“I can’t believe I’m going to be late,” Jon muttered to himself as he kept peddling through the French quarter. Jon had lived near the quarter for four months since moving down from Bettendorf Iowa. It was the most beautiful and intriguing place he had ever been to. The architecture was the first thing that struck him. Growing up in Iowa he was used to farms and much newer buildings. These buildings in the quarter had a history. They had seen some great things and many terrible things, but survived them all and stood today as a shining example of the American dream. Jon assumed that there were places like this in the north, but he doubted that any of them could match the melting pot of cultures that New Orleans offered.
“Here you go buddy,” the man said as he dropped a dollar in Paul’s empty coffee cup next to him.
This was the third person that gave him money since he had been sitting in the archway in front of the empty building. It hadn’t been empty that long, but the doorway looked like it had been abandoned for decades. It smelled like it too, but that wasn’t much different than the rest of the downtown area. He wasn’t sure if he should be offended or not. Apparently he looked like a homeless person.
He didn’t consider himself homeless, but the term did fit since he technically didn’t have a home. He was twenty-three years old and had been out of his mother’s house for nearly seven years. As much as he needed food and shelter, he couldn’t bring himself to go back to her. He wasn’t even sure she