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VenimViper
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(United States)About me
| Presentation | "Act as if " I DIDNT GET A LOT OF POKAH POINTS FOR MY PRESENTATION BECAUSE APPARENTLY U MUST HAVE A GODDAMN NOVEL.. AND I DONT HAVE THAT MUCH TO WRITE SO ILL JUST STEAL MINGOS.. Presentation The first time I saw him he couldn't have been much more than sixteen years old, a little ferret of a kid, sharp and quick. Sammy Glick. Used to run copy for me. Always ran. Always looked thirsty. "Good Morning, Mr. Manheim," he said to me the first time we met, "I'm the new office boy, but I ain't going to be an office boy long." "Don't say ain't," I said, "or you'll be an office boy forever." "Thanks, Mr. Manheim," he said, "that's why I took this job, so I can be around writers and learn all about grammar and how to act right." Nine out of ten times I wouldn't have even looked up, but there was something about the kid's voice that got me. It must have been charged with a couple thousand volts. "So, you're a pretty smart little feller," I said. "Oh, I keep my ears and eyes open," he said. "You don't do a bad job with your mouth, either," I said. "I wondered if newspapermen always wisecrack the way they do in the movies," he said. "Get the hell out of here," I answered. He raced out, too quickly, a little ferret. Smart kid, I thought. Smart little yid. He made me uneasy. That sharp, neat, eager little face. I watched the thin, wiry body dart around the corner in high gear. It made me uncomfortable. I guess I've always been afraid of people who can be agile without grace. The boss told me Sammy was getting a three-week tryout. But Sammy did more running around that office in those three weeks than Paavo Nurmi did in his whole career. Every time I handed him a page of copy, he ran off with it as if his life depended on it. I can still see Sammy racing between the desks, his tie flying, wild-eyed, desperate. After the second trip he would come back to me panting, like a frantic puppy retrieving a ball. I never saw a guy work so hard for twelve bucks a week in my life. You had to hand it to him. He might not have been the most lovable little child in the world, but you knew he must have something. I used to stop right in the middle of a sentence and watch him go. "Hey, kid, take it easy." That was like cautioning Niagara to fall more slowly. "You said rush, Mr. Manheim." "I didn't ask you to drop dead on us." "I don't drop dead very easy Mr. Manheim." "Like your job, Sammy?" "It's a damn good job - this year." "What do you mean - this year?" "If I still have it next year, it'll stink." He looked so tense and serious I almost laughed in his face. I liked him. Maybe he was a little too fresh, but he was quite a boy. "I'll keep my ear to the ground for you, kid. Maybe in a couple of years I'll have a chance to slip you in as a cub reporter." That was the first time he ever scared me. Here I was going out of my way to be nice to him, and he answered me with a look that was almost contemptuous. "Thanks, Mr. Manheim," he said, "but don't do me any favors. I know this newspaper racket. Couple of years at cub reporter? Twenty bucks. Then another stretch as district man. Thirty-five. And finally you're a great big reporter and get forty-five for the rest of your life. No, thanks." I just stood there looking at him, staggered. Then... "Hey, boy!" And he's off again, breaking the indoor record for the hundred-yard dash... |
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troutbum666 | 14 Aug, 2008 |
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TCPLAYER1 | 20 Oct, 2006 |
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Mighty Red | 22 Jul, 2005 |
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JBasler | 16 Mar, 2005 |
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h3r3tik | 16 Mar, 2005 |
