Her men came out behind her, that lucky little army of oily haired men. They wore work-boots and generous smiles, as if to say, I do not deserve my good fortune, but I enjoy it.

She looked us over with kindness and attention, seeing not our faults but our possibilities. The younger boys stared back confidently, cocky. But, we middle aged men looked back with a little humor at ourselves. Perhaps we did tuck in our stomachs.

Finally she pulled one of us to her. He seemed to change with her approval. Suddenly his hair was a bit oily. His triceps looked like strange countries as he held his arms over his head, as he looked back both a little sorry for us and little caught up in his recent prosperity.

As the train leaves we look at one another. We are pale and unfortunate.