| OCR Text |
Show Chick Sales 12 Herman looks at his father, at his barrel chest and proud walk. He pulls his own shoulders back as he contemplates the possibility of money in his own hands. "When can I sell papers downtown with Jack, Dad?" "Soon. Not yet. Things might get better." " I like that downtown music at night." "You stay away until you're old enough. You're not even nine until next summer are you?" "But I want to buy a washing machine for mother. I told her so. Jack's only ten." "You stay home and help your mother with the babies and the chickens. Don't let me catch you on those streets again. Not yet." In September Herman had gone with Jack to sell papers on an evening when his father was late from work. Idle Greek miners argued in the street; Italians laughed as they disappeared into the tavern. In between sales, Jack was teaching Herman how to hawk distances. They balled up their saliva, tried to h i t increasingly long-range targets. "Paper, sir?" Jack said to a briskly paced passer-by. As two pennies dropped into his brother's hand, Herman heard music from the tavern. He started to move his feet, head back, mouth upturned, arms wide open. His body caught the rhythm and he abandoned himself to full buck and wing, pounding the time into the wooden sidewalk. He poured himself onto the street, lost to the music. |
