Sperry, Sharon

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4 lVIANUSCRIPTSThe RuntSharon SperryTHE SKY was very dark with pink patches of clouds the dayPeterson bought a cup of coffee at the corner store by .the busstop. He flung an umbrella and a brown derby on the stool atthe end of the counter and hopped up onto the next stool. Themorning newspaper sprawled on the counter top al;d he scal11:edthe pages of print to find the want ads. A South Amencan. revo~utlOnsplashed the front page. Beneath it was a boxed-in traffic acclde~lt.He thumbed quickly to the entertainment pages and noted withsatisfaction that the opera was being held over another weekend.A greasy-faced waitress took his order and the order of tl~ewoman next to him. Peterson glanced sideways and saw a mountainof bubbling flesh. A tiny warted face lolled above a pillow ofchins. She, in turn, looked down on Peterson."Something wrong with you?""I beg your pardon.""I ain't too sure I like that.""Madam ?""I said I ain't too sure I like that.""What ?""I ain't never had to be pardoned for nothing.""Oh, no . . . that's a figure of speech. It . . .""Don't say nothing about my figure neither. It ain't all so badya gotta talk that way.""But it had nothing to do with . . .""Godamighty, if you'd carried six kids you wouldn't look sohot neither. I wasn't always like this ya know. I had a right goodset of legs, I did.""I'm sure. Now if you'l1 excuse me. I'11 . . .""Oh, go on. Just no gentlemen left in this world. I can't eventalk to no one no more. Just go on, you little runt."Peterson drew himself up to full height, jumped from the stooland glared at her over the expanse of her left hip."Madam, you should watch your tongue. That was most un-gracious.". "Lordy, ~ut you do talk good. Ungrashoes? Was that what yasaid? Hermie! Come here. Look here at this little fellow. Whyhe know more words than you 'n me put together."Heads craned around papers and eyes peeked from behind wallbooths. Pete~'son lifted his umbrella off the stool, placed his brownderby over Ius balding crown, and turned on his heel. Hermie waslumbering up the aisle and Peterson met him in front of the cizarettevending machine. b"Where ya gain', huh?""Let me pass."MANUSCRIPTS 5"Gracie, what'd he do? Should I mash him?"Peterson slipped beneath Hermie's outstretched ann and got twosteps toward the cash register before a burly grasp of his shoulderjerked him back."You ain't goin' nowhere. Now what's this, anyway?"Peterson laid the umbrella on an empty booth seat, placed hisown hand 011 top of Hermie's and spun around. Hermie, his feetchurning, sailed backside first into the booth. Peterson picked uphis umbrella, flipped a coin toward the open-mouthed proprietor andstrode out.The bus rolled to a hissing stop and a mob of elbows swarmedtoward the open door. Peterson, in the midst of the Eastside com-muter trade, felt himself swept up off the ground and onto the busplatform. He eyed a huge grinning face over his shoulder."Thought you'd get mashed down here.""Thank you. I could have managed quite well.""Aw, it's just that you little fellows need help sometimes. I hada brother about your size. He was never too good at anything."The crowd shoved, and Peterson sought the edge of a corner seat.He opened the paper he'd carried beneath his arm and searched thewant ads a third time.Moment of GloryRussell L. DurbinDEMAS could hear the rats scurrying about in a corner of the cell,and he thought, wryly, that Antonia was not particularly notedfor its accommodations or pleasant company. I-Ie sat on astraw mat, his head against the cool stone wall, and listened to theregular breathing of Gestas. Amazing how a man could sleep sosoundly only a few hours before he was to be executed. Was it thathe was completely fearless, or simply a fool? Demas didn't knowwhich; he only knew that he, Demas, the Greek, was very muchafraid of what the morning light would bring. He had seen theseRoman executions before and knew how slow and painful theycould be. Would he whimper and cry and curse and beg and pleadlike he had seen others do? Or would he endure in silence?"N 0," he thought. "No man can endure that kind of torture,that kind of pain, in silence."Thoughts, emotions and memories whirled and eddied in thestream of his consciousness as he sought to grasp something solidand hold onto it Strangely, there was nothing that did not slip andfade away-nothing except the hard reality of the prison wallsaround him, and the iron bars across the narrow window. The wallspressed in on him in the darkness until he felt as if he were suffo-cating. It seemed that a great band was pressing in on his chest,relentlessly squeezing the breath of life from him. Then, in a coolrational moment, he realized he was holding his breath. Demas

The Runt

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The Runt

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