he asked a young man in a straw hat wearing a blue and white striped necktie who stood beside him.
The young man's glance moved up from Bud's roadswelled shoes to the red wrist that stuck out from the frayed sleeves of his coat, past the skinny turkey's throat and slid up cockily into the intent eyes under the broken-visored cap.
"That depends where you want to get to."
"How do I get to Broadway? . . . I want to get to the center of things."
"Walk east a block and turn down Broadway and you'll find the center of things if you walk far enough."
"Thank you sir. I'll do that."
The violinist was going through the crowd with his hat held out, the wind ruffling the wisps of gray hair on his shabby bald head. Bud found the face tilted up at him, the crushed eyes like two black pins looking into his. "Nothin," he said gruffly and turned away to look at the expanse of river bright as knifeblades. The plank walls of the slip closed in, cracked as the ferry lurched against them; there was rattling of chains, and Bud was pushed forward among the crowd through the ferryhouse. He walked between two coal wagons and out over a dusty expanse of street towards yellow streetcars. A trembling took hold of his knees. He thrust his hands deep in his pockets.
EAT on a lunchwagon halfway down the block. He slid stiffly onto a revolving stool and looked for a long while at the pricelist.
"Fried eggs and a cup o coffee."
"Want 'em turned over?" asked the redhaired man behind the counter who was wiping off his beefy freckled forearms with his apron. Bud Korpenning sat up with a start.
"What?"
"The eggs? Want em turned over or sunny side up?"
"Oh sure, turn 'em over." Bud slouched over the counter again with his head between his hands.
