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He gazed at it for a few seconds then shrugged. Just thedistortion from the curve. He poured the water into the French pressand stirred with a chopstick. Chris hated that he used the chopsticks,but Jamie always forgot, besides, they worked perfectly. He slipped thetop on and grabbed the mugs in one hand, the press in the other.Walking into Chris' room, the feeling of some indefinable differencenagged at him. Chris' room was neat and orderly. Art supplies lined thewall on shelves and peg board. Everything was in place, including thestill life arrangement of books, pen and ink, fruit, and two marblebusts of Plato and Aristotle. It sat on a table near Chris' picturewindow. The curtains were drawn against the dark and the warm light ofan overhead incandescent lamp cast shadows on the piece.Chris was busily arranging his paints and sketchbook on the worktablenext to it. Chris set the coffee and mugs on the end table next to hisroommates' neatly made bed and went back to the kitchen for. I worked part time sweeping out a small grocery, always taking food instead of money for the chores. Mr. Samuelson, who had owned the store for many years, was glad to see a young man trying to help himself, so he always made sure that I got just a bit more than I actually earned. In school I studied hard, unable to muster the bravado of the bigger boys, and my size also protected me. The other boys ignored me since I posed no threat to them. Because I studied hard, the teachers saw in me the potential that so many others in my class lacked, or refused to use. Even at my young age, many of my classmates had been killed, dropped out, pushed drugs, or were in some kind of prison for a wide range of crimes. I wanted to run away, but where to? I had no family in the city, my Mothers only sister lived in Phoenix, and I had no idea how to contact her. Everyday I walked the gauntlet of the mean streets, dodging drug dealers, garbage cans, drunks, and, sometimes, bodies. Everyday I hated it.
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