Saltzman looks at his watch. “I’ve got to go,” he says. “You know, my union is striking. I’ve got to go relieve someone on the picket line.”

He shakes his head in wonder. “It’s not for myself that I picket anymore. I make good money now, I’m a privileged old man in the shop. It’s for them. It’s for these know-nothings who have come after me that I picket. You want an education in America? Come down to my shop building at seven o’clock in the morning. You’ll see them fighting like animals to get up to the shop to get at their machines. And then stand in the bank on Friday and look at their paychecks. A man with a family takes home seventy-seven dollars.”

Now Saltzman weeps in earnest. “For what?” he cries, forgetful of the fancy restaurant and the snobbish waiters. “All those years! For what? What have we accomplished here?”