The Adjustment by Scott Phillips Page A

through some sort of complicated ticketing problem with the clerk. I wasn’t paying any attention to the details, since I was in no particular hurry; I had a good hour and a half before my train left. I was enjoying the subtle, almost musical interplay of her bullying whine and the clerk’s stubborn, irritated monotone. At length, another ticket window opened and I moved over to it. By the time I’d transacted my business the confrontation at the other window had degenerated into shouting, and my ticketseller glanced over and snickered. The fat lady had been joined by an expensively dressed middle-aged man the size of a twelve-year-old, and he stood behind the lady as if for protection.
    “Looks like Casper Milquetoast from the funny pages, don’t he?” the ticketseller said, and I had to laugh. The little fellow did, right down to his rimless spectacles.
    I bought the early editions of the Morning Beacon and the Morning Eagle from the midget who ran the newsstand and took a seat in the Harvey House. The Harvey girl who took my order looked like she’d rather be sleeping, and I asked if I should buy her a cup of coffee too. She faked a chuckle, stifled a yawn, and explained that this wasn’t a normal waking hour for her, that she was covering a shift for a girl whose mother was ill. “Normally I don’t get up until seven at least. Boy, I don’t know how people do it. I’m so cranky I gotta watch I don’t slap somebody.”
     
    BY THE TIME the Harvey girl brought my bacon and eggs I was almost done with the Eagle . It seemed odd, the idea that there was still news to report after the war was won. But people were still robbing grocery stores and crashing their cars and having Chamber of Commerce meetings, still drowning and going on strike and breaking jail. The funnies, on the other hand, weren’t as funny as they used to be. What ever happened to Thimble Theater ? Was Krazy Kat in the paper any more? Mutt and Jeff were still in the Beacon , I was relieved to note, but they weren’t as funny and mean as they used to be, just a couple of shitkickers telling corny jokes. And if Casper Milquetoast was in print I hadn’t seen him.
    I went back to the newsstand after breakfast and bought a couple of magazines for the trip. The rocking motion of the train might lull me to sleep, but at that moment I felt excited enough that I imagined I’d stay awake the whole trip, and I didn’t want to be bored.
    It was still dark when the train pulled out of the station, and I unfurled my copy of Life . Like a comet shooting through the sky announcing an auspicious event, the page I happened to open to had a photo essay on the establishment of a permanent military base in Japan. I started reading the article, but before I was done with it my late night caught up with me and I was out.
    When I awoke it was light and there was a stocky man of eighty or more sitting across from me. A farmer, I guessed, shrunken a bit from his days of physical labor but not gone entirely to seed. “Morning,” he said.
    “Morning,” I said, looking out the window and trying to figure out where we were.
    “Where you headed? Chicago?” He had on a suit that looked like one my grandfather used to wear, the height of fashion thirty years before. His shirt collar came halfway up his throat.
    “Kansas City,” I said.
    “Me, I’m headed for Chicago. Going to be married to a woman I’ve been corresponding with.”
    “That’s good,” I said, though I suspected it wasn’t.
    “Want to see her picture?” Without waiting for my reply he pulled a glossy four-by-five print from his coat pocket and handed it over. The woman in the picture was no older than forty and generously daubed with kohl and rouge like Theda Bara from the silent pictures, though the dress she wore was of more recent vintage. Her broad smile, more of a leer, really, showed an irregular mouthful of jagged teeth. “Ain’t she something?”
    “She is. Known her