The Voice, by Paul Fitzgerald and Elizabeth Gould

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                           - 34 -

People sighed as the term, "IRA" was muttered and faces
stared accusingly at each other. But to me the delay didn't
matter. In fact, as the lights went out, I'd almost hoped
the ground would swallow me up. But Juicy John Pink wasn't
happy. As long as he had my ear, I was going to share in his
discomfort.

"I'm getting out," Pink said as he squirmed around in his
seat, trying to see outside into the darkness of the tunnel.
"And so should you."

"Out where?" I asked, as I pondered what new and strange
fate had caused this little man to cross my path.

"There!" The midget said, pointing to the tunnel with one
hand while he grabbed at the collar of his shirt, the one
I'd yanked out of place by saving him. "Last time this took
six hours and I can't breathe now. It's the smell of all
that wet wool, ya'know?"

"O.K. But how do we do it?" I asked, trying to humor the
man.

"Follow me." He said as his little legs climbed down from
the bench and into the aisle.

With amazing agility the little man squeezed under the
passengers with squeals and shouts, quickly opening a path
through the crowd. Then, his head bobbing to the surface as
he reached the open emergency door, he waved madly for me to
follow.

"C'mon!"

For the moment I was relieved by the midget's departure.
I hadn't counted on a companion and if I had it surely
wouldn't have been a four foot man with bad manners and a
worse sense of balance. But Juicy John Pink was not going to
leave me alone and as I sat back and took a deep breath, I
heard the sound of tapping on the window behind my head.