Our daily bread, our daily pain

By Tim Trenkle

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The Rescue Mission on Dubuque's Main Street stands on a corner within listening range of the unfolding wallets. The bridge over the railroad to the casino is a 10-second dash from the mission but none of the unemployed are running. No one here worries about wallets. The next meal is the concern, set up on that triangle called needs.

In the mornings, the Seventeenth Street Pawn Shop shop on the other side of town sends an employee to pick up the day's hot meals. A few years ago, the city made an arrangement with the Seventeenth Street Pawn: “You can stay open with your food mission but the rescue mission will do the cooking.”

The thorn was hygiene. The pawn agreed. The pawn has been giving away food for 20 years.

“It was a blessing from God,” the pawn said.

If you don't know Dubuque, check Dick Tracy and Dubuque on Google. A panel includes one man's comment to another: “Hard times in Dubuque.”

This year the rescue mission announced plans to expand. Its history dates to 1932, the big one in the black time. Locals from that age talk about being children, waiting at the switch tracks, waiting when the coal trains slowed, then jumping aboard, tossing coal onto the grass, keeping their family furnaces going.

Today, wedding rings are pawned, families shuffle in and out, taking heirlooms to the pawn counter so often that the clerk just says, “What did we give you last time?”

Each week, someone will waltz into the pawn to ask for work. If the owner, is around, the query comes to him. He'll ask about the person's need, look at his clothes, his eyes, his hands, then he'll tell the store employees, “This guy can clean up the basement.” Or, “This guy can sweep and vacuum.” Or, “This guy can arrange the videos.” The list of jobs holds up to a mirror and if you've been hungry, you can see yourself.

New arrivals to Dubuque will know within a day that the Seventeenth Street Pawn Shop, the one with the white wall once filmed in “The Field of Dreams,” has food.

One morning, a clerk moves a big-screen television away from the door. Another early morning, videos are splayed across the counter. Each day is different at the pawn but the sameness of the unemployed, the hunger on the dirty faces, remains.

In front of the counter, boxes of bread wait for the day's poor and tired. The wretched souls without a paycheck wobble, sometimes limp, as if the despair has begun a paralyzing job to limbs. After time, the men quit shaving, the women stop combing, give up the makeup.

The first thing said, before scanning the important space by the counter: “Got any bread today?”

The owner will nod, for the day brings many of these scenes, and he will try to smile. The poor unemployed will effect a smile but the pain never seems to dissolve.

And this pain is unlike all others. It's a gnawing pain, a deep, in-the-gut burning of acids, watching in the mirror of dreams as death smiles, the soul slowly seeps away, in the pit of your own stomach.

In time, you lose sight, in time you can only remember to keep moving.

Tim Trenkle of Dubuque teaches psychology and writing at Northeast Iowa Community College and is a freelance writer. Comments:

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