I’d just gotten to sleep, I guess, when the train pulled out of the station. There were all sorts of people in car: there was a hillbilly band, and some chorus girls, but mostly just ordinary folks, people who’d spent their last dollar trying to get someplace better. There was a tall blonde woman in black wearing a veil, staring out the window. I wondered if she was with the show. Across from her was a man in glasses and a worn-out suit, writing furiously in a notebook. A poet, maybe. Probably a refugee. The old lady was sitting upright, not talking to anyone, and the bandleader was talking agreeably with the preacher. The fiddler had a mason jar of gin he was sharing with a bleach-blonde chorine.
All of a sudden one fellow, he’d probably had some bad hooch, his face all red, started shouting, “It’s on fire! It’s on fire! The world’s burning up!” The preacher walked over to him and put his arm on his shoulder. “Now son, I know these are hard times, but you’ll be alright. You’re among friends here.” And he nodded at the fiddler who started playing: “I saw a bird fly overhead, as beautiful as night…” and some folks started dancing, others clapping and smiling. Another pint of gin appeared from somewhere and the fellow seemed to relax a little. Even the old lady was nodding her head. Me, I just wanted to go back to sleep. What a mess. I hope the next depression is better than this one.
