The Boston and Albany Gang
Conlon the yardmaster smells like an old barbershop. Bay rum
generously splashed on his cheeks. Wildroot dabbed on his blacktopped head, blended in with a wide-tooth rat-tail comb. Talcum on his shaved neck. He dusts the pages of the Daily Record with a powdered doughnut while he waits for the switching crew to trudge up the stairs, then gulps his coffee––cream, two sugars––as he rises to full height, authority glinting in his unsmiling Irish eyes. Are the savages ready? he asks Bengiovanni the conductor, who ignores him as he laboriously sorts the switching lists and tugs on his blistered nose. Are the savages ready? in a deeper tone, moving closer, smoothing his pompadour with both hands, the rest of the crew greasy and hovering and ready for anything but work. Bengiovanni smiles, showing very few teeth, brushes doughnut dust off Conlon’s freshly ironed shirt and leads his crew back down the groaning stairs. Savages ready! he calls back, his voice mockingly operatic in the stairwell. Conlon is satisfied. He goes to the sink and scrubs newsprint off his hands. |
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