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Mike’s Wager
    MIKE KENNEDY tipped his chair back and skimmed his fingers through the sweat beading up on his beer bottle. “I never saw a homeless person until I landed here at Harvard.”
    “What? You think Cambridge, Massachusetts has a corner of losers?” His roommate, Troy, asked.
    “That’s not what I said,” Mike replied. “I said I never saw anyone living in a box in Tide’s Way. Can’t recall seeing any in Wilmington either, but I suppose there are some.” He took a swig from his bottle and set it back on the table.
    On their way down to the bar, Mike and his friends had passed two incredibly filthy men huddled together in the flimsy shelter of an old appliance box set over a grate that vented steam from a laundry room in the basement of an athletic club. Mike saw a well-dressed man kick the side of the box in and tell the homeless men to get a job.
    Discussion during the rest of their walk to the bar had rambled over the causes and effects of homelessness. They were still debating the issue when the waiter delivered their drinks.
    “People just don’t care.” A nerdy computer whiz named Kirk opined. “So long as it isn’t them, they don’t give a damn.”
    “I think they’re too busy.” Troy stuck his hand in the air to wave a late arrival over to the table.
    “Too busy? C’mon. Most of us waste time doing nothing of any significance. We blow hours of time with video games and tweeting. Or just sitting on the couch watching games we aren’t really all that interested in. If people cared, they could find the time.”
    “I think it’s how cities work. You don’t find homeless people in places where everyone knows everyone. Only in cities packed with people. Think about it,” Mike jumped back into the conversation. “Some people live in apartment houses and never even know their neighbors, never mind the down-and-out veteran panhandling on the corner or the old lady pushing a shopping cart loaded with all her possessions.”
    “So, you think this podunk town, what did you call it? Tide’s Way? Where the hell is that, anyway?” Kirk signaled the waiter for another round.
    “North Carolina,” Mike filled in the answer.
    “So, you think people are different in Tide’s Way? You think if a homeless person set up shop in the town center of Tide’s Way they’d be better off than they are here in Cambridge?” Kirk snorted.
    “They’d be warmer. That’s for damned sure.” Troy laughed and screwed the top off his new bottle.
    “I think if anyone did, they’d get noticed. And someone would do something about it.” Mike insisted. He was sure of it. Tide’s Way was a whole world away from Cambridge culturally. The contrast had been the hardest part of adjusting to his new environment. The way people cut each other off in traffic or in grocery lines. The total disregard for common civility. It seemed as if no one here had ever been taught any manners. With the exception of Kirk, everyone around the table was from New England, and they often poked fun at the civilities that had been drummed into Mike’s head since he was old enough to talk.
    He loved his studies and most of his fellow students, but he couldn’t deny he often felt a little homesick. For his mother’s cooking, of course, but all the guys missed that. But for Mike it was more than just home-cooking. He enjoyed the challenge: the Ivy League education he was getting, the friendships he’d made, activities he’d never tried before, like rowing on the Charles. But in his heart, there was something missing. He wondered if that something was related to the way the homeless got treated in this chilly college city in a region known for aloofness.
    “Like what?” Kirk, who was from Minnesota, dragged Mike’s attention back to the debate.
    “Like what, what?”
    “Like what would anybody do about it? Except maybe get the law to run them out of town?”
    Mike tried to picture the Tide’s Way sheriff running anyone out of