You Can't Go Home Again by Thomas Wolfe — Read

Out of his front windows George could see nothing except the sombre bulk of the warehouse across the street. It was an old building, with a bleak and ugly front of rusty, indurated brown and a harsh webbing of fire-escapes, and across the whole width of the facade stretched a battered wooden sign on which, in faded letters, one could make out the name--"The Security Distributing Corp." George did not know what a distributing corporation was, but every day since he had come into this street to live, enormous motor-vans had driven up before this dingy building and had backed snugly against the worn plankings of the loading platform, which ended with a sharp, sheared emptiness four feet above the pavement. The drivers and their helpers would leap from their seats, and instantly the quiet depths of the old building would burst into a furious energy of work, and the air would be filled with harsh cries: "Back it up, deh! Back it up! Cuh-_mahn_! Cuh-_mahn_! Givvus a hand, youse guys! Hey-y! _You!_"

They looked at one another with hard faces of smiling derision, quietly saying "Jesus!" out of the corners of their mouths. Surly, they stood upon their rights, defending truculently the narrow frontier of their duty: "Wadda I care where it goes! Dat's yoeh look-out! Wat t'hell's it got to do wit _me?_"