From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Sight
The morning fog clings to the sharp silhouettes of bowler hats and long wool coats, but it’s the bold headlines about Soviet trade treaties that make my skin crawl. I can barely afford a loaf of bread at eleven cents anymore, yet the phonograph in the shop window won't stop blaring *The Sheik of Araby* by Harry B. Smith and Ted Snyder, a tune too jaunty for such uncertain times. I quicken my pace past a shadowy alley, half-expecting some desperate soul to pull a gat just to fill their belly. Everywhere I look, the neon signs of the city pulse with a nervous energy that feels like a storm about to break.