The gruff factory worker in the coarse leather boots and stained zubaz pants, yelped with displeasure when the tour guide of the Pullman company town revealed himself to be a PhD candidate in English during a Q-and-A.
He questioned his credentials, dismissed him as overeducated, as soft-palmed, not of his caste, loudly declared that he was just another bureaucrat in waiting.
"Institutions just exist to perpetuate themselves; they don't care about the people, just about keeping themselves alive," he theatrically confided to his friend, wanting to make sure he heard him, took note of his flagrant, raging skepticism.
"They got to pay the lawyers."
"All these institutions, they don't care about the workers."
We strode on, amid the shadowed reaches of the empty train car factory the owners long ago abandoned to the rustling prairie, left to the wind and weeds and elements.