He smiled sadly to himself. What did his mother know — what did anybody know — of what had been happening to him this night, what he had been through and what he was feeling in his heart...
When he went out to his cot on the sleeping porch, which was open on three sides to the cold night breeze, he found that his mother had left his pajamas for him beside the pillow and turned the blankets down, ready for him to get in. An idea came to him. He stripped off the blankets and even the sheet, rolled them up in a great bundle and fired them into a corner of the porch; then he fired his pajamas after them. He would sleep raw tonight and really catch that death, just as Lynette McCaffrey had said he would. He started taking off his clothes.
But when he got down to his B.V.D.’s, it occurred to him that maybe it wasn’t nice to go to bed naked, not when he was in love. If it had been just any old tramp, that would have been a different thing; but if he was going to do this because of a girl like Lynette McCaffrey, it wouldn’t be quite decent for them to find him in the morning lying there without a stitch on. He got on the bed in his underwear and lay flat on his back with his arms folded under his head and gazed off into the freezing night. He made every effort to lie rigid and stiff as a ramrod but it was difficult, because his body was shaken again and again by shudders of chill. But he refused to accept his physical feelings; he recognized only feelings far different, deeper, and truer. He had heard about mind-over-matter and he concentrated intensely on his emotion and his thoughts. Now another line of poetry sprang unpremeditated into his head and with a melancholy satisfaction he thought it was the most wonderful thing that had ever been thought or said in the world — why, it was as if it had been written for him alone:
“Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain...”
Suddenly he was wakened out of a deep sleep by a violent shaking that was not of the cold. He rolled over and sat up, startled. His mother stood there beside the cot, her hand on his shoulder, scolding him unmercifully.
“George Burton, are you out of your mind! What’s the big idea of going to bed on a night like this without a blanket over you or even a sheet, for heaven’s sakes? And my stars, sleeping in your underwear — are you crazy?” Scolding away, she fished up the roll of blankets and sheet from the corner of the porch, shook them out and spread them over his cot, tucking him carefully in on all sides. He didn’t say a word to her but he was very grateful and surprised at himself all the same, as he was just about dying of the cold and he didn’t think he could stand it another minute.
“Goodness knows how long you’ve been lying there exposed to the world like that — do you realize it’s after two o’clock in the morning? Good thing for you, young man, that I got up to see if you were in! Really, George Burton, you’re simply not to be trusted at all...”
When she had gone back to her own room, he lay there with the blankets wrapped up tight and warm around his neck. He was asleep before he had time to think, almost before he had time to realize that above every other person on earth he hated Lynette McCaffrey...
In the morning he knew he would find her sunning, alone, on the pier. There was a small spur of pride in him as he told himself how he had finally seen through her. He was sure now that she had led him on, and that she had nearly made him kill himself.
“... To cease upon the midnight with no pain,” he quoted to himself again. But it would be broad daylight now, and he didn’t suppose it would be absolutely painless...
He went up to meet Lynette McCaffrey with no weapon but his hands, and he didn’t even give a thought to what must inevitably come after.
Nice Bunch of Guys
by Michael Fessier
All the taxi drivers and the fellows who hung around the pool hall would tell you that Marty was a laugh; you should’ve seen him when the boys got him burnt up about something. He was more fun than a circus, was Marty. Not exactly crazy enough to be put in the nut house or anything like that, just goofy enough to be really pretty darn funny.
He sold papers at the station. They were Posts and Marty yelled something that sounded like “Whoa”, so all the fellows got a great kick out of yelling “Giddiap! Whoa!” at him and making him mad. He got screwy when they did that. He’d come across the street with his dirty checkered cap pulled down over one side of his face and his twisted mouth all squeezed up into a snarl.
“You old bootleggers,” he’d say. “You old bootleggers!” The fellows got a special kick out of Marty calling ‘em bootleggers and they’d laugh like anything. “I’m gonna get you,” Marty would say. “Just you wait and see. You’d better not make fun of me.”
“Aw, gosh! Don’t scare us like that,” one of the fellows would say, and everybody’d laugh again. Everyone would gather around. There was always a laugh when you had Marty going. He’d lay his papers on the sidewalk and double up his fists. “Wanna fight?” he’d ask. Then everybody’d act afraid and beg Marty not to hit ‘em. Of course they weren’t afraid. Marty was just a little fellow and any of the fellows could have licked him easy with one hand. They were just kidding him for a laugh. Even Old Ironsides — that’s what they called the corner cop — would come by and grin at Marty standing with his fists doubled up and acting like he was a tough guy.
They’d keep on kidding Marty and he’d start squealing like a stuck pig, he’d get so mad. You couldn’t understand what he was saying when he got mad like that. Just a lot of cuss words that didn’t make sense. And his mouth would froth like he was a mad dog or something.
Then somebody’d act like he really was going to fight Marty. He’d double up his fist and prance around and wiggle his arms and say, “All right, Marty, look out!” and he’d make a couple passes at Marty. “Come on, put ‘em up,” the fellow would say, “I’m gonna knock your can off.” Then Marty’d start whimpering like a little kid. He’d rub his eyes and back away and say, “You’d better not. You’d better not. I’ll tell the cops, that’s what I’ll do.” Then he’d grab his papers and run like hell back across the street. Gee, it was funny!
It wouldn’t be no time before he’d forget all about it and he’d be walking up and down the station platform yelling “Whoa, Whoa,” or something that sounded like that. He sold a lot of papers because people felt sorry for him, I guess. He kept all his money in one pocket and when there wasn’t anybody around he’d take it out and count it. He’d count his money seventy times a day. Guess it was the biggest kick he got out of life. And you couldn’t get him to spend a nickel. Nobody knew what he did with his money. He was nutty about money.
He was always begging for it. “Gimme a nirkel,” he’d say, looking up at somebody. “Aw, go on, gimme a nirkel. Please,” he’d say, “go on, please gimme a nirkel.” It was funny the way he said nickel. There was something the matter with his tongue and he couldn’t talk straight. He’d do anything for a nickel and that’s no kidding. He’d do anything. Sometimes when the fellows were drunk they’d get Marty in the back room of the pool hall and if you’d been there you’d seen there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for a nickel.
But one of the biggest kicks was when the fellows would kid Marty about his girls. Of course he didn’t have any. He was about thirty years old and he had a face like a monkey. His chin sprouted long black hairs that grew far apart and the fellows said he had pig’s bristles instead of whiskers. I don’t think he ever shaved but the whiskers didn’t get any longer. It was funny to think of him having a girl. Gosh, no girl’d even look at him. Even the Mexican woman would chase him away when he’d go to her shack across the tracks and say what the fellows had put him up to saying.