"The old man stopped the car at a hot dog stand. There was just a soft raindrop patter now. How about something to eat?' asked the old man, patting Danny on the leg."

Clay Robinson

DANNY AND THE OLD MAN

Danny did not get out of bed until noon one Saturday. He rushed to the dining hall, where he gulped some coffee, tentatively bit into greasy sausage and cold potatoes, then left in disgust. He started walking back to his dormitory room, but he did not stop at his door. He went across the parking lot, kicking a white pebble along with his feet as he walked, then into the park. He had not been hungry really. And, since he was without money, he had better not become hungry before suppertime.

Danny looked down at his scuffed loafers, almost soleless, but well-heeled because he walked on the ball of his foot, bounding along through the campus, oblivious to everything except himself.

It was raining-not a real rain, but a drizzly counterfeit. A misty shroud encompassed the park, chloroformed the grass, budded the oaks. There was no one else in the park because of the misty rain. Danny's face was moist, for he had been walking fast, without an awareness, however, of speed, or where, or when.

A muscular, raw-boned old man stopped his battered Plymouth beside Danny, and asked him if he wanted a ride.

"I dunno." Danny said, "I'm not going anywhere in particular.”

"C'mon," the old man beckoned, "get out of the rain at least." He patted the leather upholstery of the carseat.

Perhaps not fully back in reality, Danny was silent. But was this reality? Now, when the old man opened the door of the car, the car old and grumpy, squeaking, Danny sat beside the old man, who started the engine; what was it? The old man drove carefully, although with only one hand on the wheel, the other on his thigh.

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