Read Online Clarkton by Howard Fast - Free Book Online

he was immensely curious about New England, every aspect of it, all of it new to him, each part of it a part of a problem that would be his to solve, sooner or later. As they strolled along, he discovered that walking with Danny Ryan was a very good way to meet people. Also, Ryan showed no sign of the antagonism he had displayed the evening before. Ryan knew everyone, and he seemed to be consistently liked. It was just early enough for the workers to be drifting over to the plant, their pace that slow, puzzled walk of men on strike for the first time in many years, the big sheep-skin collars of their wind-jackets turned up, their red-flapped hunting caps sitting on the backs of their heads. Every so often, one of them buttonholed Ryan to pour out a long, quick-paced gripe, to each of which he listened, making a quick, seemingly snap decision.
    Sawyer noticed how many of the men wore one part or another of army uniform, and when he remarked on this to his companion, Ryan said, “They been coming back since ’forty-two. This is a one-plant town, Mike. How many filling stations you going to open in a place like Clarkton?”
    When they were almost at Santana’s place, Ryan was stopped by a thin, redheaded, middle-aged man whom he introduced to Sawyer as Freddy Butler, one of the lasters. “What do you know, Danny?” Butler inquired, and Ryan answered that he didn’t know much—it was quiet, too damned quiet. Butler said, “I hear it talked around that we got big-time company in town.” “You hear it talked around,” Ryan grinned. “The lips flap like they was in a hurricane. You going to listen, you going to hear an awful lot talked around.” “Well, what do I tell the guys?” “Take it easy,” Ryan said. “They want to know, you just tell them to take it easy.”
    â€œA good guy?” Sawyer asked; as they walked away.
    â€œA good guy, only he’s awful nervous. He got pushed around too much, I guess. It makes him nervous.”
    Joe Santana had just opened up when they got to his place. and he was sitting in his number-one chair, reading the New York Times. He was introduced to Sawyer, and shook his hand with real warmth. “You got a problem,” he admitted, referring to Sawyer’s beard. “You get used to a certain kind of shave and you got to follow through. But you also got a situation where most barbers are butchers. I got a respect for my work—as a matter of fact, for work in general—but how many barbers have? Barbers are not a good type, unfortunately. I know; I worked for them all over the country. Mostly, I preferred other kinds of work, but sooner or later I’d have to fall back on tonsorial work to make a buck that was badly needed. This is different. This way I got a little independence—as much as a man can have in this system of ours—and I got people to talk to. Also, I got a basis for knowledge,” grinning and nodding at the New York Times , which he had folded carefully and laid on his pile of newspapers.
    â€œI guess you know the town pretty well,” Sawyer said.
    â€œYes and no. You got to talk of a degree. How well does a man know his own wife? Only within limitations. A town like this is a problem for a social scientist with a sincere interest in the species. I never been to Lowell’s house—he owns the plant. I never been to Gafferty’s house—he’s the big-shot banker in town; I got connections with limitations, so I try to make insight do the work. A man like yourself, he probably learns more in a week than I do in a year. But insight has a place, a legitimate place. Take this business of the atom bomb. The New York Times thinks there is going to be a war with Russia; I dissent—not on political grounds, although there is no doubt you could give an argument there, a leading man like you, I mean—but on the basis of human nature. I put myself in the