new york city marathon

Short Story: New York City Marathon

New York City Marathon

By

Joseph Devon

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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.” Read more

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