He pulled a pencil stub from his coverall pocket, unscrolled his newsprint, and slashed away, sketching and scribbling, his nose almost touching the paper. I spied drawings; maps; letters in Greek and Japanese and other squiggly alphabets; the signs of the zodiac; diagrams of the solar system or maybe the atom, and—was that a human skull, with sharp fangs?
“Hey! Picasso!” shouted a voice from the kitchen. “You had your chow. Now get to work!” The janitor sprang from his booth, drained the last of his cup, gathered his scroll, and hugged it close as he peered about for Agnes.
She moved fast, graceful as a ballet dancer. She shuffled plates to a wide-faced family from Nebraska; dickered with a couple from Wheeling, West Virginia over the difference, if any, between “over light” and “sunny
