Page 12 Scribulus She's used to having men stare at her. She always wears glittery, tight-fitting dresses. She paints up quite a bit, though she's got a nice complexion. When she first came to Joe's, she had pretty hair. It was satiny and reddish like the polished rail on Joe's bar. But now she's a platinum blonde, if you get what I mean. I'm glad she can't change the color of her eyes. They're round and blue, and not hard looking like Boots' and Trixie's. She likes me, likes to tell me about the things she does; says it helps her to forget. Though what it is she wants to forget Well, sometimes I think she don't belong here, and then again, I think she's all okay. What I mean, she likes excitement and glitter, and life. After a while I saw her look at "Droopy." He met her gaze. His eyes widened, and it seemed like there was some sort of a challenge passed between them, though I couldn't swear to it. She kept frowning kind of angry like. When, a little later, she came over by my table and we'd talked a while, I nodded toward him, "An old friend of yours?" I asked. It was some time before she answered. Her lips were dry, and the pulse in her throat throbbed and beat like the heart of a little trapped bird. In some way I knew she was afraid deadly so. Her fear communicated itself to me. There was a strange feeling in the air. I waited for her to get hold of herself, to speak and tell me what it was she wanted me to do. A man can always tell when a woman has need of him. I felt her need now, as I watched her draw a sharp breath and clench her thin, white fingers into tense fists. She nodded toward the stranger, "He's in danger, the fool! Get him out of here," she said in a trembly voice. "Drag him out if you have to. Go do it now quick." I wondered what made her voice so brittle, so terrified. I waited, hoping she would tell me something more, but Joe called her over to the bar to meet somebody. As I caught her wild, imploring look, I nodded to let her know I would do my best to help her. "Droopy" was pretty well under by this time. If there had been any fire in his eyes before, it was gone now. There was a dull, vacant look there now; dull, stupid, and droopy. Finally I sauntered over. "Mind if I sit down, Buddy?" I asked. He didn't move or show that he had heard, so I repeated my question. He raised his head, but if he saw me, he didn't let on. After a few seconds he sagged back onto his sprawling arms. His long body lay draped across the table, as though he'd poured all his strength out and this was what was left. I meant to stir him up again, but just then I was called to the phone and assigned to meet a boat. I felt uneasy, as though I was walking out on Mazie, but orders were to hurry, so I had to go. At the door I looked back. Mazie was looking at me with a mute appeal. My eyes followed hers to "Droopy". His head lay on one arm, while with the other he waved wearily, beckoning the waiter. As I left I thought I should always remember the picture of him sprawling there across the table. . . . When I returned, three hours later, the bar was crowded, and I noticed that Moroni Christensen was treating the bunch. He had just got in from one of his fishing trips. Now there's a man. He's foreman of an unloading crew, works the tuna boats. His crew handles more fish in less time than any other on the docks. He's hard as nails, and the men hate him. They sign up with him, though, because he pays the highest wages. When Chris hails into Joe's, there's big doings. If he's had a big day and is up for a bonus from the buyers, and he usually is, he treats everybody to drinks. And the climax comes when he tells his story. Everybody knows about Chris's story, except his victims. He corners some dumb sailor and tells him the old spell-binder about how Chris's parents were Mormons out in Utah and just how it came that they named him Moroni. When he gets to the part where the Indian is slinking up, the dumb sailor is pretty excited. Then Chris, unbeknowns to his victim, reaches down with his cigar and burns the guy's stomach. He burns the shirt a little before the guy feels any pain, and sometimes conveniently douses the smoking shirt with cold beer. Of course there is a big laugh, and the sailor is awful put out, so Chris smooths things over by buying everybody a drink and finishing the story. (Chris insists that he shot the Indian, and that the Mormons were so admiring they nicknamed him "Moroni" after one of their angels.) Yes, sir, Chris is quite a man. Continued on Page 19 Spring Issue Page 13 IVeberania The Athlete The victim of misplaced confidence started her athletic life as a reducing exercise, discovered she was gifted with a sense of coordination and that male students liked her in abbreviated costumes. Now, she can't desert athletics because in order to take her mind off herself she used to concentrate on the technique of the game at hand result she's almost professional. Generally, she is too much in condition to be popular with the average college student, who apologizes for his infirmity with the hollow excuse that studies take so much of his time that he seldom can manage to enjoy a game of tennis, or any other sport. She's too much the sport to squelch the male with reference to her own excellent scholastic standing and he knows it.