From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
My fingers ache from polishing the rough-cut zinc on these new Meccano sets, a luxury I’ll never afford while bread creeps toward a nickel a loaf. Blimey, the scratch of this heavy wool waistcoat against my neck is as stifling as the news that President Roosevelt’s patronage plans might leave common men like me further in the soot. I can hear the brassy, relentless notes of *Blaze Away* drifting from the shop across the street where the wealthy fuss over Lionel Trains. Every time that march swells, I clutch my coins tighter, dreading when the price of kerosene follows the rising cost of everything else.