By Margean Gladysz
It used to be 1946, i used to be 18, a faculty graduate, and approximately to develop into a undercover agent. i used to be going to ‘hit the road’. yet what was once it like—this road—when I had not often been out of Kalamazoo?” writes Margean Gladysz in her letters to her mom and dad written from 1946 to 1949. Unearthed from an attic trunk in 2003 those letters element her employment with the good Lakes Greyhound Bus corporation as an organization rat. As a suite, they shape the contents of A undercover agent at the Bus.
Young Margean’s “can do” angle permeates the letters as she studies day-by-day actions concerning the humans she meets, the price of foodstuff and resort rooms, the nation-state vegetation, the politics of the corporate and the easiest part–her spying actions. Disguised as a passenger, she rides on bus routes to numerous cities to watch bus drivers’ honesty–or loss of, the line stipulations, gear dealing with, and all issues the corporate bosses had to understand. those have been the times earlier than surveillance cameras and Margean turns into the boss man’s eyes and ears.
The worry of being stumbled on or “turned-up” as a undercover agent was once continually a fear. She needed to rigorously plan her bus routes to prevent being well-known.
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A bit brainy, I expect, but he doesn't look it, and he was very considerate and attentive and he kept on getting me a glass. I must say I enjoyed myself. It's a bit of an effort getting up to one of these things, but it's so much worth it for you girls. And you'll have so much to tell your friends. I bet they've never been to anything like that. One does sometimes feel a bit cut off; but there are so many compensations, and you know where you are and what to expect. And it's excellent for shopping - not quite like town, clasps, perhaps, but you can't expect everything, and there really always an awful lot going on, and 21 it's very healthy, not is down by ' the High Still Life no one lives there anyhow; one Tonbridge, already.
Staring from the top of the canopy, which also bore the name of the butcher in coloured letters that seemed to be sprouting leaves and foliage at their extremities, but which also looked as if they were eatable, was the porcelain head of a pig, like a secular gargoyle, dead centre, very pink in the face, and with very blue eyes, not at all unlike floral design, those of some of my mother's tweed-and-jaeger-clad spinster and equally innocent and vacant. The tiled sheep was in profile and faced towards the swan but the pig's head seemed to be in the process of reproducing itself in the neat rows of friends, ; several heads that looked out of the of porker kindergarten on a window of the shop, a sort cheerful outing, beneath the rabbits and hares, pheasants and turkeys, hanging from hooks.
It had something to do with the War, a period during which the Shades discreetly prospered. When the War was over, the place suddenly closed, remaining so for several weeks, when it reopened under new management. It was not the same at all; the landlord with the wide, imperturbable boxer's face, the officers, the dental students, and the brightly coloured girls had gone, to be replaced by rather broken-down old all who sucked men and elderly women in hats. Sussex respectability, and the Pantiles had lost the their unlit pipes had recovered its slight frisson of vice.
A Spy on the Bus: Memoir of a Company Rat by Margean Gladysz