The shadow of the shoe factory

I remember the men. They came from Spanish, Mill, Mason and the other sinewy side streets where I grew up. In my memory, they were always trudging. Heads down. Stoic. Some took long, slow drags off of unfiltered cigarettes. Others carried square, metal lunch boxes and sipped black coffee from chrome thermoses. They always walked alone, never in twos or threes. Never speaking to one another, although they were all heading to the same dreary place. The old shoe factory. As we have...