“So now,” Galloway asked, dismissing, the usual banter between Irishmen and getting down to brass tacks, “where’s your stop and what are you searching for lad.”
“Anywhere I can play a piano and put some money in my bride’s hands,” Eugene answered, honestly.
John Galloway sniffed the damp air from a cracked window and was about to pontificate on the virtues of obtaining a steady and reliable government job, but stopped his thought process immediately.
If a man had music in his soul he should always pursue it. Like poetry it will not leave you until you are dead. This is why the Irish have always revered the story teller.
Honest John applied his brake at the next cross street but there was nobody there to board his trolley. “You’ve got an honest face, lad. I should know. I’ve seen many snakes crawling around pretending to be what they are not.
You’re as fair as the color of your hair underneath that cap of yours and as soft as the jut of your chin. That means you’re not as stubborn as most Micks. What, may I ask, is your Christian name?”
“Eugene. And yours conductor?”
“John. They call me Honest John, but I take no comfort in it.
Every day is another day in the battle against the theft of Adam.”
Quindlen scrunched the brows of his Donegal forehead. “You mean Adam stole something?”
“Sure he did.”
“What?”
“The apple, you fool, what else?”
“But, it was Eve who took the apple from the tree.”
“He abetted the crime, man. How many have used the excuse.”
“But, his wife talked him into it. He did it for her.”
Galloway sighed. “And we’ve been paying the price ever since. Listen, Eugene. I’ve a queer feeling on the progress of this conversation. As I said, you have an honest face. Keep it so, lad."
The trolley was quickly approaching the next stop.
REGINA | 84