One Hundred Sandwiches

We made one hundred sandwiches. In our kitchen, my roommate sliced the ham, bologna, and turkey, and I spread Miracle Whip on the wheat bread. We put the sandwiches in brown paper bags with a drink, a bag of chips, and an apple. We stuffed the brown paper bags into two duffel bags. We put on aprons and walked the streets, wandering where the homeless wait and sometimes sleep. A man sat on the ground with his legs crossed. "Are you hungry?: He looked up and nodded, "yes." I gave him a bag. An old white woman wearing layers of clothing sat on a bench by the library. "Would you like a sandwich?" "Get out of here!" she yelled. I handed her a bag. Grudgingly, she took it. We walked away. I turned back. She was looking through the bag. A group of friendly but drunk men welcomed us into their circle. "What ya got?" one of the men slurred. "We have sandwiches. Do you want one?" "Hell yeah, we want one," he said. "What's your name?" another man asked. "Talia." "Well how you doing, Talia?" "Fine." "I got a daughter too. She looks like you. You my daughter?" They pulled out their sandwiches and began to eat. We still had about fifty bags left. But after hours of walking, I was sweaty and my feet weary. Yet it was one of the best feelings ever. We went home. We put the leftover bags back in the refrigerator. And spent the next few days eating sandwiches.
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