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New York City Marathon_Joseph Devon_2007试读：

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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