Loyola College - Review Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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$80 FOR A PARENT HH. was standing in front of the pin-ball machine, just playing, shot after shot, like he was thinking of something else. Course, I don’t mind a guy playing the machine; if I did, I wouldn’t keep it around. But for a kid of sixteen or so to look that serious, and watch the customers, and me behind the counter, especially when the clock is saying it’s too close to midnight to be minding about a pin-ball score, means more than a teen-ager just hanging around. The last customer, a workman about forty, put out a cigarette in his coffee cup and relaxed to get a better angle for reading his newspaper. “Would you care for something else, sir?” “No.” I saw the kid put his ear to this talk. He was well dressed, a lounge suit, an open beltless trench- coat, snappy shoes, he came from a good family; most of the bunch that hang around here come from good families. But they'd rather be here, drinking cokes, and talking sports, and trying to act like the tough guys in the latest movies. They like to pretend they’re not schoolboys; some- times I think they’d pretend to be anything as long as they thought it was better than what they were. Don’t get me wrong, they're not too proud to be sixteen and in school and reading comics and having dates and wondering about life, no they’re not too proud for that—they’re . . . well, it seems they're just tired. Yeah tired—tired of having nothing to be brave about, so they act tough like some guy they saw in the movies who was brave about something. The worker at the counter folded his paper and walked out. I cleared the bar, put his cup and saucer and spoon in the dish water. As I washed them, I heard the pin-ball machine ring in spurts and stop. I didn’t look up, but the kid’s footsteps and shadow told me he was at the bar. ‘More nickels?”’ I said. “Not exactly,” he said, ‘‘what...” I waited for the rest of it, but his face was full of sweat, his eyes wide and heavy, muscles loose, and I knew he had lots more to say. “|. . what I want,” he said, “ is the money in your cash.” He had his hands in the pockets of his trench coat. He wasn’t doing any posing with a gun, he wasn’t trying to act like a thriller. “Why?” I said. “Don’t start making a fuss. I just need it.” “Sure you need it. So do I. But I'll just phone the cops when you leave, and that’s going to lead to a lot of trouble.” “I’ve thought it all out.”’ “You’ve thought what all out?’ “Look,” he said, ‘‘stop asking questions. I know what I want to do.” “Why don’t you go home and sleep it off?” “Let’s have the money.”’ ‘You must have a decent home to go to: good food and clean beds and spending money.” Yes!’ he shouted, almost crying. “But something’s not right with everything. Come on, come on, give me that money.”’ I went to the cash and rung it open. I keep a shiny .38 at the back of the drawer, for hold-ups. I didn’t touch it. I took out the five’s and two’s and one’s, perhaps eighty dollars’ worth. I gave ip to him. . He took it and put it in his pocket. He didn’t leave. His face was wet with heat and tears. “There’s not much.” “That's right. About two weeks’ rent, a few meals; or a one-way fare for a couple of hundred miles; then you'll have to drop in to another store and collect all over again. What's eating you?” ‘They don’t talk about things at home. I’m not bad, am I, just because I think about the things they don’t talk about? Come on, tell me. They want me to be nice and holy, to get up on time, and study, and get the teachers to say I’m a good boy. All over the place people come one better, they 20 ¢

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LAURENT TOUPIN (Gen. Sc. Pre-Med.), Val Marie, Sask. ROBERT WICKHAM (Arts), Loyola, Montreal. IRVING YACHNIN (Gen. Sc. Chemistry), Baron Byng, Montreal. Missing FRANCIS MAGUIRE (Gen. Sc. Physics), Catholic High, Montreal. 9 His Excellency G. MURRAY, C.SS.R., D.D. Born at Montreal, P.Q., December 26, 1885; Graduate, Loyola, June, 1905; Ordained September 4, 1910; Consecrated Bishop of Victoria, May 7, 1930; Transferred to Saskatoon, April 18, 1934; Transferred to Winnipeg as Coadjutor Archbishop, January, 1944; Appointed Apostolic Administrator, May, 1946; Died at Montreal, June 3, 1951. May his soul rest in peace.

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pull out what you're thinking before you're thinking it. Am I bad because I can’t be nice and not think about sex, and God? They don’t give me time to say yes, it’s do, do, do, and don’t, don’t, don’t, and if somebody’s poor, or takes a drink, or laughs too loud, they say it’s not nice. I’m just thinking, that’s all. I’m asking why and they think I’m saying no. I believe in God, but why don’t they let me think about Him? It’s...” “It’s something that'll clear up if you give it time.” “I can't run away, and I can’t stay.’ He was speaking so low I could hardly get what he was saying. ‘‘Why do you stay alive, mister?” I couldn’t answer that one. I just looked at him. But I knew what was on his mind. When a guy’s lost all hope and he feels at peace, it’s not a good peace he’s getting, it’s a bad decision he’s made, bad for him. “Look,” I said. “Why...” “I suppose you think I’m just a bloody fool.” “No.” That didn’t register on him, so I said “But why do you think I am?” He looked surprised. The phoney peace was gone. He started to say something and stopped. He put his hand in his pocket and brought out the money. “Keep it till you’re sure you don’t need it. Then bring it back, brother, because I can use it,” He walked slowly to the door and left. He’s got a pocketful of money, my money, and it makes him feel that he counts for something. Somehow I don’t think he'll bring it back. I could be wrong. But I hope his parents drop in for a bite to eat one day. HOW NOT TO WRITE A SPEECH Wiicing a speech on a prescribed topic is fairly easy; writing one ona subject of your own choice is much easier—so you might think. At first you might be somewhat elated, grinning widely as you flip thru’ the little subject file situated somewhere between your ears. There are really so many suitable subjects and you have so many ideas — all of them different for different subjects — that you at once become confused. You don’t know just where to start. The first thing that comes into your mind is Communism. Yes, there is much to be said on Communism, and reference material is far from scarce; but then everyone else will be picking on that subject and you want to be different—and different you will be—or else! You are interested in sports. Swell, lots of material there. How about the basketball scandal, the coming baseball season, or the passing hockey parade? No, you have just read an article on the scandal by your favorite sports writer and you agree entirely with his viewpoint. You don’t want to be accused of stealing his ideas, and anyway, your listeners have been reading the sports pages too. Because the hockey season is just over, baseball would be untimely, and anyway, your audience will get enough of that during the summer. A subject such as ‘Is Richard better than Howe is or Morenz was?” would be quite timely, but you haven't seen either of them and you don’t recall Mr. Morenz very well, so you junk that one too. After all, you don’t want to be the author of an unauthoritative piece. That takes care of sports, and by this time you are pretty downcast. If you can’t write something on your favorite topics, what will you do? After quite a few sleepless nights, you convince yourself that history is as good a subject as any. Why not speak about the French Revolution, Napoleon's retreat from Moscow, or the making of Germany? But you are speaking to an informed group, people who are ‘‘on the ball’ and will know what you are going to say before you even think of it. So what are you going to do? You know quite well that even if you do dig up some good material, nobody will listen to it anyway. Again, what should you do? What would keep your audience from falling asleep? It’s quite simple, really—tell jokes! BRIAN O’BRIEN