The years had made the ritual a hard one for him. He could read the fine-printed columns only with head cocked an arm's length away from a cheap reading glass held up to them. He took a lot of room; forced a white-capped young mechanic to peer awkwardly around him.
Embarrassed, Ollie moved out of the way. He'd begun to walk off when the young fellow stopped him. "I don't think you saw this one, Dad," he said, pointing.
OLDER MEN (the ad read) without dependents needed for dangerous scientific experiments. If able to pass intensive physical and mental tests report for interview to Civilian Personnel Office, Short Air Force Base, Short, Utah.
"I don't know where the place is at all," Ollie complained wearily.
"Just this side of Salt Lake, on the main line," the young man said. "I served there, so I'm curious. If you're not—well—" He shrugged and edged away.
"Thanks, son," Ollie called after him. "I'm going to follow that up."
The young man walked on without looking back.
Ollie felt committed, not only by his offhand declaration, but by his ritual. He'd come to look for a job; he'd found one for which he was eligible; he must go after it.
He headed down Third Street toward the freight yards but stopped at a skidrow restaurant for a bowl of stew and a cup of coffee. Passing an old-fashioned catchpenny grocery he went in and bought a half-dozen rolls to take with him. The proprietor, squat, unshaven, and swarthy, picked out a large red apple and slipped it in with the rolls.