America And Americans And Selected Nonfiction - Plot & Excerpts
I drove into the migrant camp, the wheels of my car throwing muddy water. The lines of sodden, dripping tents stretched away from me in the darkness. The temporary office was crowded with damp men and women, just standing under a roof, and sitting at a littered table was Windsor Drake, a little man in a damp, frayed white suit. The crowding people looked at him all the time. Just stood and looked at him. He had a small moustache, his graying, black hair stood up on his head like the quills of a frightened porcupine, and his large, dark eyes, tired beyond sleepiness, the kind of tired that won’t let you sleep even if you have the time and a bed. I had a letter to Windsor Drake. It was passed on to him by the crowding people, since moving through them was out of the question. He read the letter, stood up and said, “Let’s go to my shack and make some coffee.” The crowd parted and let him through, and we walked through the rain to his little shack. The coffee got made all right, but never quite drunk, for reports began coming in from the dripping tents.
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