RACETRACK: *wanders in, doing an air guitar worthy of Bill S. Preston* Ooh,
my little pretty one! My pretty one! When you gonna give me some
tiiiiiiime, Sapphona? Ooh, ya make my motor run! My motor run! Got it
comin' offa the liiiiiiine, Sapphona!...
*puts her head in her hands* WHY did I ever let him use my radio?
RACETRACK: My-my-my-y-yyy, whoo! M-m-m-my Sapphona!
*whimpers*
*~*~*
Racetrack's Quest
*~*~*
From the minute he set out for Lothlorien—er, Brooklyn—Race knew that Spot would be the answer to all his problems. He was the last stop, the golden opportunity...he alone would know what to do. And if he had to walk all the way out to Brooklyn to find him, he better have something good to say.
The sun was beginning to set by the time he made it out to the Brooklyn lodging house, and it came as a slight blow that not a single person was to be found in the bunkroom. Or rather, one person, but definitely not a newsie. At the back of the room, on Spot's bunk, a girl with coppery hair was fast asleep, sheets gathered around her. Racetrack could probably guess what she and Spot had been doing before he left the scene of the crime.
She was a deep sleeper, and needed to be shaken awake—but after that, she was perky as a button. Sitting straight up, she looked at Racetrack quizzically, with a friendly expression that said she didn't at all mind being found in such extenuating circumstances (and probably was all the time). "Hello!" she said brightly. "I'm Melodie. How can I help you?"
"Uh...hi," ibility dawned on him that Manhattan's hysteria had spread through all five boroughs.
"Well, after we were done, he looked over and me, and said, 'Melodie, I feel like a fag," and I said, 'well I'm sorry, Ronnie, but I don't have any cigarettes,' and he said, 'no! You don't understand! I'm a little...queer, is what I mean,' and I said 'do you think it was something you ate?' and he just looked at me for a minute and said, very slowly, 'Melodie. I'm gay,' and I said 'well I'm happy too, Ronnie!' and then he got really upset and he—"
Knowing that if he didn't say something he would be trapped in conversation with Melodie all day, and quite possibly for the rest of his life, Racetrack cut in. "Do you know where Spot—er, Ronald—is right now?"
"Oh, sure!" Melodie squeaked. "He's out on the dock, with that big fellow who hangs around him all the time. Matches. They're such good friends."
"Right," said Racetrack, hurrying to get away. "Well, it was nice tawkin' to ya, Melodie."
"Sure thing!" Melodie said brightly. It was the last thing he heard as he slammed the door and walked out onto the docks, empty but for two figures illuminated by the setting sun.
Spot and Matches were standing next to each other, both wearing black karate belts and snatching at something in the air with chopsticks.
"When man catches fly in air with chopstick," Spot told Matches, "man can do anything."
"Yes, Sensei."
"Hey, Ronnie!" Racetrack called in greeting. "Mind if we have a little chat?"
Spot turned and smiled at Racetrack, shading his eyes from the sun. "Of course, Racetrack-san. One minute." Spot turned to Matches. "Practice while I am gone," he instructed. "Wax on, wax off." Then he sauntered up to Racetrack and offered him a spitshake. "Guess you met Melodie."
"Oh, yeah. She's a...character."
Spot just shrugged. "So...what is new, in...Man-hat-tan?" he asked, getting right down to business.
"Well...y'see, it's Sapph's half-birthday tonight, an' I still haven't gotten her a present. I was wonderin', would you have any ideas?"
"Let me tell you something, Racetrack-san," Spot said beatifically. "If someone goes down left side of road, is fine. Right side, is fine. But if goes down middle, eventually, is squish. Like grape."
"What da hell is dat supposed ta mean?" Racetrack asked incredulously.
"No idea," said Spot. "Now, if you want to impress Sapphy, best way is to defend. With karate."
"With what?"
"Karate," said Spot. "Ancient art of defense. I teach. MATCHES!" he called. Quickly Matches hurried over, still holding his chopsticks.
"Matches-san," Spot instructed, "bring plywood." Matches fetched a piece of plywood and held it out in front of Spot. With a quick chopping motion, Spot brought his hand down on the plywood and broke it in two.
"Well...that's...real...interestin', Spot. But uh..." Racetrack scratched his head. "I jus' don't think Sapph really has any plywood dat she needs broken."
"Never know," Spot said, shrugging.
Now, harmless crazy people were something that Racetrack knew how to deal with, and had been dealing with all day. But crazy people who would easily snap his neck were another matter altogether. Backing away slowly, Race raised his arm, signaling a cross between "goodbye," and "I surrender."
"Wait!" Spot called, as he saw Racetrack walking off. "If want present for Sapphy, go ask Medda. She know."
Why not? Racetrack thought. Right now, Medda was his best bet. He walked through Brooklyn, willing the sun to go down just a little bit slower. When he reached the Brooklyn bridge, though, it was nearly pitch-dark: he had an hour, at best. As he began to run towards Irving hall, the sky opened up, and cold rain poured down from the heavens.
*~*~*
*puts her head in her hands* WHY did I ever let him use my radio?
RACETRACK: My-my-my-y-yyy, whoo! M-m-m-my Sapphona!
*whimpers*
*~*~*
Racetrack's Quest
*~*~*
From the minute he set out for Lothlorien—er, Brooklyn—Race knew that Spot would be the answer to all his problems. He was the last stop, the golden opportunity...he alone would know what to do. And if he had to walk all the way out to Brooklyn to find him, he better have something good to say.
The sun was beginning to set by the time he made it out to the Brooklyn lodging house, and it came as a slight blow that not a single person was to be found in the bunkroom. Or rather, one person, but definitely not a newsie. At the back of the room, on Spot's bunk, a girl with coppery hair was fast asleep, sheets gathered around her. Racetrack could probably guess what she and Spot had been doing before he left the scene of the crime.
She was a deep sleeper, and needed to be shaken awake—but after that, she was perky as a button. Sitting straight up, she looked at Racetrack quizzically, with a friendly expression that said she didn't at all mind being found in such extenuating circumstances (and probably was all the time). "Hello!" she said brightly. "I'm Melodie. How can I help you?"
"Uh...hi," ibility dawned on him that Manhattan's hysteria had spread through all five boroughs.
"Well, after we were done, he looked over and me, and said, 'Melodie, I feel like a fag," and I said, 'well I'm sorry, Ronnie, but I don't have any cigarettes,' and he said, 'no! You don't understand! I'm a little...queer, is what I mean,' and I said 'do you think it was something you ate?' and he just looked at me for a minute and said, very slowly, 'Melodie. I'm gay,' and I said 'well I'm happy too, Ronnie!' and then he got really upset and he—"
Knowing that if he didn't say something he would be trapped in conversation with Melodie all day, and quite possibly for the rest of his life, Racetrack cut in. "Do you know where Spot—er, Ronald—is right now?"
"Oh, sure!" Melodie squeaked. "He's out on the dock, with that big fellow who hangs around him all the time. Matches. They're such good friends."
"Right," said Racetrack, hurrying to get away. "Well, it was nice tawkin' to ya, Melodie."
"Sure thing!" Melodie said brightly. It was the last thing he heard as he slammed the door and walked out onto the docks, empty but for two figures illuminated by the setting sun.
Spot and Matches were standing next to each other, both wearing black karate belts and snatching at something in the air with chopsticks.
"When man catches fly in air with chopstick," Spot told Matches, "man can do anything."
"Yes, Sensei."
"Hey, Ronnie!" Racetrack called in greeting. "Mind if we have a little chat?"
Spot turned and smiled at Racetrack, shading his eyes from the sun. "Of course, Racetrack-san. One minute." Spot turned to Matches. "Practice while I am gone," he instructed. "Wax on, wax off." Then he sauntered up to Racetrack and offered him a spitshake. "Guess you met Melodie."
"Oh, yeah. She's a...character."
Spot just shrugged. "So...what is new, in...Man-hat-tan?" he asked, getting right down to business.
"Well...y'see, it's Sapph's half-birthday tonight, an' I still haven't gotten her a present. I was wonderin', would you have any ideas?"
"Let me tell you something, Racetrack-san," Spot said beatifically. "If someone goes down left side of road, is fine. Right side, is fine. But if goes down middle, eventually, is squish. Like grape."
"What da hell is dat supposed ta mean?" Racetrack asked incredulously.
"No idea," said Spot. "Now, if you want to impress Sapphy, best way is to defend. With karate."
"With what?"
"Karate," said Spot. "Ancient art of defense. I teach. MATCHES!" he called. Quickly Matches hurried over, still holding his chopsticks.
"Matches-san," Spot instructed, "bring plywood." Matches fetched a piece of plywood and held it out in front of Spot. With a quick chopping motion, Spot brought his hand down on the plywood and broke it in two.
"Well...that's...real...interestin', Spot. But uh..." Racetrack scratched his head. "I jus' don't think Sapph really has any plywood dat she needs broken."
"Never know," Spot said, shrugging.
Now, harmless crazy people were something that Racetrack knew how to deal with, and had been dealing with all day. But crazy people who would easily snap his neck were another matter altogether. Backing away slowly, Race raised his arm, signaling a cross between "goodbye," and "I surrender."
"Wait!" Spot called, as he saw Racetrack walking off. "If want present for Sapphy, go ask Medda. She know."
Why not? Racetrack thought. Right now, Medda was his best bet. He walked through Brooklyn, willing the sun to go down just a little bit slower. When he reached the Brooklyn bridge, though, it was nearly pitch-dark: he had an hour, at best. As he began to run towards Irving hall, the sky opened up, and cold rain poured down from the heavens.
*~*~*