What Makes Sammy Run? Read Online Free PDF

“It’s your pal, Sammy Glick,” Henry said.
    “Good evening, young man,” I said, feeling mellow on four or five highballs.
    “It’s a good evening for me all right,” Sammy said. “But I don’t know about you, Mr. Manheim.”
    I didn’t like the tone of that “Mr. Manheim.”
    “What’s up?” I said.
    “Your dinner,” Sammy said, “when you hear what’s happened.”
    For a moment or two it was touch and go as to whether or not I burst a blood vessel right there in front of all my friends.
    “Come on, spill it, you punk,” I said. I was so sore I was talking like a gangster in the movies.
    “The boss says your column is two sticks short,” Sammy said.
    “For Chri’sake I haven’t even finished it,” I said. “I just came down to grab a couple of drinks before wrapping it up. Tell him he can stop worrying. I’ll be right up.”
    “He’s not worried a bit,” Sammy said. “And you don’t have to either. Everything’s under control. I took care of it.”
    “You?” I said. “You?” I repeated. “What do you mean you?” I said stupidly. I knew he had me. I could tell.
    “Sure, Al,” he said, just as if he had always called me Al. “I dashed off a four-inch radio column to fill, and the boss liked it.”
    “Oh, he’s seen it already!” I said. “Then why the hell did you bother to call me? Why the hell don’t you just take over my column? Why the hell …?”
    “I just wanted to help you,” Sammy said simply.
    “Sure,” I said, “Joe Altruist,” and I hung up.
    That night I dreamt about Sammy Glick. I dreamt I was working in my office, minding my own business and peacefully writing my column, when all of a sudden I looked up and screamed. Everybody in the office looked like Sammy Glick. There must have been thirty or forty of them, and every time one of them passed me he’d say, “Hello, Al, I’m the new drama editor”; or “Hello, Al, I’m the new city editor”; or “Hello, Al, allow me to introduce myself, your new publisher, S. Glick,” and, finally, when I couldn’t stand it any more, I started to run, with all the Sammy Glicks behind me and I got into the elevator just in time and heaved a sigh of relief when, so help me God, who do I see driving the elevator but Sammy Glick, and when I finally get out onto the street, sure enough there’s nobody but Sammy Glick waiting for me, thousands of Sammy Glicks all running after me.
    It was a relief to wake up, because I figured that nothing that ever happened between me and Sammy could top that one. From now on Sammy Glick was sure to be an anti-climax and I was saved. That just goes to show you how little I still knew about my friend Glick.
    The pay-off began next morning when the managing editor hovered over my shoulder just after I had started my column.
    “From now on write it thirty lines shorter all the time,” he said in the same tone of voice he’d ask for a stick of gum.
    “What do you mean thirty lines shorter?” I said.
    “I mean,” he explained, “that from now on it should be thirty lines not as long as you’ve been writing it.”
    “This is a little sudden,” I said, “but it’s O.K. by me if you can give me one good reason why this amputation’s necessary.”
    “Listen closely and hold on to your seat,” the city editor said. “From now on we’re using Sammy Glick’s radio column.”
    “You mean Sammy Glick the copy boy?” I said.
    “No, I mean Sammy Glick the radio columnist,” he said. “His stuff looked all right today.”
    “I read it,” I said. “Maybe you’d like to know he copied that first paragraph from Somerset Maugham?”
    “Maybe that’s where you need to go for your stuff,” he said.
    So that’s how Sammy got his start. It was hard to believe, but you didn’t have to pinch yourself to know you weren’t dreaming. All you had to do was turn to the amusement page of the Record , and there we were, side by side, “Down Broadway” by Al Manheim and “Sammy