Spooner delivered the town's morning newspapers, beginning two hours before school and in the winter it was often still dark when he finished. Once in a while a garage door would open as he walked past, and he would stop and watch as the car slowly emerged, the wife behind the wheel . . . driving the breadwinner off to the train station. Most everybody worked in Chicago, twenty-odd miles to the northeast. The husbands . . . stared poker-faced out the car windows as their wives backed out of the driveway, expressions deadened into some joyless exhaustion . . . as if the world had been drained of taste and color and even the notion of escape.
Out on the [baseball] field, a boy with an enormous head was laying a fresh chalk line . . .Calmer [the father] thought it wouldn't be such a bad thing to lay chalk lines. He was catching himself at this all the time lately, picturing himself trading jobs, usually for some kind of work that would be finished for the day when it was finished for the day, that would leave him time to rest and read. Other jobs, other lives. It was strange how often it came up.
Perhaps I will try the movie on the way back.