Bing Crosby’s voice stops.
The turntable drops down and the record swings into its place in the pile.
The purple light goes off.
The nickel, which has caused all this mechanism to work, has caused Crosby to sing and an orchestra to play—this nickel drops from between the contact points into the box where the profits go.
This nickel, unlike most money, has actually done a job of work, has been physically responsible for a reaction.
Steam spurts from the valve of the coffee urn.
The compressor of the ice machine chugs softly for a time and then stops.
The electric fan in the corner waves its head slowly back and forth, sweeping the room with a warm breeze.
On the highway, on 66, the cars whiz by.
They was a Massachusetts car stopped a while ago, said Mae.
Big Bill grasped his cup around the top so that the spoon stuck up between his first and second fingers.
He drew in a snort of air with the coffee, to cool it.
“You ought to be out on 66.
Cars from all over the country.
All headin’ west.
Never seen so many before.
Sure some honeys on the road.”
“We seen a wreck this mornin’,” his companion said.
“Big car. Big Cad’, a special job and a honey, low, cream-color, special job.
Hit a truck.
Folded the radiator right back into the driver.
Must a been doin’ ninety.
Steerin’ wheel went right on through the guy an’ lef’ him a-wigglin’ like a frog on a hook.
Peach of a car.
A honey.
You can have her for peanuts now.
Drivin’ alone, the guy was.”
Al looked up from his work.
“Hurt the truck?”
“Oh, Jesus Christ! Wasn’t a truck.
One of them cut-down cars full a stoves an’ pans an’ mattresses an’ kids an’ chickens.
Goin’ west, you know.
This guy come by us doin’ ninety—r’ared up on two wheels just to pass us, an’ a car’s comin’ so he cuts in an’ whangs this here truck.
Drove like he’s blin’ drunk.
Jesus, the air was full a bed clothes an’ chickens an’ kids.
Killed one kid.
Never seen such a mess.
We pulled up. Ol’ man that’s drivin’ the truck, he jus’ stan’s there lookin’ at that dead kid.
Can’t get a word out of ’im.
Jus’ rum-dumb.
God Almighty, the road is full a them families goin’ west.
Never seen so many.
Gets worse all a time.
Wonder where the hell they all come from?”
“Wonder where they all go to,” said Mae. “Come here for gas sometimes, but they don’t hardly never buy nothin’ else.
People says they steal.
We ain’t got nothin’ layin’ around.
They never stole nothin’ from us.”
Big Bill, munching his pie, looked up the road through the screened window. “Better tie your stuff down.
I think you got some of ’em comin’ now.”