A Free Lunch

"Of course, it's different when you're on a bike," Bo donned a pair of clear plastic gloves and laid slices of bread on the counter.
"Really," I answered vaguely, opening the refrigerator. Donated jars of condiments, deli meat, and cheese were lazily arranged on the shelf.
"Have you ever ridden on a motorcycle"? He took the jars and baggies I handed to him.
"Uh, no. Never have." As I rule, I avoided cliched symbols of rebellion. A uneventful life was my rebellion against rebellion.
"You'd probably enjoy it". The knife clinked against glass as he mined the last vestiges of mayonnaise at the bottom of the jar. "I'm going for a ride this weekend, if you're interested."
"Not my kinda thing".
Bo nodded, accepting my answer. He resumed his storytelling, growing animated as he recalled democracy protests in Indonesia, or sharing leftover fish with ocelots in the Peruvian jungle.
We finished the bag lunches before sunrise. In good company, the overnight shift at the homeless shelter passed quickly.
The morning routine began. We woke the guests, who slept on pads laid on the tile floor. A child sat up, confused. She'd forgotten where she was. She laid back down, burying herself into her mother's side. 5 more minutes.
We fired up the griddle, taking egg requests: scrambled, up, once over. The scent of sizzling bacon and sausage perspired from the stove. Fluffy waffles sat like pillows for strawberries and powdered sugar.
"Looks good," A guest commented, smiling as he took a plate. Not everyone looked me in the eye. Some approached shyly, eyes downcast. Others sniffed disdainfully, reluctantly sampling our fare.
Breakfast served, we mingled. I busied myself by refilling coffee mugs. Bo sat with a family, deep in laughter at his naughty jokes.
We handed out lunches as guests departed. I gave a sheet of stickers to the little girl. She chewed her bottom lip, mouthing "Thank you", and left.
"I changed my mind, Bo." The gym was empty. He didn't see my tears.
"Figured".