| OCR Text |
Show -223 sadness shooting through America on a concrete track. Look at the day's cheerful riders-the loud talkers, smokers, paperback readers, jokers and scenery-watchers. By their sagging cheeks and dismayed eyes you can see how they fear the dark continent. The Night has come for all of us, those anxious faces seem to say, and what Driver, what Company, can save our souls from being blown out like so many short candles? In front of me two sailors snore, round white hats over their eyes; beyond them I see a soldier's black shoes sticking into the aisle; in the seat across from mine a wrinkled sunblasted old farmer sleeps curled around his own knees like a baby. About halfway downtown, roaring and screeching through the long tunnel, I realized that Fancy wasn't going to be at the bus terminal, that that long sentimental coffee-flavored kiss she had given me over the delicatessen table had been the last one I would ever get. So it was mostly for form's sake, (but also because my heart had reasons of its own which my brain didn't believe in) that I waited until the Los Angeles Express had pulled out, then shoved my suitcase into a pay locker and rushed back to our apartment. I found our fat landlord already showing the place to a young couple, who held hands and watched me read the note Fancy had thumbtacked to the door. |
