NANNY Martin sprawled against the corner of the building and stared directly into the brilliance of the street light. He felt like crying - the champagne had made him feel like crying, and the little gold statue in his hand made him feel like crying

Greene, Richard J.O.

English

Digital Commons @ Butler University

"NOOTI' Edition"Richard J. O. GreeneANNY Martinsprawled agains;the corner of thebuil din g andstared directlyinto the bril-liance of thestreet light. He felt like crying - thechampagne had made him feel like cry-ing, and the little gold statue in his handmade him feel like crying.He remembered how bare the roomhad looked when everyone had gone;how hopelessly alone he had felt whenthe door closed and interrupted the lastpeal of drunken laughter. The partywas over now - the last after-dinnercigar had long since burned out, andthe white-shirted men had all gone homeand left him alone.His eyes were burning and heavy,and the light hurt them, but every timehe looked away the buildings began tototter again, so he squinted them shuttight and leaned harder against the wall.He wished he were home - home in bed.He wished he were home and in bed andasleep - fast asleep, so the buildingswouldn't move anymore.He spit, with a great effort, andwatched the spittle fall into the dust inthe gutter and blossom into a flower oftiny, dust covered balls. He thought hewould spit again, but his mouth was dryand his tongue feelingless, so he decidedto go home, and stumbled off into thecenter-of-the-block darkness.A brisk October wind whirled up thenaked street, sending skirls of rattlingleaves, from distant trees, and a delugeof debris scrampering about the gutters.Nanny pulled the lapels of his tuxedoabout his throat with his free hand. Theother hand became cold and numb, andthe little gold statue felt hard and heavyand cold. He gurgled a chuckle and grin-ned down at the statue; cold gold-boy,that was a good one-cold gold.'I'he flimsy glow of an all-nightsaloon in the distance warmed his spirit,and he forgot about home, where a pic-ture of September Morn always hungcrooked OVer the rumpled bed. He for-got about everything, except the goldstatue and the white-shirted men. Hetried hard, listening intently to the hol-low click of his heels on the pavement,and counting, losing track, and countingagain, his bouncing steps, but he couldnot forget them.An aged derelict shuffled from outof the darkness of a doorway and peti-tioned in bitter, alcoholic gasps, for "adime fer a cuppa coffee."Nanny tucked the statue beneath hisarm and extended a handful of coins. Theold one scraped them from his palm, andmuttered his gratitude. The sour breathof the bum crawled into Nanny's nostrilsand made his stomach bubble, and he wasglad when it had disappeared into thedarkness behind him.The statue grew colder and heavierwith each step. He shifted it from handto hand, and tried, in vain, to stuff it intohis coat pocket. Finally, in disgust, hethrew it into the gutter, and staggered on.The bar, except for a bartender in agreasy apron, was deserted, and Nannyslumped into a booth at the rear. Whenhe had ordered, and had tasted his drink,he lit a Ciga.r~tt~. He felt better p.qW-'-6-much better. After all, this was his bignigblt. It wasn't every night a fellawalked off with top honors from theAmerican News Association. He was thebest newspaper man in the country.Hadn't they given him a gold statue andapplauded when he made a speech?"For discovering, and relating the bestnews story of the year," that's what thestatue said.He remembered the morning ithappened. He had been sitting it out atthe police station, waiting for somethingto break for the noon edition, when thephone rang. The city had been quiet, andthe city editor wanted filler for the frontpage. Well, there was nothing he coulddo about it, but hope.Ed Kennedy had come in to checkthe reports, and kidded him about thelack of activity. He would never forgethow mad he had got at Ed."Fifty to five a headliner breakswithin the next five minutes," he hadwagered. And it was a bet. He'd get astory if he had to make one. The thoughtof creating a story excited him. He hadnever created anything in his life - Godwhat a joke on Kennedy if he couldmanufacture a headline. He sprang fromhis chair and ferreted out the precedingnight's reports, all routine reports, butmaybe somewhere, somewhere in one ofthose reports, a peculiarity existed thatcould be expanded into a story. Ten-twenty, car thirty-five had arrested aholdup man; eleven-twelve, car six hadarrested one on a drunken driving charge;one-thirty-three, car five had apprehend-ed a burglar at - that was it!The noon edition had carried a blaz-ing banner, "Boy Bandit Caught," andbeneath the headline, under his by-line,there unfolded the heart rending tale ofhow a youthful bandit had attempted topurloin an aged matron's savings. It hadbeen a lot of work, but he had done it.The story told of how the mentallywarped man had returned from the ser-vice with the din of battle still in hisears; how his lust for excitement, andcruel, sadistic mind had led him tovictimize a -helpless old lady. Oh, it wasa honey! The hours Nanny had spent,digging into the kid's past for records ofschool truancies and tales of childhoodmischief. All of it was in the story.How was he to know that publicresentment would demand the fullpenalty for the kid's crime? How washe to know that the boy would becomefrightened and try to escape on the dayof his judgement?He took another drink, and motionedthe bartender to bring another full one.How could he know that a faultycourt-house step would cause a police-man who pursued the boy to fall andfracture his skull? Was it his fault thatthe boy had been charged with man-slaughter, and faced the death penalty?The bartender brought a fresh drink,and Nanny swallowed it. He thought ofthe statue again, and the lonely feelingcame back. It was worse than ever now.It was almost stifling. He wanted toforget the statue, and the whiteshirtedmen; he wanted to talk to the bartender,but the bartender had gone into the backroom. The front door swang open, andhe turned to speak to the stranger.The old bum of the doorway, shuffledup to him."Ya musta lost this, buddy," he said,as he pressed the gold statue into Nanny'shands.~7

Noon Edition

https://digitalcommons.butler.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1580&amp;context=manuscripts

Noon Edition

Abstract

Similar works

Full text

Available Versions

Digital Commons @ Butler University