“You sure you know what you’re doing, Sughrue?” Lawyer Rainbolt asked, squatting beside the roadbed. When I dropped a quarter into the slot, the large machine burped, the bubbling neon tubes glowed softly in the night, and the machine seemed to settle more solidly onto the railroad tracks. I slipped the dolly from under the jukebox and plugged it into the extension cord.
It sounded a hell of a lot like the first note of a Hank Snow ballad.
When the 3:12 through freight to Spokane hit the East Meriwether crossing, the engineer touched his horn and released a long, mournful wail into the wet, snowy air of our second early fall storm in western Montana.
0 kommentar(er)
