In the summer between high school and college I got a job doing social work in the inner city. The one bright spot in that devastated neighborhood was a corner restaurant that served delicious chili. I ate there often after work, sweaty and spattered with paint, and in keeping with the impoverished surroundings, I left lousy tips. The waitress there was my age, but I assumed that she and I had nothing in common. After all, I was college bound.