United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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go. One fellow had nearly a million dollars and it frightened him. Another told me he was glad to give me the stuff. Sort of a last way of cheat¬ ing the income tax. Charitable donations. Guess he kept his book too long.” “What the hell are you talking about? Go on, beat it. Leave me alone.” “You want to be alone, eh? Getting real dramatic, like a movie. O.K., sonny boy, I’ll leave you alone. But how about leaving your stuff behind you?” “What the hell is the matter with you? Are you crazy or something?” “Crazy? Maybe. I should maybe stay at home where it’s warmer. But I like guys like you. So long, sonny boy. Be seeing you, w, maybe fifty years.” The man must be a loony. Stumping off across the bridge like a cheated dog watching a bone being taken away from him. The whole damn world was crazy. He tossed a pebble that was lying on the walk. It arched out and away from the bridge, caught in some mysterious gust of wind. It splashed and the loony turned around sharply. He broke into a weird cackle that drifted on the air like a kid’s paper plane, skimming and dipping and then disappearing. He went out of sight on the far side of a street light and became a part of the shadows. Where to now? Back home to nothing. A scene and explanations that would never ex¬ plain anything. They had married with the idea they would be together forever. But when did forever end? Today? Yesterday? When was it? Or was there more of it yet? He should do something, go somewhere. He felt foolish standing here. Go where? Home. Forever had 1 gone from home. He wanted to leave too. Another girl? For what? That same thing all over again. No, he would start moving and never stop. Now he was in the middle of nowhere, stopped in the middle of a bridge. Another bridge to cross. What was that ex¬ pression his mother used? Don’t cross your bridges until you come to them. And he was right in the middle of one. Why bother cross¬ ing? A cool breeze sprang up from nowhere. This was what the loony had meant by being warmer at home. He felt it along his hand, cool and a little damp. There was no human hand could ever equal the sensation. Just the wind and the water would ever have that effect. Only the wind was something that you had to wait for. The water was always waiting for you. Wonder how many people had gone in off this bridge? Making the fatal step. They hadn’t bothered to cross their bridges. He hadn’t heard of any from this bridge. Funny, such a good spot too. And the loony wanting a match. Maybe he had wanted to leap. Too bad he had come along and stopped him. He would have read about it in the papers next day and could have kidded Joan about it. Only she would have got mad at him. “Don’t you dare joke about such things.” That’s what she always said. Life was too serious to kid about death in that way. He lit a cigarette and tossed the match over the rail. It burned all the way down and he imagined he could hear psst as it hit the water. He dragged deeply and followed the smoke up with his eyes as it disappeared into the stars, then he followed the stars down into the water again. He was sure he had heard the match drop. He flicked the cigarette out and over and followed the red spark as it arched into the water. This time he heard a noise. The water seemed closer at night. The stars bobbing silently on the waves, bibbing, bobbing. Black water, rising and falling with his breath. Ris¬ ing and falling. Falling, falling, falling . . . “Got a match, bub? You seem to take a long time ...” “What? Who the hell? You . . . Here, take them all. I’m going home.” “Yes, it’s warmer there. I think I will go too. Now.” Page Nine

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Forever is Ending Today J. H. Dow “Quiet here, isn’t, it?” “Yeah, it’s quiet.” “What’s the matter, Harry? Did I say some¬ thing wrong?” “Naw. Nothing wrong.” “Well, what’s the matter? Why don’t you look at me? What did I do?” “Nothing. You never done nothing.” She hadn’t. Not in ten years. He had always been the one who had done everything. Most of it seemed wrong. But she was right. He had no kicks. It was just all over. “Won’t you say something, Harry?” “Sure, what do you want me to say?” “Oh, that isn’t what I meant. Until last week everything was going swell and now suddenly you are so cold. What’s got into you?” “Aw, lay off, Joan. Lay off. It’s just the way it is.” Just the way it is. For the last ten years it was always going to be different. Always they were going to have something better. Always. Now it was better and they weren’t going to have it. Something had gone sour. He had a good job for the first time in his life. He had money, friends. What had gone sour? “Take me home, Harry. There’s not much sense in just standing here if we can’t even talk to each other.” “Yeah, I’ll take you home.” “Well, don’t sound so hurt about it. I can get home myself if ' that is the way you feel about it. Where do you want to go? Am I hold¬ ing you back from something?” “Maybe that’s what happened. Maybe you are holding me back. I don’t know. I just don’t know.” She burst out crying. He hadn’t seen her cry for nearly five years. But he didn’t feel it. He just watched her as she ran away. He was all alone, with a bridge and a river and lights from the town and the sky. He wondered how it would have been any other way. He had always been alone. From the time that he had walked the long way to school in the mornings. Always alone. “Got a match, bud?” This was just one more time he was stifled with his loneliness. It would always be this way. Somewhere he felt there must be a place that . . . “Little boy! Got a match?” “Yeah. Yeah, sure. Here.” “Thanks, Mac. What you doing here all by yourself on the bridge? Waiting for your girl?” “No, she just left. I’m not waiting for no¬ body. Say, who the hell do you think you are?” “Me—I’m nobody. Nobody at all. I just got a light from you. Remember? Only if you are going swimming, leave the matches behind, I can use them.” “Swimming? Me? No, mister. You got the wrong idea. I was just standing here.” “Standing here. Just standing here. That’s what they all say. One fellow was half over and he said he was just sitting there. Just sit¬ ting. He was quite a big guy too. What was you? A big boy, or just a small-time guy?” “I’m just a small-time guy. What’s your racket?” “Racket? Me—With a racket? Don’t be silly. It’s just that when they leave this bridge, they got no use for stuff. So I ask for it before they Page Eight

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Pattern for Henry Don Rodgers A BOY kicked the soccer ball up the field and ■someone else raced him for it. The knot of boys by the fence gradually peeled away in loud pursuit and Henry was left lying in the dirt. A thin hand wiped tears from frightened dark eyes, smearing them across a sallow face which looked older than its twelve years. Slowly he got to his feet, slowly pushed through the gate and slowly headed for home. Henry didn’t mind being beaten up. He was used to it. Nearly every boy in the class had had a poke at Henry. Not because he was offensive but because he was not offensive at all. He was “Poky” and “Dreamer,” and easy to beat up. A block from the schoolyard he had forgotten his defeat entirely and stopped to watch a gang of men patching the asphalt. From them he dawdled up the avenue, gazing in¬ tently into store windows he had gazed into the night before, and the night before that, and every night of the school week. The dark eyes seemed to expand as they fell on guitars and statuettes, on cabbages and oranges, on watches and rings and on platters of fish. At intersec¬ tions his little figure halted, hands behind back and feet apart, to watch with nervous excite¬ ment the streams of square black cars and throbbing trucks. Along a chalk-mosaiced side¬ walk he kicked a wad of newspaper. He kicked a piece of board. He kicked a tin can. He went home, alone. Nobody asked Henry why he was so late com¬ ing home. Nobody asked him anything. His mother, large and flushed, was jiggling steam¬ ing pots about the gas stove. His father, stretch¬ ed out on the worn couch, shirtless and shoe¬ less, was engrossed in a newspaper. Betty, with smiles and grimaces, was combing her long hair before the living room mirror. George was tickling and pinching Henry’s young brother John. George was fifteen and had a steady job. George was a man and Henry was a boy. He walked into the other room and looked out the window by Betty. Nobody asked him anything. He was lonely and he didn’t know why. i’fi sjs One of the young men swung down from his stool and walked towards the door. “I’m going up to the Arcade,” he said at the door. “Any¬ body coming?” The knot of bell - bottomed, shiny - haired young fellows at the counter gradually filed noisily out into the night and Henry was left sitting there. He deliberated following after them but decided against it. He felt out of place in the midst of their noisy boisterousness and preferred his own company. He was “Dreamy”, and he was used to it. Be¬ sides, he had things to think about. He had lost another job today. He rubbed the palms of his thin hands against the cold marble of the counter and wondered why he didn’t find a job that interested him. He always got along fine the first few weeks and then when the novelty wore off he either quit or began to daydream and was fired. It would be different if he was one of those guys who made friends easily. If he could talk freely with the people he worked with and not have to dream to make the time fly. Henry gazed at the cream pies and biscuits lined up against the big mirror. He gazed at his own thin, sallow face and large, dark eyes. He was twenty-Two and looked older. He lit a cigarette and his