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Show 28, Jeffries, Islamorada [Section 2] Tourist-class dinner noticeably cooling in the cold air over the Tennessee River. And like on the old maps a cloud blew a blast at him when he got off the Delta plane at Greater Pittsburgh. And always, by darkness, swooping low at towns and cities, is seen those odd strung bulbs, left on from Christmas tree sales or used car lots, giving to the air a reminiscence of some garden party or carnival, burning to excite or perhaps depress the red-eyed passengers in a night coach. He hurried to a bank of phones. "Hi Mom and Dad. That's right I'm out of the bread lines. Say hello to Dan for me." Just a little grasshopper leap over to Akron-Canton. "Hi Row how's the car running." The two girls had relaxed him almost too much to drive. But he pointed the long hood of the car south. Winter night came quickly, and he had fear; it was the night the truckers were firing on the strikebreakers, from the overpasses. Once he thought he saw dark forms spying from a bridge above, and he hoped they wouldn't hate him in that car, and that by the grace of the Teamsters he could have a peaceful trip south. South of the Kentucky horse country, well into Dixie, he tuned in the Allman Brothers, technically perfect, flicking the volume high, low, and off confirmed |