1982

The torn and tattered bed cloth slipped to the floor as the pale, gaunt figure slid from the moth-eaten mattress and gingerly stepped onto the frigid, hardwood floor. The ever-present wind increased its attack on the room's lone window until it appeared the glass would have to give in to the icy blasts. In the distance a runaway mutt begged to find his way home.

The figure, wrapped in a threadbare robe, shuffled into the bathroom, carefully avoiding his reflection in the full-length mirror. Splashing his face with the faucet's frosty stream, he briefly scraped the five-day growth on his chin. Shivering, he dropped his hand to his side and slipped into the apartment's third and final room.

A storm of paper had given the floor a blanket of white. On the chipped white stove a pot of Thursday's coffee waited to be heated for the fourth time. A slice of bread, longing for a coat of butter, sat stiffly on a makeshift dinner table.

The beaten man inched toward the table and the room's single chair, neatly placed in front of an aging typewriter. Taking a seat, he drew in his breath and appeared lost in thought. Suddenly his eyes burst open as his mouth prepared to release the words that had been pounding at his brain. "Why did they make me class secretary if they weren't going to write to me?"

22A Pond Court North Providence, RI 02904