New York City Marathon
Joseph Devon
Published: 2007 Categorie(s): Tag(s): "Short Story" "Fiction" "beer" "drinking" "new york" "new york city" "people watching" "marathon"
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New York City Marathon By Joseph Devon Byron sat on his barstool, a pen in one hand. His white button down shirt was rolled up at the sleeves so that his bare arm rested on the wooden molding along the edge of the bar. His other arm was bent at the elbow, the hand attached pressed against his forehead, his fingers buried in his black curly hair. The fingers holding the pen were holding it loosely while his thumb flicked the end making the point bounce and tap on the bar. "They come," he said, "every year to run. They come to show what they are made of. They run to… " his voice stumbled to a halt. "Jesus," he said, the slightest hint of Irish brogue in his voice almost twisting the word into "Jaysus." Byron looked down at the notebook in front of him for a couple of seconds, then he let his elbow slide out until his forehead bonked down on the edge of the bar. It sounded loud enough and solid enough so that there might have been some actual pain involved. He curled his arms around his head almost like he was going asleep. Then his muffled voice shouted up from somewhere under the bar. "Why the fuck do they run " Will, standing next to him, trying to get the bartender's attention, glanced over at Byron. Will momentarily gave up trying to order another round. "You know there's an actual marathon not ten feet," Will pointed, "out that door. In fact once you're at the door there's nothing but sidewalk and a bit of a crowd and then, right there in the street, there's a real marathon. I'm thinking maybe you should go take a look at it. Might help you write about it." Will was a big guy with a head that was almost square and a haircut that suggested he might have played some football back in school but that he hadn't lived for it and didn't want to talk about it. Byron slowly raised his head, waving off Will's suggestion. "I've seen it every year since college. That's seven years now, ever since I moved to this city. It's the same thing every year." He was fully righted on his barstool now, and while he took over trying to catch the bartender's eye, he counted off on his fingers, "some Kenyan wins, a jack-ass running in a rhinoceros suit for some cause or another barfs, and the guys in wheelchairs make me feel lazy." The bartender was finally captured and two new beers in pint glasses were placed in front of them.

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