I n the back seat, the coal miner sitting next to me said something about miners’ caps.
“No,” said the driver, “we don’t want any miners’ caps at this convention.” He kept his eye on the road; at first you didn’t notice the shiny bald spot on the back of his head because he kept his hair so short. He wore no jacket on that hot Saturday, May 27; the sleeves of his white shirt were neatly folded. He reminded me of my neighbor, a stocky 45-year-old East Side cabdriver, but he was a West Virginia coal miner. He mentioned that his father and grandfather had both been coal miners.
His car was a four-door sedan, only 3,800 miles on it, tastefully upholstered, no ashes or wrappers on ...
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