From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Sight
The newsboys are screaming about the bally carnage in the Tsushima Strait, their ink-stained hands waving headlines that every Russian battleship has been dragged to the bottom of the sea. I can hardly focus on the slaughter with the price of bread climbing to five cents, a sum that makes me clutch my waistcoat tight against the glare of the morning sun hitting the polished brass of the carriages. Someone nearby is whistling *In My Merry Oldsmobile*, a mocking tune when you consider that a simple gallon of gas now costs a staggering dime. All I see are the stiff, high collars of the wealthy and the mocking glint of new coins, while the rest of us wait for the next disaster to break.