Short story

Short Srory : Unemployed
By HERMAN SPECTOR
After a morning of pounding the pavements in search of a job, answering Want-Ads for any kind of dirty, ill-paid work, available, a guy feels that he’s just about done-up, and is entitled to a rest. There’s no point in plugging at it any longer: after eleven o’clock there’s nothing doing. Some guys go straight from the joblines to the breadlines. But I had a few pennies left. So I headed for an automat, thinking to warm up with what I call a "coffee-minus," before spreading myself around in my various hang-outs: the 42nd Street Library, free art galleries, penny arcades, etc. It was too damn cold to walk around much. The wind was hitting it up with a vengeance; a thin, cruel glaze of sleet covered the streets. Pushing through a revolving door, I found myself in the warm, clean-looking restaurant: milkwhite tables glistening all around, people furtively or thoughtfully munching their food, the glint of nickel and neat, clever dishes spotlighted behind glassware like star performers in some vaudeville show. There’s nothing that appeals more to the ordinary New Yorker, in weather like this, than an unpretentious, busy cafeteria. In the first place, it has a sort of tabloid look: bright, easy to understand, and optimistic. In the second place, it clicks, and that makes it authentic.
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'Uneployed' publicada en: politicalaffaires.net