PLAINFIELD -- In this town, the knife feels near the bone. It is not just the April rain, the gray light on the graying clapboards, the crouching way the mourners have of walking when damp cold is trying every seam and buttonhole, seeking a way in. It's everything: the cardboard cigarette sign in the shop window, the drumbeat of the wipers in the left turn lane off Interstate 395, the crunch of what was once a bit of broken taillight slowly becoming plastic sand. This is Connecticut close to the margin. Scrambling for a job that will pay enough, looking for a path through the days to the sort of security no one seems to be offering anymore -- work, a decent home, a car, children, a life.
Of course you might try the Army.