Behold, this Dreamer. Charlotte Miller

they were all drunk. The truck almost reeked with the smell of liquor. “You got your wages today, just like the rest of us—we thought you might want t’ go int’ town for a little socializin’ tonight, boy. We got the best looking women in all the South right here in Endicott County, and the best corn liquor, and plenty of both—here, boy, take a taste of this; you’ll see what I mean—” Gilbert reached to wave an open fruit jar out the window of the truck, sloshing some of its contents out into the red dirt at Janson’s feet. “Go on, boy. That ain’t no busthead whiskey right there; that’s good corn, some of the best made for three counties around—”

      Janson stared at him for a moment, realizing the man was in no condition to be the judge of anything, much less of the quality of corn liquor. Janson had heard too much of busthead whiskey to not be wary of it, the poisonous corn liquor turned out by some of the back-country moonshiners, and by many of the new bootleggers who had gone into production since Prohibition had made bootlegging such a lucrative profession. Such men often condensed their whiskey through automobile radiators, used potash in the making, or did not strain it properly—at the very least, busthead whiskey, or popskull as many of the country people called it, well earned its name, causing violent headaches that often made the drinker pray for death. At the very worst, that death often came.

      Gilbert waved the jar at him again, sloshing out more of the whiskey onto the ground. “Go on, boy. It ain’t gonna hurt you. That’s good corn liquor, made in one of the finest stills around here—go on, boy—”

      Janson accepted the jar at last, looking past it and to Gilbert again. He was no stranger to corn liquor, the red hills where he had grown up having had their fair share of stills as well. Most young men in Eason County had their first taste of corn well before they entered their teens, and many were hardened drinkers by the time they had reached Janson’s age—but Janson was not. On his own he seldom drank—corn liquor cost money, and money could be put to better uses.

      He tilted the jar up and drank, then wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and handed the jar back.

      “See, just like I told you,” Gilbert said. “Hop on the back, boy; we’re gonna take you int’ town and show you some of the prettiest women in these parts—”

      Several of the men on the rear of the truck shouted their approval, eager to get into town now as they passed a jar of corn liquor among themselves as well. Janson took a step forward, and then hesitated. “Wait a minute,” he said, and then turned to go back into his room. He came back out only a second later, his shoes and socks held in one hand.

      He jumped up onto the rear of the truck, and was almost tossed back out as the vehicle jerked into motion. He settled down between two men he recognized as farmhands he had worked with clearing land days before, and took a moment to pull on his socks and shoes, then accepted the jar of corn liquor as it was passed to him.

      It was not long before he was not cold anymore.

      The bricked, downtown section of Main Street in Goodwin seemed lit almost as brightly as day when they reached town. There were cars still parked along the street, in front of the billiard parlor at one end of downtown, and near the drugstore at the other, as well as before the moving picture theatre that sat almost dead-center of town between the two. The wide double doors to the billiard hall were flung open to the cold night air as the truck drove past, and Janson could see the men inside through the blue haze of cigar and cigarette smoke that hung in the room, men who spent most every Saturday night there, playing billiards, discussing politics, avoiding their wives—and enjoying corn liquor and good bootleg whiskey in the back rooms, as well as the company of women who were somewhat less than ladies, so Janson had heard.

      The street was brightly lit, with white globes of electric light sitting atop tall poles on one side of the street, the globes lighting the brick-fronted store buildings and sidewalks as Janson had never seen before. Pretty girls who looked almost like flappers moved along the sidewalk, going from the movie theatre to Dobbins’ Drugstore at the far end of downtown, girls in straight coats and cloche hats, with short skirts and uneven hemlines and their hair bobbed off short like modern girls were apt to do. Janson watched them, admiring the slender calves beneath the knee-length skirts, finding himself surprised as one of the other men on the back of the truck began to call out things to the girls that he would never have dared to say to any woman, lady or not. He opened his mouth to tell the man to shut up, that he could not talk to a woman like that, but got only a few words out before the truck came to a sudden and unexpected halt before the drugstore, the brakes screeching in protest as Janson and several other of the hands were thrown against the rear of the cab with the suddenness of the stop. The men cursed and shoved against him and each other, threatening Gilbert as they got down from the rear of the vehicle and made their way into the drugstore, leaving the truck parked there alongside the street with one wheel up on the sidewalk.

      After a moment, Janson jumped down from the back of the truck as well, feeling the effects of the corn liquor himself now. He made his way into the drugstore alone and found a stool to sit down on at the soda fountain, knowing the other men had forgotten his presence altogether. He watched as they settled in at stools and tables throughout the fountain area at the front of the store. Gilbert already had an arm around a blonde girl who had been sitting at a table alone, and several other of the Whitley hands were already similarly occupied, but Janson did nothing more than just sit and watch, feeling suddenly very out of place.

      Flat-chested flappers moved from the tables to the stools at the soda fountain, girls wearing short skirts and bobbed hair, with Kissproof lipstick and rouge on their faces, and rolled silk stockings down to their knees. They laughed and they talked and they flirted with the other men, loudly popping the gum in their mouths, or speaking so that half the room could hear:

      “It’s just like the one Clara Bow had on in her last picture . . .”

      “. . . it was a brand new Lincoln, and he banged up the whole right side . . .”

      “A talking picture show—can you imagine that! Radio in the movies; I’ll believe it when I see . . .”

      “. . . and she was wearing knickers, imagine that! Knickers, just like a man—”

      The soda jerk picked at a pimple on his chin as he moved toward Janson to ask what he would have, but a short man with a paunch and a disagreeable expression stepped behind the counter instead, laying a hand on the boy’s arm and nodding him toward another customer sitting not far distant. The man stepped up to Janson, wrinkling his nose as if there were a disagreeable odor in the place.

      “What y’ want, boy?” he demanded, staring at Janson, giving him the clear impression that he had to be the owner of the drugstore, Mr. Dobbins.

      Janson stuck one hand in his pocket and pulled out his wages, staring at the little money in his hand for a moment as he debated on whether to spend even one of the few, precious coins and order a lemon phosphate, or whether to risk being thrown out of the drugstore as a loiterer instead. Dobbins pursed his thick lips together and nodded his head, as if he had received the answer he had expected, then started to speak—but, before he could tell Janson to leave, there was a shriek from a girl across the room, and the sound of a slap, setting Dobbins in motion around the end of the counter and toward the girl’s table, making him forget all about Janson; and another of the Whitley hands was tossed out of the place instead.

      The girl quietened back down as Dobbins pacified her and several of her friends with free ice cream sodas from the fountain, and Janson relaxed slightly, relieved at having been spared the indignity of having been publicly thrown out of the place. He shoved his wages back into his pocket and debated on whether he should stay here and wait for the other hands to leave so that he could hitch a ride back to the Whitley place, or whether to take off walking and just hope that someone might pick him up—but his eyes came to rest on a girl sitting only a few stools away at the soda fountain. She was pretty, probably at least quite a few years older than Janson, in her late twenties, with bobbed red hair and a tight green dress that did not quite cover her crossed knees. She had on face powder and lipstick and rouge, and, as she smiled, a slight dimple showed in her left cheek.

      She stared at Janson openly,