man sat in his blue plastic chair and laughed, “I’m just waiting it out until my appointment.” He told me through brown crooked teeth. “What time is your appointment, Sir?” I asked, hoping to remind him that the social workers were in a staff meeting until one o’clock, so he’d be waiting for a while since it was currently ten in the morning. “Oh,” He spoke casually, “My appointment’s Monday at three.”

Eleven thirty arrived before I knew it and the familiar voice rose above the crowd, “Clean up time, ladies and gentlemen. It’s time to move outside until noon. You can come back in at noon, but only the clean-up crew is allowed in the building. Let’s go.” The daytime shelter manager’s deep voice bellowed above the television and mild conversations. The slow shuffle for the door began as the manager moved through the crowd securing cleaning supplies and motivating those who were less than motivated to leave their firm plastic napping chairs.

Mops flooded the floors and bleach burned away the overbearing stench coming from the deadly combination of days without showers and warm sunshine. After wiping down the counter, I sat back down in my computer chair, watching the ballet of homeless men fighting mops and women attempting to look busy so as not to be released from their cleaning duty. That’s when I saw her in the security camera. Soon the buzz came at the door. I pushed the magic unlocking button that seems to consume most of my daily activities. First two wheels, then four came in the door as the $5 Wal-Mart stroller wheeled inside. Turned around and strapped into this flimsy, filthy stroller was an old infant carseat.

“What’s she doing in here? Why didn’t she go in the family entrance?” Complaining Martha was at it again. But in wheeled what our society would classify as a meager attempt at child safety. Not a peep came from the scratchy free-store knit baby blanket in the carseat. The mother just walked on through the facility and soon was gone behind closed doors.

I want to hold the baby. Came through my mind. Poverty does not equal unloved in my mind and I want to hold that little one.

I had heard about the twenty day old child earlier that morning and was hoping for my chance to break free from the single’s entrance front desk and find a brief baby-holding session in the family room at the rear of the Other Place. That’s when a blessing came by.

Out of the back door came mom, holding her little one on her shoulder. His tiny feet dangled and his small body squirmed with discomfort.
“Can I hold him?” I asked when she reached the front.
“Yes.” She spoke with relief in her eyes.

She handed his frail little body across the counter with ease as if he was made of steal. I held him close and he happily seeped into my arms. “What’s his name?” I asked her breaking away from the baby for a second.
“Dominic.” (Translation: ‘belonging to God’)
“Hey there little guy?” I spoke as he squinted his eyes at me.
“That baby should be wrapped up, the air is on.” Martha chimed in.

I cradled him close, wrapping my long-sleeves around his tiny feet and legs to shield him from the air vent draft. He snuggled into my shirt, squirming with a bit of discomfort, but settling back into the heat coming from my skin. His purple little fingernails grasped onto my shirt and he wiggled to get closer to me. His mom handed a pacifier over the counter and walked to get something to drink.

Thus began a half an hour interlude to my work at the Other Place. Dominic’s mother rested and socialized with friends, grateful for the break. I soon found out that Dominic was his mother’s third child and Dominic’s father had four other children with a different woman. Dominic wiggled uncomfortably every five minutes or so, but soon settled down with a change in position and much back patting. Then his little face turned sour and I knew crying would be soon to come. Poor little Dominic was hungry. I looked up for his mom just in time to hear a conversation;
“Thought you were going to order a pizza, Eric? Where’s that pizza?” Dominic’s mother half-teased the shelter manager.
“Oh, yeah…? A pizza, huh? Yeah… about that…” Eric lightheartedly half-teased this woman back.
“I saw that twenty in your pocket. You know you want to buy a pizza.” Came the response.
“A twenty, huh? No Mame… that was uh… that was my birth certificate.” Eric lied with a laugh.

The teasing persisted until Dominic’s mother spoke with a slightly greater intensity than before. When she received dead-ends with Eric, she turned and asked aloud, “So what church is open today to serve lunch?”
“It’s over there posted on that board.” I pointed to a bulletin board, still holding her son.
“Woman, you only got 10 minutes til them places close down.” A man called out from the crowd of workers who had since then completed their cleaning and were lounging around the front desk.

Dominic’s mother sat down at the front desk and watched another woman eat Chinese food that she had pitched in with three others to purchase. Dominic’s mother’s eyes hazed over as she watched.
“Hey, hey…” Eric spoke in a quiet voice. “You want come Pringles?” Eric offered his lunch.
The woman’s eyes lit up. “Yeah,” she jumped at the opportunity.
She smiled after eating two chips at a time for a little bit.
“Thanks man.” She spoke with great gratitude. “This is my lunch and dinner,” she beamed as she caught my eye.

Dominic called out for his mother. “I’ve got a little left for you, Dominic.” She spoke as she received the child back from me. And then she walked outside with Pringle can, Dominic and pacifier at hand. Eric carried on socializing with other clients, knowing he’d never see that Pringle can again. I caught a smile on tough Eric’s face as he caught a glimsp of the mother walking out the front door.