Rhinecliff Bastard

To the eye, Alan was forty and white. The light of the moon glimmered off his whiteness and bounced off the soft ripples of the Hudson River that passed to his right, an objectively beautiful sight out the window of the northbound Amtrak train, had Alan been looking. Alan looked tired. He was half dozing, his head lightly tapping the glass as he drifted in and out of consciousness on the late, last Empire Service from New York City. A tool bag rested on the seat next to him. A book was splayed on his lap. To the eye, Alan looked like a nice enough guy who wouldn’t ever let anyone dig too deep into his thoughts. To the eye, he was the type of guy with a manual laborer’s authenticity offset by the mystifying habits of the type of guy who picks his way through a hardcover copy of William Shirer’s The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich: A History of Nazi Germany after a long day in the city installing custom cabinetry in a billionaire’s brownstone or hanging sculptures in a new satellite arts space dedicated to innovative art and ideas, across all forms of creativity, to build a shared understanding of our rapidly changing world and a more equitable society. Alan stirred and gently reached into his jacket, checking on an envelope of cash.