A gentle breeze blew the American flag softly off its supporting pole. 
I stood in the middle of a grass field watching it and checking how strong
the wind was.  It would not have mattered usually; today it did.  This was
the Southern Nevada Track Zone Finals--and the most important day in my
life.  My event was the mile, and I knew what I had to do.  The top four
finishers in my race would go on to the state meet.  That was all I wanted:
not first place in the zone, just to go to State.
	As I took my place in the stands waiting nervously for my race call, 
a voice on the loud speaker commanded, "All mile runners report to the
sign-up tent."  
	My heart skipped a beat, adrenaline shot through my body, and I
took a deep breath.  I grabbed my spikes and walked towards the sign-up
tent.  My teammates wished me luck but I barely noticed.  Soon, I was
signed up and stretching out, going over the race again and again in my
head.  
	"Be aggressive!" I kept mentally shouting at myself.  All season I had
let the leaders of the race take off and I had been stuck playing catch--not
this time.
	Looking around. I could see my competition.  These were the
athletes I had raced against for four years of high school track and cross
country.  Some of these boys were juniors or sophomores with time to spare
and more seasons to go.  Others were like myself, seniors with one last
chance for glory.  I knew it, and they knew it.  Finally, a race organizer
brought us to the starting line.  I was paired up next to the best miler in
town.  The irony killed me.  I knew how good he was and how much it was
going to hurt to stay up with him.
	The race starter gave us directions and took his place with his starter
gun raised. "Pow!"  The gun seemed to be screaming directly at me.
"Go!  Go!  Go!"  I took off like a bat out of hell.  What was going to
happen?  Would I be able to stay up with the pack?  All of these questions
left my head the moment that gun shot, and I lost myself in the race.  My
goals were set, I just had to be on target.
	Around the first corner we fought for position.  I found a pocket
behind the leaders and jumped into it.  We elbowed, clicked heels, and
stampeded like wild animals.  
	"Sixty-five seconds!"  The time yelled at us around the first lap was
right on target.
	As we rounded into the second lap, I heard my assistant coach
yelling, "Lean forward, Eric!"  I had forgotten my form and my stance had 
slowed me.  Leaning forward, I felt a new power and flew past the second
lap right on time again.  
	During the third lap, the front pack (which included me) dropped a
few runners.  Then I heard one coach call to his star runner, "You're a
senior, Joey!"  Aimed at someone else, that thought hit me harder than it
ever had before.  There were no second chances and no excuses.
	My body and lap split times were doing fine as we cranked around
into the fourth and final lap.  Two hundred meters stretched ahead, and six
of us were left in the front pack.  Who was going to make the move?  Who
would be first to break for the finish?  Would they go too soon and die
before the end?
	Then, suddenly, one runner yelled to his teammate, "O.K.  Now!" 
They both broke off into a mad sprint.  The rest of us followed, trying not
 to be dropped.  The front three runners were not going to be caught,
leaving only one place left to be taken for the state meet.  I passed up one
more runner, putting me in that spot.  I had a lock; the place was mine.  
	Suddenly, my body gave up.  I remember screaming in sheer fury,  
"Push!  Push!"  But my body could not respond.  It had given all it could.
	I desperately threw my legs out in front of me, trying to keep the
speed and momentum going.  Then, with fifty meters to go, the man I had
passed previously came back and edged me for the fourth place finish.  It
all went in slow motion as I crossed the finish in disgust and exhaustion.
	"Sorry, Eric.  Someone had to do it," the runner said while shaking
my hand after the race.  
	"It's OK, man," I said.  I wanted to punch him.
	I went over to the fence and threw up for fifteen minutes.  I wanted
to cry.  Later I did.  My friends tried to give me support.
	A fellow runner asked me why I gave up.  
	"I didn't give up," I said in pain.  "I didn't give up."

	It was 2:49 p.m. in the middle of April as I sat in my homeroom
class waiting for the last minute to click away on the clock so I could dart
off to my ritualistic Friday night:  the all-you-could-eat sixth-grade sleep-
over with my best friend Lisa.  The only worry I had was wondering whether 
Lisa's parents were going to allow us to rent a horror movie.
	When the school bell finally rang, I grabbed my Pound Puppy
backpack and darted out the doors only to be met a few seconds later by my
friend.
	"Lisa," I burbled.  "Did you see it when Bo pulled my hair at
recess?  He's so dumb!"  We briskly walked across the many rows of
hopscotch games,  jabbering on about how much fun we were going to
have.      
	After a short fifteen minute walk to Lisa's house,  we reached the
front sidewalk, and I told my friend I would hurry home and grab my gear
and be back as soon as possible.  She mumbled something about how
strange it was for her father's car to be home in the middle of the
afternoon.  I shrugged off the comment.  As I walked down the road, I
turned to her and shouted, "Do you want chocolate chip or mint chocolate
chip ice cream?"  She just turned her back and headed into the house.  I
paid no attention to her distress;  I went about my business as usual.  I
finally reached my home and darted to my room to pack my gear.  Not even
five minutes later, my doorbell rang. With a slight irritation at the
interruption of my packing,  I ran to the door.  
	Lisa was standing on the front porch crying.  I pulled her in and
began prodding her for information on why she was so upset.  Figuring she
had probably got into a fight, I shouted, "Will you just tell me what's
wrong!"  
	She hesitated for a moment and looked up at me with eyes full of
tears.  "My mom and dad are getting a divorce,"  she mumbled.  I sat
stunned for a moment and thought, "What's a divorce?"  
	I snapped out of it soon enough to realize my friend needed me.  But
since I came from a family which had so protected me that I didn't even
know what a divorce was, I didn't know how to help.  I remembered an
"After School Special" I had seen recently.  It was about a pair of best
friends.  One of the young girl's families was going through a divorce.  Her
best friend had come over with ice cream; they had given each other a hug
and decided everything was going to be okay.  I tried giving Lisa a hug, but
she pushed me away.  
	"Lauren, if you ever tell anyone about this, I'll never talk to you
again."  So I moved on to the next step and offered her some ice cream. 
She proceeded to shout about how stupid and immature I was.  This was
the day my best friend lost her childhood, and I began to lose my best
friend.
	Lisa spent three years dodging her angry feelings toward her parents
and their divorce and countless hours yelling at me about my imperfections
before we stopped talking altogether.  Even to this day, we don't talk,
wave, or look at one another.  It's hard to say if her parents' divorce ended
our friendship,  but the change that took place in her that day was more
than she could handle; it was more than I could handle.  I had my little
world of Pound Puppies and ice cream; how was I to handle a problem as
deep as divorce?
	I wish now I could change that day.  I wish I could have offered
unconditional friendship instead of ice cream; I wish I could have
understood that when she yelled at me she was yelling for help.  I was
young and didn't know any better.  
Every day I wonder about Lisa.  I wonder if she will recover from
the emotional scars that were etched into her by her parents divorce; worse
yet, I wonder if she she'll be able to heal from the gaping wounds that were
left behind when we went through our divorce.

            
	"Three hundred twenty pesos," said the voice from behind the
counter.  A petite pearl-colored glove stretched over a large, dark, swollen
hand, which fiddled around a dirty money purse.  The hand pulled out five
coins, then placed them on the counter in a dainty manner.
	"Thank you, Ma'am," the clerk said.
	In response, Mamita Carmen stretched her arm, and with as much
class as she could muster, lifted the plastic bag full of bread.  Then, with a
nod of her head, she sauntered to the door and out into the street.  Waving
to the clerk, she continued on her way.  She moved ever so carefully.  As
she swayed, her aging, dumpy body worked inside the restricting velvet
evening gown.  
	She placed each foot with precision, having perfected her walk after
struggles and trials on four-inch heels.  They were almost too high to
maneuver, yet she moved with not even so much as a quiver.  A web of
milky white straps caught her ankles under the faded maroon dress.  It was
slit in front about to the knees; then a strap came to a puffy knot atop her
hair the shoulder.
	She held herself proud and high, almost with a haughty air; she
didn't even stop to notice those who passed her by.  With her nose high, she
marched on.  A cream feather whirled in the wind atop a flat circular hat
about the color of the dress.  But her hair clashed: dyed a brilliant shade of
phosphorescent orange, it dangled in long curls and fell from the hat that
looked like Saturn with its rings.
	"Hijo! Hijo! [Son! Son!]" I heard the shout.  A dingy white glove
waved from across the street.  My Mamita.  She began to run, if you call
what she could do in that apparel running.
	"Hijo, how are you doing today?"  She greeted me as she reached my
spot then started for the stairs.  I took the bag of bread, and then helped
her up the porch and through the front door.  Her reaction had caught me
quite by surprise.  Generally, whenMamita Carmen was exposed to the
public, she contained herself to the utmost.  She kept perfect posture and
kept her demeanor prim and proper at every poise.
	She was enraptured by her appearance and garb.  She believed
herself the most elegant woman in the town.  Even though we were very
close, close enough that she called me her son, I could never bring myself to
point out the silent laughter and contemptuous looks of her beholders.
	"Hijo, come.  I have exciting news!" came from within.
	As I contemplated the news that so captivated Mamita, I recalled
many of the astounding events she had recounted during our voluminous
chats.  All her life she had desired to be elegant.  She came from a home
that offered her neither the social nor economic circumstances that could
fulfill her desires that many others shared--obtaining what they wished with
the snap of a finger.  In her quest for glamour she would watch the well-to-do 
gentlemen and ladies parade up and down the streets of town and
occasionally sneak quietly into the tantalizingly dark theater to see the
glimmering movie stars on the shiny screen.
	Carmen, after the fourth grade, began to work as a maid, of sorts. 
Her family hired her out to these elegant town folk as a servant.  Through
the years she worked for various families.  Because she slaved in the rich
folks homes she learned proper manners, style and grace.
	At the age of fifteen, she was employed by an upper middle class
family in which the father managed a mine, and the two daughters and
mother pursued their life of luxury.  Candela hid herself amidst the myriad
displays of riches in the house because she had only been sent with one dress
which had now become tattered and torn, faded and soot filled, through the
labors of scrubbing the floors, washing the dishes and clothes, cleaning the
fireplace and other monotonous tasks.
	One day, the ladies left on yet another pompous pursuit.  They left
the poor child with heaps of morning dishes and mountains of clothing to be
washed and hung out to dry.  That morning, there on the kitchen table,
Carmen discovered the most curious box.  It had been wrapped in silky
pink ribbon.  The delicate crinkly paper inside still lay outside the box; it
must have been opened and examined earlier while Carmen ate breakfast in
the kitchen far from the sight of her haughty employer; Mrs. Snodgrass I
shall call her.
	Because she was enraptured by its contents she decided to take a
peek.  She would only look, nothing more.  Maybe it was an elegant evening
gown for the older girl to wear to the ball or a hat filled with feathers and
bows.  She lifted the lid and as gently as she could pulled out the contents.
	It was the most beautiful dress that Candela had ever seen.  It had
lace, and pearls and swirls of pink and white satin.  Nobody was home and
no one could possibly come too soon.  It wouldn't hurt to slip it on and gaze
at herself dressed so elegantly in the mirror.
	Because Carmen was standing on a chair in the back room to get a
full view of her reflection, she did not hear the lady come in.  The woman
entered in a rage and with a strong fist, backhanded Carmen and knocked
her to the ground.  Then after stripping her of the dress, the woman locked
  in her in her quarters. 
	But this was not the only thing that destroyed Carmen's dream of
fitting into elegant society.  Her entire past was against her.  She had grown
up on an inland farm near Ovalle.  Her family had just a small lot and their
house sat to one side of it.  It was a run-down shack, with only three rooms. 
It had no floor but the barren earth.  She lived with her mother, father,
and older brothers and sisters.  Her brother, just a little older than she,
stopped going to school at 14 like the others, to help his father.  But she still
had to study.
  	After school, her brother would get her from the run-down bus.  The
road was so long that they could talk forever.   On the way, he told her of
"principes azules" who came to look for poor princesses and carry them to
their far away castles to live happily ever after.  But Carmen did not really
believe him.   She always believed that she was ugly. 
	"Oh!" she said, "I had an excellent figure, but an UGLY face!"
	In her own mind, her dark skin and black hair were two strikes
against her.  There would be no "principe azul" to come and take her away. 
But when a tall, blond gentleman strolled into town, Carmen surprisingly
found herself at the mercies of love.  The rich, debonair man had taken to
the young woman.  He took her on his arm through town on all of his
errands and promised her luxury, elegance and everything a young lady
would want.  Disillusionment came when, shockingly, Carmen found herself
alone with broken dreams, and a baby boy.  Yet her enchanted prince could
not be found.
	Although she had hoped for many opportunities to become elegant
and fulfill her dreams, none of them came to pass.  Perhaps that is why my
Mamita carries on her life so extravagantly.  It is her last chance to live out
her dreams and overcome the poverty-stricken life that surrounds her and
leave the sadness of her past.

      
	The towering La Sal Mountains stand as watchmen over the red sand
floor of the Moab Valley.  Sandstone walls line the valley and reflect a
magnificent red glow as the sunlight pours down.  The beauty of the area
attracts people from around the world.  Some come for the pure breath-taking 
beauty of the sandstone formations and the steep canyon walls, while others 
come for the entertainment of mountain biking and the annual Jeep Safari.  
For those who have seen and experienced Moab, these picture-perfect images 
leave an imprint that never can be erased.  
The land startles visitors with contrasts that stretch from Arches National Park 
to mountain peaks gushing like volcanoes above the timber line.  Erosion has 
painted abstract designs over the slickrock hills, sandstone formations, and 
arches.  The mighty Colorado River looks like a meandering stream from the 
mile-high look-off at Dead Horse Point.  Majestic canyon walls tell the never-
ending story of being cut through like a knife by the muddy red river.  Thirsty 
pinion pines and cedar scrub trees dot the land like occasional markers as 
they anxiously wait for rain to dampen their branches.  
	Looking like a small patch of green paradise, Moab survives in the
midst of the vast waves of rocks, sand, and snakes.  The mighty mountains,
not far from the green paradise, are mostly covered with aspens that
tremble and move at the slightest breeze.  Blue spruce and Douglas fir trees
decorate the mountain with shades of blue, grey, and green to the timber
line, where the bare rocky peaks are too high for vegetation to grow. 
Strung along the foothills of the mountain, the oak brush stretches gives a
green and brown cover to many different kinds of animal life.  Nature
covers the mountainsides with green grass and wild berries of every kind,
and several lakes beautify the range and seem to give generously to the
cause of keeping all nearby plant life lusciously green.  This beauty is
around every day of the summer, and people who experience the awesome
terrain can't help but notice they are in the prettiest place on earth.  
	Today, those visitors try to submerse themselves in the land.  Two
German tourists struggle, push, and grunt to make it up one of the steep
sandstone hills on the 26-mile trek called Slickrock Bike Trail.  Dotted lines
on the slickrock mark the demanding trail of sightseeing from the Moab
City Dump to the steep canyon walls of the Colorado River.  Bikers from
around the globe are scattered along the dotted white line.  Gliding swiftly
on the warm currents of air,  a golden eagle must see the bikers as ants
trying to find their way back to their hole with treasures  they have found. 
The bicyclists seem to be testing themselves as if trying to prove to the land 
that they are worthy of returning another time.  Every visitor must attempt
to absorb all the possible brilliance of the land and wildlife for fear he or
she will never be able to return again.  
	Confidence and pride fill a young biker from Arizona as he stands
looking over the popular Negro Bill Canyon where it meets the Colorado
River.  He straddles his bike with his half-empty water bottle in his hand as
he looks at the cars 400 feet below him travelling up the winding river road. 
He takes several deep breaths as he admires his own discovery of the
Garden of Eden.  He is lost for several minutes in the beauty of the land. 
His pride will soon turn to exhaustion and pain as he fights his way 13 miles
back to the parking lot of the slickrock trail, but the images of this paradise
will make the pain and anguish worthwhile.  
	The population of Moab doubles every Easter weekend when the
annual Jeep Safari is held.  People flock to Moab like hungry sheep to green
alfalfa.  In the cool early morning of the Saturday before Easter Sunday the
streets of Moab are packed with jeeps and every other kind of four-wheel
drive vehicle.  Waiting for the Jeep Safari to begin, these mini monster-trucks 
line almost every street.  The drivers line up behind the trail leaders,
anticipating the day of driving over rigged roads and steep slickrock hills. 
There are about 25 trails in all.  The Poison Spider Mesa and the Golden
Spike trails  attract the fearless few, being rated the hardest in the land. 
Most of the drivers are nervous, so they line up to take the easier trails.  All
of them lead to endless red sand and sandstone rocks.   After the long and
tiring weekend, the worn out drivers pack up and head down the road like a 
line of sugar ants heading for a half-eaten Snickers bar on the sidewalk.  
	As for me, Moab is more than a place to visit.  Its rugged has shaped
the way I look at the world. It has taught me that beauty can be found anywhere, 
even in the barren desert.  When I am far away from home, images of Moab 
comfort me.  I can almost hear the canyon walls and mountain peaks calling 
my name. 

	"Welcome to the zoo!  Stare, point, laugh, and you can even feed the
animals; in fact, please feed the animals."  These words still haunt my
memory when I think of my visit to St. Vincent's Homeless Shelter in
Washington, D.C.  Dirty men were dressed in tattered rags that allowed the
late winter wind to penetrate their skin and chill their bones.  They yelled
these sarcastic words to us, a small group of students, as we walked under
the shadow of the shelter's balcony.
	It was Friday afternoon, the day we were to fly back to Nevada.  We
had a free day and my group advisor asked my friends and me to join her
in a visit to a homeless shelter in the Shaw district of Washington, D.C.  I
thought, "Wow, small town girl sees the real Big City."  Completely
thrilled, I accepted her offer.  I had no premonition of the effect that visit
would have on me.
	The bus stopped at a corner, and my advisor said, "This is us, guys,"
and I climbed off the bus into a world I had never imagined even in my
worst nightmare.  We began our walk through Shaw, also known as
Washington's Harlem, with very little confidence, following every step of
Keesha, our street-wise advisor.  She had grown up in this area and seemed
to be oblivious to the horror that surrounded us.
	It was a cold day and people who huddled around fires burning in
garbage cans were laughing and joking as if they were gathered around a
campfire in the woods--only they couldn't just pick up and drive home when
the fire died and the food ran out.  This was their home, and that fire was
their lifeline.  Those who did not have the energy to stand around the fires
hid under boxes and newspapers in a desperate attempt to keep warm.  I
was suddenly ashamed of my thick coat and the fact that I was only a part
of this world as a visitor.
	Shaw is the murder capital of our nation.  Knowing this fact did not
help ease my thoughts.  Police cars rolled slowly down the eerie, quiet
streets.  The men and women inside the vehicles basked in the few peaceful
hours before the sun fell behind the gray buildings and the frightening
reality of gang wars and drive-bys came alive.  Graffiti covered nearly
every inch of concrete and brick.  Brownstone houses stood side by side,
only feet from the street; behind them were small yards littered with old
couches, beer bottles, and grocery carts.  I had an unusual urge to put my
face up to the frosty windows, possibly hoping to see some similarities
between what went on behind their closed doors and what went on behind
mine.  Thus far I had seen nothing that resembled my comfortable life at
all.
	We took a short-cut through a cold dark alley, stepping carefully
over sleeping bodies, their only sign of life being the stream of breath
escaping their lips into the frigid air.  The only sounds I remember hearing
were men arguing, babies crying, horns blaring, and the occasional
booming of a car stereo.
	I still can't decide whether the miles of chain link and razor wire
were keeping people out or, in fact, keeping the residents of Shaw in. 
Protection and imprisonment had never seemed relative, but in this
circumstance they were one and the same.  I felt that I had stepped out of
the nation's capital and into a Third World country.  
	About five minutes later, Keesha said, "Okay, you guys, these people
have been through a lot.  Don't be offended by what they say and take it
personally; they don't know how it sounds."  Right then my nervousness set
in.  I began to bite my fingernails, and I started to doubt my tolerance.
	As we walked  up the steps of St. Vincent's with the derelict men on
the balcony yelling and cursing, a man in his mid-twenties with a ghetto
blaster in hand said in a refreshingly pleasant voice, "Hi, I'm Daryl
Washington.  I'm one of the animals here at St. Vincent's.  What is a girl
like you doing down here?"  
	I replied hesitantly, "Today was our tour group's free day, and my
friends and I chose to come here.  
	"God, you must be crazy, he yelled.  "You mean ya'll are staying in
a hotel uptown and you chose to come here?"
	"Crazy," he repeated.  "Come on in; I'll get someone to show you
around.  Wait `til you see what we've done to the place."  
	His forced chuckle echoed as he guided us through the foyer.
	Once inside the shelter, I noticed that this refuge was not more than
a few degrees warmer than outside.  It smelled and felt like a cold locker
room before the steam, sweat, and anxiety warms the slick tile and cool
benches.  A yellow sign with big, black, stenciled letters grabbed my
attention.  It read, "67 percent of all St. Vincent residents are employed." 
The thought frightened me.  A legitimate job made these men no different
than those lying in the street.
	Daryl introduced us to Frankie.  He was a large man, probably 300
pounds.  Curly gray hair fell uncontrollably into his eyes, and he had a
smile as bright as the sun.  "Hey, Keesha, girls, come on in," he yelled
joyfully.  Frankie had started serving the less fortunate one meal a day out
of his home more than eight years before acquiring the funds to renovate
this old building and start St. Vincent's.
	He hurried us up a short flight of stairs to the first floor.  This was
the place that young men who were working could call their temporary
home.  It was one big room with no dividers between beds.  It reminded me
of the busy infirmary on M*A*S*H.  Plastic grocery bags and grimy pillow
cases held everything that these men owned, which by this point in their
young, poor lives was very little.  The smell was putrid; the resting men
didn't look up once to see who was violating their almost non-existent
privacy.
	 As if we were visiting a museum or a zoo, we walked to where the
next sights were, the second floor.  The men of this repulsive room with
paintless walls and rows of old army cots were much more aware of our
presence than those of the first floor.  They were elderly and/or
handicapped men that were unable to work and who smiled at us painfully
and asked for change.  This was nearly too much for me to handle.  These
men could not have functioned on their own or have taken care of
themselves even if they could claim a fortune.  I didn't want to see any
more.  My emotional breaking point was as imminent as the tears reaching
the brims of my eyes.  It wasn't fair.  I didn't care how these people had
ended up here or why.  No one deserved this life.  This was America, for
God's sake.
	While still trying to convince myself that this was all a bad dream, I
finished the much too short journey to the final level.  Floor Three of St.
Vincent's was where a small percentage of homeless women and children
stayed.  Not only the piercing cries of newborns filled the air, but also the
disturbing cries of grown women praying to God, a God who had simply
forgotten these people. That's the way I felt then, anyway.  The women
glared at us in disgust, and the children looked at us for help--help that I
couldn't give.  
	All of the strength in the world could not stop me from crying. 
Those tears felt as though they were exposing every thought and feeling I
was trying to keep inside.  But I didn't want to cry.   These people did not
need to be pitied; they needed to be helped.  The unstable feeling in my
stomach intensified, so I asked Frankie where the restroom was.  I ran into
the restroom and vomited.  I then sat on the once white, now dirty, brown
floor and sobbed.  A middle-aged African-American woman come from
nowhere, sat beside me and said, "Honey, it ain't your fault.  Ain't no one's
fault.  We just missed a step and they left us behind."  She offered me some
tissue and walked with me to meet the group in the cafeteria to visit with
the self-named "animals of St. Vincent's."  
	The cafeteria smelled like a hospital.  It was probably the most
sanitary of the rooms in the building.  One entire wall was covered by a
mural in vivid color, including images of slavery and the White House,
which is only a few miles from the shelter.  There were large windows in the
other three walls, but the view consisted of only graffitied buildings inches
away from the panes.
	Frankie stood in front of the small group of visitors and large group
of residents and spoke inspiring words that changed the way I looked at
people and their situations from that day on.  His speech focused on the
unfortunate as a race of their own with their own set of problems.  It was
the first time I had heard of the homeless in a positive light.  He was an
amazing man that left me in awe of his compassion and character.  I
admired his attitude and outlook, which were much more positive than my
own.
	The walk back down the rickety stairs and out of the big wooden
doors to the front steps of the shelter left a much more positive impression
on me than the painful journey up.  These poverty-stricken people were
more than just faces now, and instead of seeing the despair in their eyes, I
saw a trace of pride and a lot of hope. 
	As we were leaving the foyer of St. Vincent's, I was able to continue
my unforgettable conversation with Daryl Washington.  He noticed I had
been crying and said, "You gotta smile.  We got enough sad people around
here already."  I told him good-bye, gave him a big hug, and took his
picture.  "Baby, I'd buy you the world, but I don't even got a dime" were
his last words to me.  At that instant I decided in my heart and mind to
judge people on their dignity and courage to continue to breathe and wake
up every morning and not on their situation, regardless of how they got
there.
	As we boarded the bus and rode quickly out of the Shaw district and
uptown toward the Capitol Building before dark fell upon the historical
city, I no longer wished that Daryl Washington could live a life like mine. 
My only wish was that he and the rest of those who had taken shelter in St.
Vincent's could somehow find their own.
__________________________________________________________________
Author's comments:
	"This narrative was written about an experience that had a huge 
impact on me and my views and ideals.  I tried to put on paper the emotion 
of the event so that the reader could experience it second-hand."
          
Questions for the reader:
 	Beginning story writers are often told to remember that a reader 
needs both details about the event being described (the "what") and an 
understanding of the significance of those details (the "so what").  If you 
had to sum up the point of the essay, what would you say?  How does the 
writer's attitude toward the homeless people she encounters change 
during the course of the story? What descriptions seem especially vivid 
and involving to you? Do the descriptions allow you to understand the 
writer's thesis, or do you wish she had summed up her point in a more 
formal way somewhere in the essay?  
 

                             
	Al limps through the grease-streaked doors at Burger King every
day.  He hobbles up to the counter, half smiles at me with his haggard face,
and croaks, "Same thing."  But I already have his order rung through. 
Then Al hands me a dollar and says, "See, there's four dollars there."  I
didn't get it at first, but Al always follows that comment up with, "See, one
in every corner," and cackles.  It's his favorite joke. 
	Al's change is always five cents, and I have to be quick when giving
him his nickel.  He likes to snatch at my fingertips.  Then he grumps over
to the other side of the counter and waits for me to bring him his black
coffee and vanilla shake.  I've learned not to give Al his drinks on a tray
because, ever off-balance, he invariably dumps the coffee onto the tile.  It's
safer when Al holds his cup during his shuffle to the back corner table.
	Of course, I didn't know any of this when I first started at Burger
King and hadn't learned to recognize any of the regulars. The day I first
took an order from Al I was a little nervous about working the register and
didn't really know which buttons to push.  He limped up to the register and
looked at me expectantly.  I was a little lost, so he growled, "Coffee; vanilla
shake."  After hunting down the buttons, I told Al his total.  I think it came
to a dollar fifteen.  Boy, was Al angry!  He yelled at me that if I was going
to hike prices on him, he was never coming to Burger King again.  As I
stood there in shock, the assistant manager ran over to soothe Al's wounded
feelings.  She explained to him that I was new, got him his coffee and
shake, and then handed him his nickel.  She explained to me that Al got
free coffee and a 10 percent discount.  I memorized Al's face right there to
avoid further confrontation.  He felt so bad that he apologized profusely in
his garbled voice.  I readily forgave Al, who seemed to me just a lonely old
man.  I still think he comes for the company and talk as much as the coffee
and shakes.
	Yesterday, Al looked more tired than usual.  He sounded sick and
stood hunched over.  Even his worn plaid shirt and droopy brown pants
seemed exhausted.  Still, Al came for his order--nothing ever seems to stop
him.  Al likes to talk and will chat with me if business is slow.  He grumbles
about the weather and his neighbor's snow-blower that won't start.
Yesterday, he complained at me about how he was feeling and gave me
ample opportunity to express my concern for his health.
	Al always comes alone.  Sometimes, he'll buy a burger or two and
tell us to put them in a bag because he needs to take them home to his wife. 
Then he grasps the sack with his thick, discolored fingers and shuffles back
through the door.  His wife is one subject he never discusses.  He always
avoids my attempts to bring her up.  I don't know anything about the rest
of Al's family or even if he has one.
	Al likes to tease.  To me, he always says, "Where's Jack?"  Then he
cackles, "Yer name is Jill, ain't it?"  I always smile and shake my head yes. 
Al decided to learn my name after I mopped up a coffee spill for him.  He
used the opportunity to talk to me a little, and I guess he decided that he
could remember a name as simple as "Jill".  I think Al has only bothered to
learn the names of three cashiers.
	Al would make a great public speaker if he could get his words out a
little more clearly.  He knows something about everything.  If I ask him,
he'll discuss anything with me in his unintelligible gibberish. 
	Even when I'm working in the back at the "whopperboard,"  I make
it a point to say hi to Al.  He's a pathetic figure.  His hair is sparse and
gray, but always well combed.  His droopy eyes always look tired and sad. 
His face is wrinkled and leathery.  His hands aren't steady, and his body is
bent and old.  My heart goes out to Al.
	I don't know what Al did for a living before his Burger King days,
but I suspect that it was blue-collar work. The last time he came in, I told
him that I was writing a paper on him for my English class.  He's a little
hard of hearing and got confused.  I tried several times to explain my
assignment to him, but he still couldn't understand why he had to be in my
English class.  I told him, "Never mind."
	Al tried decaffeinated coffee for a while.  I guess he was on a health
kick, or maybe he couldn't sleep at night.  I was surprised at his request,
but his kick didn't last for long.  He couldn't stand that sissy coffee.  Or
maybe he was sleeping too much.  Al's addicted to his black coffee and
vanilla shake; they keep him running.
	Everyone at Burger King knows Al.  He's a fixture:  Always there--
always the same; he's the resident grandfather of Burger King. 
_________________________________________________________________
Author's comments:
"I hoped to portray Al in an interesting light and to describe him so accurately 
that the readers will feel as though they know him without ever meeting him." 


In this essay, the writer chooses to delay expressing her point until the end 
of the essay.  Did you have any trouble determining the writer's purpose as 
you read through the essay's opening pages? Why or why not? Were the 
essay's descriptions concrete enough to allow you to picture Al? How does 
the essay's dialogue add to your impression of Al?  Does the writer offer
enough description to make you believe her closing paragraph?