He had been standing a while in the phone booth when he heard a man in the next booth conclude his call with, The money’s gonna come, with or without a job, it’s gonna come, believe it.  It was said so flatly that he held back to catch a glimpse of someone bedraggled, or fearsome, but saw instead a tall angular formally-suited man step out of the booth with purpose to his gait.  Did one stride as a lumberjack in a suit so fine?  He followed that man for near to a street block before he sensed his suspicions ring true:  he noticed how ill-suited the man was to his clothes, a villager in a corporate suit.  He stopped at the corner and watched that villager cross the avenue.  He strode not as one being drawn to a promising opportunity as much as one pushing himself to it with a determined story in mind.  He even felt a whiff of a breeze from the man’s efforts, which is why he thought he had then turned back to the phone booth, intent on making his call, on allowing a story to carry him forward when nothing in reality would.