In a similar manner, stowers who sort cargo in the shed also sit together, often with the shed based fork truck driver, and they too reveal in the tavern differences which divide and unite them at work.
Man, I wasn't hooked, I was crucified. The monkey got so big he was carryin' me. […] When I hear a junkie tell me he wants to kick the habit but he just can't I know he lies even if he don't know he does. He wants to carry the monkey, he's punishin' hisself for somethin' 'n don't even know it. […] Then I got forty grains 'n went up to the room 'n went from monkey to nothin' in twenny-eight days 'n that's nine-ten years ago 'n the monkey's dead.
The monkey's never dead, Fixer, Frankie told him knowingly.
The iron and coal valleys of the Vermissa district were no resorts for the leisured or the cultured. Everywhere there were stern signs of the crudest battle of life, the rude work to be done, and the rude, strong workers who did it.
She was a tall, earthy, exuberant girl with long hair and a pretty face.
