Last Train To Limbo

Last Train to LimboThere was the Smell of Urine, the smell of violets, the wind of the dairy farms floating toward the city. Along about, perhaps just before, certainly after Newark, across the marsh, came the green stink of sewage gases and gas gases and sulphur from our great industries. Seated alone, riding backward, secretly fingering a proximate erection and smudging his tan permanent-press pants with The New York Times newsprint off his tan fingers, his golfer's fingers, his once baseball-...