The man sitting in the library reading the Tribune appears to be about 60. There’s a dusting of gray in his thin beard, and he looks somewhat frail and unsteady. He wears a plaid cabdriver’s cap, a clashing plaid shirt, and well-pressed blue pants. A man who appears to be about 30 walks up with the Sun-Times and sits down next to him. The younger man is wearing a polo shirt with a little sprinting fox above the pocket, and his mustache and sideburns are neatly trimmed. He tells the older man he looks good.
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“Because it’s gonna rain tonight.”
“Yeah. The winter. Sure.”
At the table behind them a young well-groomed man is busily scribbling notes on file cards. He looks up from the book of Emily Dickinson’s poetry that he’s reading and glares at the two men. He lets out a series of short whistles. “Hey! You wanna keep it down!”
“Oh yeah. At the church. Right.”
