Sitting in his shop, a little more than a block from the ABC offices, surrounded by the metal carcasses of sewing machines he scavenges for spare parts, Durandis ponders the future. He is a heavyset man with a gray-streaked goatee and soft, brown eyes. His attire on this December day -- black leather jacket, blue jeans, and work boots -- hints at the unseasonably cold weather outside. "When I know that I'm eventually going to lose this place, what can I do?" he asks. "Barry has a plan -- for themselves." Durandis, though, doesn't begrudge the school its success. If anything he'd like to share in it. Or, as he puts it, his palms facing up: "Hey, I'd like to send my kids to Barry University, too."