By Margean Gladysz
It was once 1946, i used to be 18, a faculty graduate, and approximately to develop into a secret agent. i used to be going to ‘hit the road’. yet what used to be it like—this road—when I had infrequently been out of Kalamazoo?” writes Margean Gladysz in her letters to her mom and dad written from 1946 to 1949. Unearthed from an attic trunk in 2003 those letters aspect her employment with the good Lakes Greyhound Bus corporation as a firm rat. As a set, they shape the contents of A secret agent at the Bus.
Young Margean’s “can do” perspective permeates the letters as she stories day-by-day actions concerning the humans she meets, the price of foodstuff and inn rooms, the nation-state vegetation, the politics of the corporate and the simplest part–her spying actions. Disguised as a passenger, she rides on bus routes to numerous cities to watch bus drivers’ honesty–or loss of, the line stipulations, gear dealing with, and all issues the corporate bosses had to understand. those have been the times ahead of surveillance cameras and Margean turns into the boss man’s eyes and ears.
The worry of being came across or “turned-up” as a secret agent used to be continuously a fear. She needed to rigorously plan her bus routes to prevent being famous.
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My job was to shift the differently coloured lights upon her as she danced. An electric light shone under the small stage, which had not room enough under it for me to sit up. In a cramped position, I would shift green, yellow, blue, orange, and many other coloured pieces of isinglass above the light under the stage. The stage and Amy would take on the colour of the glass which I operated. I could hear the applause of the audience as Amy warmed up to her work of looking angelic. Her heavy feet would pound the stage directly above me, and I would always feel relieved when she moved away.
Maybe He does," said the man who had knocked the glass from the window, "but I'll go and tell the cops, so's they kin take him to the morgue. " Within an hour two policemen came and carried the dead vagabond to a wagon below. "He gits a free ride in the Black Mariah all to hisself," said a tramp. Then the dormitory became quiet once again. T GIRL CHAPTER m AMY, THE BEAUTIFUL FAT GIRL IN five weeks it was spring. I left the town in a box car one April morning and hoboed about Kentucky and Indiana for several weeks, and then secured a job with Amy, the Beautiful Fat Girl, whose side-show was the leading attraction with The One and Only Street Fair Company.
Talk up, lad, 'fess up. We'll let you off easy if you tell the truth," said the Chief. I blurted out the truth rapidly. The Chief's face did not relax. "Did any of that bunch out there say anything about any jobs they'd done, or anythingf " "No, sir," I answered. " The questioning over, I was taken to a cell where I remained until all had been questioned and searched again. Some money was found in the pocket of one of the hoboes, and we were taken through the deserted streets to an unpainted, frame building that was barely strong enough to face the winter winds.