DISCLAIMER: Crying beans! I don't own any of the characters from Newsies!
Seriously, now. Is this necessary? Obviously I don't! In any case, they
belong to that place called Disney that likes to ruin movies by making
sequels for them. : ) Anywho, the 52 other characters in this story are
MINE! And yes, I said 52. And then, Dimples owns herself. ^_^
*~*~*~*~THE BROOKLYN BOYS~*~*~*~*
52 Newsies, 1 Lodging House, Countless Stories
I never could find a fitting definition for 'individuality' until I became leader of the over 50 newsboys who made up the paper-peddling reign of Brooklyn, New York. Until then, it was my belief that every other person was merely a product of the same mold, a specimen that conformed to society's dictates. In my world before ink-smeared hands and headline hawking, no one ever stood out as their own character. I was led to conclude that the acclaimed canvas of life that was said to radiate shades of numerous pastels was no more than a fable, and mankind's tale no more than a print of monochrome gray.
I guess I should begin with my life before I became a newsie. I lived with my younger cousin, Lucas, and his family for the better part of my life in a monastery where I attended private school and various church services throughout the week. It wasn't a glamorous living, but it wasn't one full of hardships either. In fact, I usually enjoyed it most the time. Yet even so, that ever soft whisper of freedom beckoned my childish mind to follow its guidance down an adventurous road. Soon after, I found that my days with Lucas' family were tedious ones, full of repetitive tasks and assignments that easily put me to sleep better than any soporific might have.
Being fifteen years old was never easy, but finding myself confined to what my uncle and aunt wished me to be completely set me on edge. It was my life, after all. Shouldn't I have been the one calling the shots? Not to say I was not thankful for their love, for I would be eternally grateful for their having warmly welcomed me into their home, but I was growing restless and needed a change from the norm more than ever.
Everything seemed predestined the way I was reared. Students wore the exact same uniforms no matter what their rank and our voices for the morning prayer merged into a sole monotonous tone that would make one think we were a single machine of some sort. We were taught free-thinking, yet whenever we practiced it, we were shunned for radical ideas that might put our family to shame. I was surprised the professors didn't have us marching to the same step when classes were dismissed for recreation and lunch.
It became evident that this standard of living would never suit me. Everything was so predictable and I preferred an erratic lifestyle in which people lived their day as if it were their last. I felt like a wild bird, wrongly domesticated and put in a cage too small for my wings to expand to their full length.
And yet, I have no idea what was scurrying through my mind when I left the only home I had ever known behind me and trekked off down the streets of New York with only the clothes I wore and a knapsack thrown over my shoulder. Looking back on it now, I have to admit, it was a blatantly stupid idea. What is it with fairly well-off kids thinking their life will be easier if they run away from the one that shelters and feeds them? Now nineteen, I still haven't a clue, and standing in Morningside Heights all alone those four years ago, I had already known I never would.
The following weeks were filled with scrounging food from trash cans and sleeping on park benches under a starry sky that occasionally showered its tears upon me. At like times, I'd wrap myself with the wool blanket my aunt had knitted and huddle into an alley corner with only a slab of cardboard over my head to fend off the ammunition of rain. I always seemed to be hungry and as winter quickly approached, I knew my survival would be pulled into question.
The solitude was incredibly unbearable as well. I was use to having a large company of friends to socialize and laugh with back at the monastery, but loneliness was to be my only companion then, and it was an endless struggle suppressing the longing for my family. Adventure no longer seemed a priority and this tumbleweed existence I was so eager to adopt was becoming less appealing as the days passed.
If I hadn't met Italics, I probably would have labeled myself a hopeless fool who was better off under the wings of his family and would have returned home. You see, somehow, my tired feet had brought me across a bridge into the infamous borough called Brooklyn, the borough so many feared for reasons I didn't know. It was all the same to me, however. What did I care if I was fellowshipping with thieves and criminals if they were offering me a home that beat sleeping on the streets any day?
I wasn't ten minutes in Brooklyn before I met Italics. He was the leader at that time; a tall well-built young man with raven black hair and dark eyes colder than frostbite. He looked at me then much like I look at new kids now, in a condescending manner that makes cowards of the faint-hearted and challengers of the brave. At fifteen, I met neither extreme and stood more in the middle, myself. We exchanged brief talk, which was basically a meaningless explanation of how I was a helpless ruffian-as if it weren't obvious enough by my mere appearance-and my need for a place to call my own.
Italics brought me back to most dilapidated piece of bricks and wood I had ever seen in my life, a barely legible sign hanging uneven above a pair of splintered doors into which I was expected to walk. 'Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House'. I stood motionless upon the stoop with a gaping mouth, disbelieving that this is what I would be subjected to. The building was three stories high, at least a fourth of its windows missing panes, completely shattered, or boarded up. A stench emanated from its walls that smelled of smoke and beer; the place was a blasted sinkhole!
But to a child breaking free from tradition's shackles, even the lowliest of circumstances seemed an outlet to greater things. So discarding my earlier shock, I followed after Italics and in doing so, took the primary steps towards the new destiny that awaited me.
I won't bore you with the specifics. I soon after joined the newsboy masses and faced the realization that the proverbial 'grass' was not any greener on this side of the bridge, as so many come to grasp eventually. In fact, there was no greenery at all...only a perforating death. My selling talents, or lack thereof, threatened to end me as a wandering vagabond for all time when on my first day of peddling, I only managed to sell ten morning editions. My exceptional ability to involve myself in almost every fist-fight that erupted throughout the borough wasn't necessarily smiled upon, and my failure to comply with Italics' seething desire to deem me Brooklyn's scapegoat promised to banish me into exile.
All in all, the life I had spent so many hours daydreaming about only proved to be a ghastly nightmare full of misery. No one talked to me or even offered me so much as a glance. Every day physically branded its memory onto me as the number of bruises I received from those who disliked me drastically increased. I felt like a recluse, abandoned and unwanted. I was beginning to believe I had been possessed when I left Morningside Heights.
In time, I built a sturdy endurance that helped me deal. With a cool glare, I could drive away anyone, and I perfected a way of conducting myself that clearly told others one wrong word would send my fist into their face. It wasn't long until Italics even took a liking to me, and that was saying much, considering he didn't seem to like anyone in the short time I had known him. Sure he socialized with his newsies, but at the same time he always seemed distant to me, as if his world was another hell all on its own.
In any case, after eight months or so, Italics and I actually became close friends. I soon learned that his alias came from his penmanship's slanted script. By then, a newsie name had already been bestowed upon me too. Spot. Yes I know, not nearly as daunting as 'Butcher' or 'Massacre' or any other name that evokes a sense of anarchy, but I wore it like royal garb nonetheless, for I rather liked what it represented.
Back when I was still disrespected and treated as if I were everyone's scrawny little servant without a mind of his own, Italics put me to work cleaning up the lodging house during the day while everyone was off selling their papers. My attempts to 'improve the truth' and persuade passersby to indulge themselves with the headlines mirrored those of a failure and so I earned my wages performing manual labor.
It was one particular day in which I had just finished mopping the floors of the main room when trouble was born. My timing was slightly off and so before the hardwood floor had time to dry, the Brooklyn crew was already filtering into the lodging house from a long day of work, their muddied boots leaving streaks and tracks as they went their way. They could care less, though. What did it matter to them if I was slaving away to keep the place reasonably clean? They even laughed at my futile efforts and feigned apologetic looks as they dirtied the place.
I held the anger in, fearing I would only provoke a riotous brawl, and continued my rounds of mopping. During this time, a boy called Applejack- whom I absolutely despised and to whom I owe part of the glory for gracing my face with shiners-was busy taking out his wrath on seven-year old Pipsqueak, who barely spoke a word to anyone. It wasn't long until Applejack was socking the kid good, continuously slamming blows into Pipsqueak as if he were a punching bag. Blood dotted the floor and poor Pipsqueak was near dead by the time his assaulter was through with him. Applejack had a good laugh, as did his idiotic followers, and they sent the boy up to his room, threatening to kill him if word got out to Italics.
Of course, the blood was still on the floor, however, and they seeing how I held means by which to erase the evidence with the mop only hardened their attitudes. "Heya kid," Applejack called out to me with a sneer, "ya missed a spot over heah!"
Since I was still building my wit, then, I simply kept my mouth shut and ignored him. This didn't settle too well with him and he clearly showed it by jumping to his feet, marching up to where I stood, and slamming me against a wall.
"Are youse actin' like ya don't heah me, ya little bastard?" He brought back a clenched fist and tightened his grip on me. I'm sure he was about ready to knock me out cold.
Luckily, Italics finally arrived at the lodging house and interceded. He demanded an explanation from the both of us, listening intently to our words before ruling a verdict. I told him everything. I spilled about the jackass image Applejack was so beautifully portraying and about his cruel, abusive actions that only occurred in Italics' absence. I unveiled the matter of Pipsqueak's beating and backed up my claims by pointing out the blood on the floor.
Applejack didn't get as bad a punishment as I wished he had, and from that day on we were always the worse of enemies. The main room cleared out for the afternoon edition and once again, I was left behind to tend to my duties. Before Italics left, though, he glanced at the blood on the floor and playfully reiterated Applejack's words. "Ya missed a spot. Clean it up, huh? I'se don't want me boiys thinkin' dis place is some kinda slaughter house."
But I refused, and the damned spot was left unclean for the passing days until the wood had absorbed the blood and was permanently marked red. I wouldn't let the event pass that easily. Applejack should have been beaten to a bloody pulp that day! I was furious by Italics' poor decision to keep him in Brooklyn and it drove me mad that Pipsqueak's torture hadn't been avenged.
More than anything, Italics thought it funny and thereafter I was known as 'Spot' for my melodramatic display of defense for the underdog.
June rolled on by with its blistering heat when I found myself seated aside Italics on a platform just above the Brooklyn docks. The sun looked like a blinding gold coin and sent its rays down like fire. The boys leapt into the waters below as if it were their only means of survival while others merely lounged about playing any number of games. I was intrigued by the diversity of it all. Here, there were no restraints keeping one from doing whatever he wished and one was encouraged to be his own man, encouraged to proudly show his personality no matter how eccentric it might be. The newsboys were a family; I saw that in the way they helped and looked out for one another. But at the same time, they were a tapestry made up of countless different threads. It was remarkable.
This is what I had been searching for all this time. A break from conformity, a release from the orthodox world of consistency. I could have returned home at any time, but like a neurotic daredevil, I found pleasure in not knowing what misfortunes could befall me any minute of the day. I liked not knowing where my next bite of food would come from or whether Applejack's brutal beatings would one day go too far and end me. It's insanity, I know. My aunt would let out a petrified scream if she read this; the nephew of a high priest turned a penniless lackey...by choice! But that's how the dices roll sometimes.
"I saw another article in da papes fer youse, complete wid a picture and paragraph-long description. Ya parents must be missin' ya a lot, kid. Why'd ya run from them in da foist place?"
I looked at Italics, a bit taken aback by the inquiry. An article about my sudden disappearance from Morningside Heights was repeatedly printed in the papers but I didn't think any of the others had noticed the story; I often wished they never would. A newsie usually wasn't asked about his past, no matter what the circumstances. He noticed my uneasiness and started to apologize but I shook my head, saying it was all right. It wasn't as if I had anything to hide. "Well, they's just wanted me tah be somethin' I aint," I replied, using the rough Brooklyn dialect I had taken to. "I mean, they's was nice and all, I aint never had a problem wid 'em, but...I dunno. Ya ever feel like ya life just aint meant tah be a certain way?" He nodded. "Well, dat's how I felt. Like I weren't s'pose tah be there."
"Ya know how many of dese guys would cut off their arms if it meant they could have what youse were so willin' tah leave behind?" At first, I thought he was reprimanding me, but the grin on his face spoke otherwise. Then, just as abruptly as the conversation began, a new subject came up.
"Youse is different from me other boiys, Spot. Ya got dis fire in ya that hasn't boined out yet. Ya don't take shit from no one, even if da guy's twice ya size and ready tah moider ya." He looked down at his hands as he cracked his knuckles in thought. "I'se can't be Brooklyn's leadah forever, ya know, and fer years, I always wondered who'd be da right kid tah take up da task. Then youse came along..."
I gave him an incredulous look. Was he mentally sick? I was in no position to succeed him! "Ya gotta be kiddin' me! I mean, 'Talics, I'se can name at least ten guys who'd be better fer the job. I'se barely pushin' 75 papes a day now and almost all ya boiys hate me guts! Ya really think they's gunna give a damn if I tell 'em tah do somethin'?"
He only laughed, but I saw no humor in any of it. "We'se don't all start out like heroes, kid. Some of is lucky if we'se even have three fans when we come into power. It's whether they's respect ya or not that makes ya great. Don't worry 'bout it, you'll do fine."
No argument I concocted dissuaded Italics from making me his sole heir of Brooklyn. His mind seemed to be made up no matter what I said. He announced my succession first at a meeting with his allies from across New York, and then brought the decision out in the open to his own newsies one rainy day in August. I could feel the tension in the room when my name rolled out of his mouth while everyone had been expecting someone of greater seniority to be crowned leader.
Applejack glared daggers at me and for once, I wasn't overjoyed to see him angered. Everyone was confused and bitter over Italics' choice, but he assured them I would live up to Brooklyn's name soon enough. They pressed their opinions all the harder, though. 'He's an amateur at sellin!' 'Da kid's only been a newsie fer a year!' 'Ya don't know nothing 'bout him, he could be a scab fer all youse knows!'
No one dared question my fighting skills, and I suppose that was the only thing I had to fall back on the week in which the verbal assaults ensued. Occasionally, one of the younger newsies would come up to me in congratulations, but even they seemed to offer it half-heartedly.
When I became leader, Brooklyn's numbers fell as Applejack had convinced at least twelve of his buddies to follow him to Queens where they hoped to never see my face again. Those who remained became careless and indifferent. Three already had been sent to the House of Refuge for pilfering food, and many more were on the authorities' bad side for a variety of reasons.
For a month, I gave no orders whatsoever and simply secluded myself into my private little room where I spent the better part of my time. No longer was there this blind hatred, only a lack of care. They desperately needed a leader, but refused to enact commands given by the 'runt turn king' as one of them so indignantly put it. In time, however, the cynicism gradually left. In its place, a rudimentary form of respect developed.
It wasn't until I received my first new kid in early September that things began to take a turn for the better. Brooklyn began to thrive and the boys finally accepted me as their own as together we created an infamous legend. With a new confidence surging through me, I showed them the leader they wanted, the fearless and violent young man they would grow to look up to. It was an agonizing and ridiculously long journey, but the destination was worthwhile when the name 'Spot Conlon' was recognized all over New York.
That's the basic skeleton of the tale. I'll most definitely delve deeper into it later on, but I think it only proper that I devote the majority of this story to the boys who made me who I now am, and who taught me valuable lessons about life. Individuality was my first tutorial; it's what drove me miles from home into unfamiliar territory. But I also acquired definitions for the words "Patience", "Wisdom", "Courage", and most importantly..."Family". And it's with an honest heart that I say, these are truly what the priceless gifts of life are.
~*~*~*~*~
More to Come! Next Chapter: The Frustration with Training Spies. ^_^ Leave a review! Yes, I know. I told someone I'd stop starting new stories in the middle of writing other fics, but I just can't help it. : ( It's like an addiction or something. *sigh* So I'll be writing this and "Just A Little Bet" for the rest of July. ^_^ Wheee!
*~*~*~*~THE BROOKLYN BOYS~*~*~*~*
52 Newsies, 1 Lodging House, Countless Stories
I never could find a fitting definition for 'individuality' until I became leader of the over 50 newsboys who made up the paper-peddling reign of Brooklyn, New York. Until then, it was my belief that every other person was merely a product of the same mold, a specimen that conformed to society's dictates. In my world before ink-smeared hands and headline hawking, no one ever stood out as their own character. I was led to conclude that the acclaimed canvas of life that was said to radiate shades of numerous pastels was no more than a fable, and mankind's tale no more than a print of monochrome gray.
I guess I should begin with my life before I became a newsie. I lived with my younger cousin, Lucas, and his family for the better part of my life in a monastery where I attended private school and various church services throughout the week. It wasn't a glamorous living, but it wasn't one full of hardships either. In fact, I usually enjoyed it most the time. Yet even so, that ever soft whisper of freedom beckoned my childish mind to follow its guidance down an adventurous road. Soon after, I found that my days with Lucas' family were tedious ones, full of repetitive tasks and assignments that easily put me to sleep better than any soporific might have.
Being fifteen years old was never easy, but finding myself confined to what my uncle and aunt wished me to be completely set me on edge. It was my life, after all. Shouldn't I have been the one calling the shots? Not to say I was not thankful for their love, for I would be eternally grateful for their having warmly welcomed me into their home, but I was growing restless and needed a change from the norm more than ever.
Everything seemed predestined the way I was reared. Students wore the exact same uniforms no matter what their rank and our voices for the morning prayer merged into a sole monotonous tone that would make one think we were a single machine of some sort. We were taught free-thinking, yet whenever we practiced it, we were shunned for radical ideas that might put our family to shame. I was surprised the professors didn't have us marching to the same step when classes were dismissed for recreation and lunch.
It became evident that this standard of living would never suit me. Everything was so predictable and I preferred an erratic lifestyle in which people lived their day as if it were their last. I felt like a wild bird, wrongly domesticated and put in a cage too small for my wings to expand to their full length.
And yet, I have no idea what was scurrying through my mind when I left the only home I had ever known behind me and trekked off down the streets of New York with only the clothes I wore and a knapsack thrown over my shoulder. Looking back on it now, I have to admit, it was a blatantly stupid idea. What is it with fairly well-off kids thinking their life will be easier if they run away from the one that shelters and feeds them? Now nineteen, I still haven't a clue, and standing in Morningside Heights all alone those four years ago, I had already known I never would.
The following weeks were filled with scrounging food from trash cans and sleeping on park benches under a starry sky that occasionally showered its tears upon me. At like times, I'd wrap myself with the wool blanket my aunt had knitted and huddle into an alley corner with only a slab of cardboard over my head to fend off the ammunition of rain. I always seemed to be hungry and as winter quickly approached, I knew my survival would be pulled into question.
The solitude was incredibly unbearable as well. I was use to having a large company of friends to socialize and laugh with back at the monastery, but loneliness was to be my only companion then, and it was an endless struggle suppressing the longing for my family. Adventure no longer seemed a priority and this tumbleweed existence I was so eager to adopt was becoming less appealing as the days passed.
If I hadn't met Italics, I probably would have labeled myself a hopeless fool who was better off under the wings of his family and would have returned home. You see, somehow, my tired feet had brought me across a bridge into the infamous borough called Brooklyn, the borough so many feared for reasons I didn't know. It was all the same to me, however. What did I care if I was fellowshipping with thieves and criminals if they were offering me a home that beat sleeping on the streets any day?
I wasn't ten minutes in Brooklyn before I met Italics. He was the leader at that time; a tall well-built young man with raven black hair and dark eyes colder than frostbite. He looked at me then much like I look at new kids now, in a condescending manner that makes cowards of the faint-hearted and challengers of the brave. At fifteen, I met neither extreme and stood more in the middle, myself. We exchanged brief talk, which was basically a meaningless explanation of how I was a helpless ruffian-as if it weren't obvious enough by my mere appearance-and my need for a place to call my own.
Italics brought me back to most dilapidated piece of bricks and wood I had ever seen in my life, a barely legible sign hanging uneven above a pair of splintered doors into which I was expected to walk. 'Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House'. I stood motionless upon the stoop with a gaping mouth, disbelieving that this is what I would be subjected to. The building was three stories high, at least a fourth of its windows missing panes, completely shattered, or boarded up. A stench emanated from its walls that smelled of smoke and beer; the place was a blasted sinkhole!
But to a child breaking free from tradition's shackles, even the lowliest of circumstances seemed an outlet to greater things. So discarding my earlier shock, I followed after Italics and in doing so, took the primary steps towards the new destiny that awaited me.
I won't bore you with the specifics. I soon after joined the newsboy masses and faced the realization that the proverbial 'grass' was not any greener on this side of the bridge, as so many come to grasp eventually. In fact, there was no greenery at all...only a perforating death. My selling talents, or lack thereof, threatened to end me as a wandering vagabond for all time when on my first day of peddling, I only managed to sell ten morning editions. My exceptional ability to involve myself in almost every fist-fight that erupted throughout the borough wasn't necessarily smiled upon, and my failure to comply with Italics' seething desire to deem me Brooklyn's scapegoat promised to banish me into exile.
All in all, the life I had spent so many hours daydreaming about only proved to be a ghastly nightmare full of misery. No one talked to me or even offered me so much as a glance. Every day physically branded its memory onto me as the number of bruises I received from those who disliked me drastically increased. I felt like a recluse, abandoned and unwanted. I was beginning to believe I had been possessed when I left Morningside Heights.
In time, I built a sturdy endurance that helped me deal. With a cool glare, I could drive away anyone, and I perfected a way of conducting myself that clearly told others one wrong word would send my fist into their face. It wasn't long until Italics even took a liking to me, and that was saying much, considering he didn't seem to like anyone in the short time I had known him. Sure he socialized with his newsies, but at the same time he always seemed distant to me, as if his world was another hell all on its own.
In any case, after eight months or so, Italics and I actually became close friends. I soon learned that his alias came from his penmanship's slanted script. By then, a newsie name had already been bestowed upon me too. Spot. Yes I know, not nearly as daunting as 'Butcher' or 'Massacre' or any other name that evokes a sense of anarchy, but I wore it like royal garb nonetheless, for I rather liked what it represented.
Back when I was still disrespected and treated as if I were everyone's scrawny little servant without a mind of his own, Italics put me to work cleaning up the lodging house during the day while everyone was off selling their papers. My attempts to 'improve the truth' and persuade passersby to indulge themselves with the headlines mirrored those of a failure and so I earned my wages performing manual labor.
It was one particular day in which I had just finished mopping the floors of the main room when trouble was born. My timing was slightly off and so before the hardwood floor had time to dry, the Brooklyn crew was already filtering into the lodging house from a long day of work, their muddied boots leaving streaks and tracks as they went their way. They could care less, though. What did it matter to them if I was slaving away to keep the place reasonably clean? They even laughed at my futile efforts and feigned apologetic looks as they dirtied the place.
I held the anger in, fearing I would only provoke a riotous brawl, and continued my rounds of mopping. During this time, a boy called Applejack- whom I absolutely despised and to whom I owe part of the glory for gracing my face with shiners-was busy taking out his wrath on seven-year old Pipsqueak, who barely spoke a word to anyone. It wasn't long until Applejack was socking the kid good, continuously slamming blows into Pipsqueak as if he were a punching bag. Blood dotted the floor and poor Pipsqueak was near dead by the time his assaulter was through with him. Applejack had a good laugh, as did his idiotic followers, and they sent the boy up to his room, threatening to kill him if word got out to Italics.
Of course, the blood was still on the floor, however, and they seeing how I held means by which to erase the evidence with the mop only hardened their attitudes. "Heya kid," Applejack called out to me with a sneer, "ya missed a spot over heah!"
Since I was still building my wit, then, I simply kept my mouth shut and ignored him. This didn't settle too well with him and he clearly showed it by jumping to his feet, marching up to where I stood, and slamming me against a wall.
"Are youse actin' like ya don't heah me, ya little bastard?" He brought back a clenched fist and tightened his grip on me. I'm sure he was about ready to knock me out cold.
Luckily, Italics finally arrived at the lodging house and interceded. He demanded an explanation from the both of us, listening intently to our words before ruling a verdict. I told him everything. I spilled about the jackass image Applejack was so beautifully portraying and about his cruel, abusive actions that only occurred in Italics' absence. I unveiled the matter of Pipsqueak's beating and backed up my claims by pointing out the blood on the floor.
Applejack didn't get as bad a punishment as I wished he had, and from that day on we were always the worse of enemies. The main room cleared out for the afternoon edition and once again, I was left behind to tend to my duties. Before Italics left, though, he glanced at the blood on the floor and playfully reiterated Applejack's words. "Ya missed a spot. Clean it up, huh? I'se don't want me boiys thinkin' dis place is some kinda slaughter house."
But I refused, and the damned spot was left unclean for the passing days until the wood had absorbed the blood and was permanently marked red. I wouldn't let the event pass that easily. Applejack should have been beaten to a bloody pulp that day! I was furious by Italics' poor decision to keep him in Brooklyn and it drove me mad that Pipsqueak's torture hadn't been avenged.
More than anything, Italics thought it funny and thereafter I was known as 'Spot' for my melodramatic display of defense for the underdog.
June rolled on by with its blistering heat when I found myself seated aside Italics on a platform just above the Brooklyn docks. The sun looked like a blinding gold coin and sent its rays down like fire. The boys leapt into the waters below as if it were their only means of survival while others merely lounged about playing any number of games. I was intrigued by the diversity of it all. Here, there were no restraints keeping one from doing whatever he wished and one was encouraged to be his own man, encouraged to proudly show his personality no matter how eccentric it might be. The newsboys were a family; I saw that in the way they helped and looked out for one another. But at the same time, they were a tapestry made up of countless different threads. It was remarkable.
This is what I had been searching for all this time. A break from conformity, a release from the orthodox world of consistency. I could have returned home at any time, but like a neurotic daredevil, I found pleasure in not knowing what misfortunes could befall me any minute of the day. I liked not knowing where my next bite of food would come from or whether Applejack's brutal beatings would one day go too far and end me. It's insanity, I know. My aunt would let out a petrified scream if she read this; the nephew of a high priest turned a penniless lackey...by choice! But that's how the dices roll sometimes.
"I saw another article in da papes fer youse, complete wid a picture and paragraph-long description. Ya parents must be missin' ya a lot, kid. Why'd ya run from them in da foist place?"
I looked at Italics, a bit taken aback by the inquiry. An article about my sudden disappearance from Morningside Heights was repeatedly printed in the papers but I didn't think any of the others had noticed the story; I often wished they never would. A newsie usually wasn't asked about his past, no matter what the circumstances. He noticed my uneasiness and started to apologize but I shook my head, saying it was all right. It wasn't as if I had anything to hide. "Well, they's just wanted me tah be somethin' I aint," I replied, using the rough Brooklyn dialect I had taken to. "I mean, they's was nice and all, I aint never had a problem wid 'em, but...I dunno. Ya ever feel like ya life just aint meant tah be a certain way?" He nodded. "Well, dat's how I felt. Like I weren't s'pose tah be there."
"Ya know how many of dese guys would cut off their arms if it meant they could have what youse were so willin' tah leave behind?" At first, I thought he was reprimanding me, but the grin on his face spoke otherwise. Then, just as abruptly as the conversation began, a new subject came up.
"Youse is different from me other boiys, Spot. Ya got dis fire in ya that hasn't boined out yet. Ya don't take shit from no one, even if da guy's twice ya size and ready tah moider ya." He looked down at his hands as he cracked his knuckles in thought. "I'se can't be Brooklyn's leadah forever, ya know, and fer years, I always wondered who'd be da right kid tah take up da task. Then youse came along..."
I gave him an incredulous look. Was he mentally sick? I was in no position to succeed him! "Ya gotta be kiddin' me! I mean, 'Talics, I'se can name at least ten guys who'd be better fer the job. I'se barely pushin' 75 papes a day now and almost all ya boiys hate me guts! Ya really think they's gunna give a damn if I tell 'em tah do somethin'?"
He only laughed, but I saw no humor in any of it. "We'se don't all start out like heroes, kid. Some of is lucky if we'se even have three fans when we come into power. It's whether they's respect ya or not that makes ya great. Don't worry 'bout it, you'll do fine."
No argument I concocted dissuaded Italics from making me his sole heir of Brooklyn. His mind seemed to be made up no matter what I said. He announced my succession first at a meeting with his allies from across New York, and then brought the decision out in the open to his own newsies one rainy day in August. I could feel the tension in the room when my name rolled out of his mouth while everyone had been expecting someone of greater seniority to be crowned leader.
Applejack glared daggers at me and for once, I wasn't overjoyed to see him angered. Everyone was confused and bitter over Italics' choice, but he assured them I would live up to Brooklyn's name soon enough. They pressed their opinions all the harder, though. 'He's an amateur at sellin!' 'Da kid's only been a newsie fer a year!' 'Ya don't know nothing 'bout him, he could be a scab fer all youse knows!'
No one dared question my fighting skills, and I suppose that was the only thing I had to fall back on the week in which the verbal assaults ensued. Occasionally, one of the younger newsies would come up to me in congratulations, but even they seemed to offer it half-heartedly.
When I became leader, Brooklyn's numbers fell as Applejack had convinced at least twelve of his buddies to follow him to Queens where they hoped to never see my face again. Those who remained became careless and indifferent. Three already had been sent to the House of Refuge for pilfering food, and many more were on the authorities' bad side for a variety of reasons.
For a month, I gave no orders whatsoever and simply secluded myself into my private little room where I spent the better part of my time. No longer was there this blind hatred, only a lack of care. They desperately needed a leader, but refused to enact commands given by the 'runt turn king' as one of them so indignantly put it. In time, however, the cynicism gradually left. In its place, a rudimentary form of respect developed.
It wasn't until I received my first new kid in early September that things began to take a turn for the better. Brooklyn began to thrive and the boys finally accepted me as their own as together we created an infamous legend. With a new confidence surging through me, I showed them the leader they wanted, the fearless and violent young man they would grow to look up to. It was an agonizing and ridiculously long journey, but the destination was worthwhile when the name 'Spot Conlon' was recognized all over New York.
That's the basic skeleton of the tale. I'll most definitely delve deeper into it later on, but I think it only proper that I devote the majority of this story to the boys who made me who I now am, and who taught me valuable lessons about life. Individuality was my first tutorial; it's what drove me miles from home into unfamiliar territory. But I also acquired definitions for the words "Patience", "Wisdom", "Courage", and most importantly..."Family". And it's with an honest heart that I say, these are truly what the priceless gifts of life are.
~*~*~*~*~
More to Come! Next Chapter: The Frustration with Training Spies. ^_^ Leave a review! Yes, I know. I told someone I'd stop starting new stories in the middle of writing other fics, but I just can't help it. : ( It's like an addiction or something. *sigh* So I'll be writing this and "Just A Little Bet" for the rest of July. ^_^ Wheee!