What heinous fraud am I perpetrating down at this soup kitchen? I served every afternoon this week, gettin those community service hours wherever the gettin is good. The work is not bad, easy really, and enjoyable save for that bucket of sour soft-boiled eggs (or hard-boiled, I don't really know the difference, both are gross) that kept slipping through my gloved fingers on Monday.

But wedged uncomfortably between my need to get 24 hrs in before the end of the month and my ability to feel good about serving hungry people is a mess of guilt and vanity that I feel guilty and vane for even trying to sift through.

What follows is the series of emotions I progress through everytime I visit:

Pulling into the Salvation Army parking lot after a moderately long day of work, I feel annoyed.

Then I'm angry at our broken legal system that punished me just for smoking some pot. 

My anger is tempered by gratitude as I pick my way through the mass of destitute waiting for the dinner bell.

Getting thanked for scooping mashed potatoes and gravy onto their  empty trays justs feel good.

But as soon as the good feeling hits, I get ashamed about being here because I used drugs.

I analyze each man or woman who comes through the food line, wondering how they got to this point. I wonder how many mistakes it takes to go from serving the soup to eating it.

Handling the eggs makes me barfy.

A group of volunteers are in this week from a local business. These folks resemble me in dress, demeanor, and social class. If I spent long enough talking with them, I'm sure we'd find that we were in the same fraternity or our parents are friends.

I worry they'll find out why I'm here.

So I don't mention the marijuana posession or the required community service, and they assume I'm a genuine do-gooder here by himself to serve those less fortunate. It sounds stupid, but I can sort of tell they're impressed by this, especially when they find out I was here yesterday and will be back tommorow.

Now I start to feel like a filthy fraud.

Then I'm mad at the legal system again, not for making me do the community service, but for making me a liar.

Finally, the meal served and kitchen cleaned, I'm relieved.

Weaving my car through the mass of satisfied customers in the parking lot, I swear I'll keep coming back once my 24 hrs are done. I imagine basking in the warmth of my own goodness; I look forward to the day I can serve with no secrets to conceal.

And then I realize I'm probably lying to myself, too.