The Long Run by Leo Furey

then you might have a girlfriend in town to send a message to, Bug,” Oberstein says.
    â€œWon’t be needing no pigeon to bring my messages,” Bug snaps. “What I gotta say won’t fit around a bird’s foot. Anyway, I’ll be delivering what I gotta say in person.”
    â€œYeah, you got those long steamy love letters, right, Bug?” Oberstein says.
    â€œYou got that right, brother.” With one hand, Bug clicks open his little silver cigarette case, lights one and takes a long drag.
    â€œMaybe we’ll fit what you say on a roll of toilet paper. That way, she cries, she won’t be stuck for tissues, Bug.”
    We all howl.
    â€œYeah,” Murphy says, “or if she finds it so ridiculous she shits herself, she’ll have lotsa toilet paper.”
    Even Bug laughs this time.
    Father Cross gallops up in his Lone Ranger costume. “Hi Ho, Silver!” he sings, tugging at invisible reins and whinnying like a horse. Cross is really artistic. He paints and draws everything. He can do a realistic sketch of everyone at the Mount, including the brothers. He once drew Rags, and Rags said it was as good as any professional could do. And he makes costumes. The Lone Ranger, Batman and Robin, Superman, Captain Marvel. You name it, he can make it. Which is amazing, considering what he has to work with. He scavenges the tools of his sewing trade from Brother Young’s tailor shop, the laundry room and the store room, and from his aunt, who lives on Patrick Street in the west end of St. John’s.
    He has a ton of stuff: sewing needles of all shapes and sizes, spools of colored thread, bits of wool, boxes of dye, a pen knife, tweezers, two pairs of scissors, a thimble, elastic bands, a pin cushion, razor blades, a bottle of buttons, packets of glue, patches, a roll of colored ribbon—all stored in a small wooden box he keeps in his dorm locker. Sometimes I watch him puttering away at an old curtain or a bed sheet, and it’s amazing what materializes—a tie-dyed T-shirt or a beautiful pair of pants or a button shirt with a collar. Nobody knows how he does it, but he creates magic with almost no materials. Brother Young, who patches our worn-out clothes and was trained in Toronto, can’t hold a candle to Cross. Neither can Brother Taylor, who cuts our hair. Cross uses an old pair of stolen scissors to touch up everyone’s haircut. He’s a much better barber than Brother Taylor. When we praise him for his creations, he just shrugs and says, “It’s nothing, just a bit of fun.” He’s a really humble guy.
    When he’s in his Lone Ranger costume, he races around the Mount, wild as a goat, yelling, “Hi Ho, Silver . . . Away!” He’s older than most of us and taller than Murphy, over six feet, and we’re afraid of him, which is strange because he’s head altar boy and as timid as a mouse and very kind. He’d give you anything, the shirt off his back. You just have to ask, and he’ll give it to you. And we have loads of fun with him. He doesn’t mind being teased, like most of the boys. He’s more like Rags, he gets a kick outta things. “Don’t be so cross, Father Cross,” Oberstein loves saying. Or he’ll say, “Have you picked up your cross today, Father?” Oberstein has a lot of fun with him. Cross is Brother Walsh’s pet and the half-pet, as we call it, of every other brother except McCann, who has no pets. But even McCann likes Cross because he wants to become a priest. Oberstein calls Cross the chosen one.
    Chris Cross’s face is covered with acne, and it is so raw-looking we nicknamed him Soup after the rich red tomato soup we receive at every noon meal during the winter months. When he smiles, he blushes, and his face becomes a red smile. But the nickname never stuck. Blackie still calls him Soup once in a while, but nobody else does. He isn’t a really popular boy,