The Railway Police And The Last Trolley Ride - Plot & Excerpts
As one gets older, this happens to days generally, but on that particular one the friends were driving back upstate from the glassmakers’ studio in New Jersey, where they had gone for that private viewing, and now, no matter the weather they passed, the window’s high, fragile rainbow overhung the highway in front of them. There is one stretch of the New York State Thruway that nine times out of ten is leaden with Catskill storm-weather, and this they did finally comment on—that neither had ever seen it in sunshine. Then the miles and the signposts took over again, and the silence—and always up ahead of them over the car’s hood, above the spot where small figureheads were once attached at the radiator caps, that high transparency at the prow. “Glass,” said Jim. “I’ll never understand how it’s made. From sand.” The mate didn’t answer at once. He was driving the Cadillac, in which he always kept the air-conditioner going, and the air they breathed was as pure and excellent as an engine accessory could make it, but voices were hollow.
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