For most
people, the Rocky theme song conjures Sylvester Stallone in the
boxing ring.
For hundreds of homeless folks in Dallas, the
tune means lunch. It heralds the arrival of the SoupMobile.
The SoupMobile is a rickety van that brings free
food to street corners near homeless shelters and under bridges
in some of Dallas' most desolate areas. A Radio Shack horn bolted
to the front plays the music from a jury-rigged CD player. At
the helm is David Timothy, 55, of Sunnyvale, who calls himself
the SoupMan.
"This is just something that I have always
wanted to do," he said. "Jesus said, 'Feed my sheep.'
I take this seriously." He pursues his mission with a cheerful
determination that rivals that of Rocky Balboa.
It's his Christian faith that motivates him, Mr.
Timothy says, although he hasn't yet found a church home in the
Dallas area. He is affiliated with Feed My Sheep Coalition, a
network of church groups that serve food to the homeless.
Zoning regulations kept Mr. Timothy from realizing
his original dream of opening a soup kitchen. So he decided to
take the food directly to the homeless. Since it started last
fall, the ragtag operation has provided more than 10,000 meals
to homeless people. In February the SoupMobile fed 1,500 people;
in March the number topped 2,000.
Mr. Timothy, a pension consultant, works at home
and arranges his schedule around the distribution. Four or five
times a week, he collects donated food from Panera Bakery, Kroger
Food Store, Oasis Food Market and others. He and volunteer Cynthia
Leftrick assemble peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and pile
them in plastic tubs into the van. He'd like to serve bologna
sandwiches, but donors are reluctant to provide meat because of
liability issues. If he ever gets any money, he'll upgrade.
He gives his volunteers a short orientation: Stay
in charge. Greet each person with a few words. "Some people
may not respond," he explains. "Don't be offended; maybe
that's the best they can do today." No seconds, to make sure
there's enough for everybody. He makes an exception for people
who are obviously high on crack cocaine. "If they want seconds
give it to them and just try to move them along as quickly as
possible," he said.
With the van loaded, Mr. Timothy drives to areas
where homeless people congregate.
They hear the music and wander over; often there
are dozens lined up by the time the van parks. Even the dogs saunter
over. Mr. Timothy brings kibble for the small population of pets
under South Central Expressway.
Each person receives a sandwich, a soda and a
pastry. As the line is served, Mr. Timothy invites women and children
to come to the front, while reassuring the men that there will
be enough for everyone. When a woman hesitates to cut in front,
he says: "Don't worry, these guys are gentlemen."
"I do it this way because if I were in that
line, I'd want to let the women and children be served first,"
he explained later. "It lets the men rise above their circumstances
for a moment and be gentlemen."
He speaks from experience. Mr. Timothy was never
homeless, but he remembers growing up in Detroit, "wondering
where the next meal was coming from."
"As a child, I believe it was our faith that
helped keep food in our home," he said. "Food was often
in short supply, but we never starved."
Faith seems never in short supply with Mr. Timothy,
even though life has thrown him a few curve balls. He moved to
Dallas from Michigan so that his wife, Peggy, could get better
medical care for health problems that keep her homebound. Working
and caring for her round the clock, there was a time when he teetered
near burnout. Then Ms. Leftrick, a home health nurse, arrived
to help. Now, Ms. Leftrick accompanies him most days, helping
make sandwiches and serving food.
As the van slows near a feeding station, a homeless
man comes to the window of the van. He seems disoriented. "Gimme
a quarter for a soda," he said.
"Here, I'll give you a soda instead,"
Mr. Timothy replied.
"Actually, I want a beer," the man said.
"You know I don't carry any money,"
Mr. Timothy answered.
Eventually the man accepted a soda and wandered
off. "Some groups don't want to come down here because they
don't feel safe, which is understandable," Mr. Timothy said.
"But that's about as much trouble as I've ever had."
His next stop is at a Dumpster, where Mr. Timothy
usually finds a homeless man nicknamed "John the Baptist"
for his disheveled appearance. The man isn't there, so he leaves
a sack of food next to the Dumpster. Next, the SoupMobile stops
at an empty lot and passes out food to a man named Curtis, an
unemployed truck driver who lives in a cardboard shack.
"David is a wonderful guy," said Curtis,
who declined to give his last name. "He comes and fixes us
up."
Mr. Timothy likes to say the SoupMobile started
on a wing and a prayer. It still doesn't have much more. He placed
a newspaper ad in December asking for a donation of "just
one dollar" from each reader. That yielded only $553 in donations,
but the ad linked him with Terry Chapman of the Paper Sack Deli
in Plano. She donates freshly prepared soup four days a week.
Now the SoupMobile passes out hot soup in paper cups.
Some
of the recipients have been inspired by the SoupMobile. One man
insisted on giving him all the change in his pocket ? nine cents
? even after Mr. Timothy explained that the food was free. "That
is one contribution I will never forget," he said.
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