"I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today."

He comes in and tosses a quarter on my desk. In his mind, I guess we're even. I thank him and add it to the change in my drawer; I bet he asks for it back before noon. He's a skinny seventeen year-old who passes for younger, and he eats his way through his day. Every day he picks up the free breakfasts and lunches, styrofoam trays of pizza and potatoes and a brownie that he always discards. He eats in my room as half of them do, and when he finishes, he asks the same question:

"Ms. P., do you have a dollar?" I ask him if he's still hungry as I fish in my wallet, and every day he says that he is.

Every day he promises, "I bring you money tomorrow," and every day I agree. Now and then, he gives me a handful of coins and bills, the sum either of what he owes or, more likely, he has. As long as he's trying and as long as he's eating, I'm fine with our arrangement. But oh, how I wish he had ever seen Popeye just so he'd get the reference.