He set the box of baking soda on the shelf, taking time to make sure it was in line with all the other boxes behind it. Once that was done, he continued on with the mundane task of restocking all the shelves, a chore he was always doing, considering that he was the only employee in his own store.
Technically, there was his partner, but he was never around. He was always running around with whores, gambling with their profits, and sending the general store that they owned into various degrees of bankruptcy.
The man left at the store was always the man left to clean up his friend's messes. Not that he minded any; his buddy was a fine businessman, when he wanted to be, and kept their establishment afloat, no matter how much it looked like it would be impossible to do so. He was charismatic, and when it boils down to it, he was a good friend to have around.
He turned around to look at the clock on the wall. It read 7 o'clock. Time to close up. It had been so slow that day; he could have closed two hours ago. But that would have meant going home to his wife and three daughters, which was never particularly pleasant.
He had been married to his wife for seven years, and the romance of their relationship had ended once she moved to the city with him. They had met in Albany, and fell in love then. He impregnated her, and did the right thing by marrying her. Of course, her parents didn't approve, and refused to let them be together. So he moved to New York to make enough so she could come to the city with him when she became of age.
But things had changed since she moved in with him four years ago. Not only had they had two more children, but also, the love had left them. Things had become routine, and while both of them longed for the life they once had led, they were content. It was just- the more time he didn't have to spend with his loud family, the better off he was.
Checking the doorknob to make sure it was securely locked, he walked out onto the sidewalk and started towards home. He looked up at the painted sign on top of their store; "S&S GENERAL STORE" was written in bold red letters. Customers were always asking what the S&S stood for. Whenever they did, he just smiled and told them to guess, promising that if they guessed correctly, he'd give their groceries to them for free. No one ever got it right.
He pocketed his keys and kept walking. It was a breezy August night, and the dust was just settling from the warm day. The sun was starting to set in the west, casting shadows across the streets. It was such a perfect night that he decided to take the long way home.
The sidewalk was fairly empty for a while, and then more people started to appear. He passed one white man who glared intently at him, turning red with an apparent hatred. He ignored this; he was used to people being angry with him because of his oriental heritage. Many Asians had been immigrating to America in search of jobs, therefore taking jobs from the Americans, for years. This man was probably one who lost his job, and held it against anyone of Asian descent. He could understand how he could be angry, but he got pretty sick of it. He wasn't the one of the ones who were working in factories, farms, or the gold mines, was it? He was making his own living, honestly and rightfully.
He continued on his way, stopping to buy a newspaper from a newsie. The sight of the young boy brought back many memories for him. He had once been a newsie. In fact, he had been a part of their strike way back in '99. He had been a friend of the infamous Jack Kelly, whom everyone knew from his recent escape from prison. That was just like Jack; if it weren't such a morose situation, it would be enough to make him laugh.
He and his business partner had been newsies together, actually. But there had come a time when no one wanted to buy a newspaper from a grown looking kid on the street; he didn't look poor and defenseless anymore, and that was half of the game when it came to selling papes. So he had been forced to quit, and he and his friend decided to try their luck at managing a grocery store.
Thinking about his days as a newsie, he decided to take another route to his house, one that passed by the old lodging house. It would take another five minutes on top of the ten extra he was already taking to get home, but he didn't mind. He lit up a cigarette, feeling good as he walked down a short memory lane.
Things had been hard as a newsie. He earned all the money he had when his wife moved in with him from hawking the headlines. Living conditions sucked, and there were many nights he went hungry. But for the most part, he recalled fondly of his days as a newsboy. He had a family system there among his friends, and he was young and optimistic then.
Not like now.
The Lodging House hadn't changed much. It had a little more paint chipped off than he remembered, but that was part of the old building's charms. A few boys were sitting out on the stoop, talking and throwing small stones.
He took off his hat and approached the boys. "Excuse me," he said cautiously, afraid he might be pelted with a rock. "Do you boys know if Kloppman's around here?"
The boys put down their pebbles and looked at him strangely. "No, he ain't. We ain't never met a Kloppman before, mister, we don't know who you're talkin' bout," a scrawny boy informed him, obviously uncomfortable with his presence.
"Really? He's the guy who takes your money every night when you stay here. He's about this tall, bald, glasses… I had hoped to talk to him."
A rather round boy responded to him, sneering rudely. "You mean Mr. Alexander? He's the guy who runs this joint, but he ain't bald. He's got flamin' red hair."
"No, I need Kloppman. You sure he's not a-"
"Kloppman's dead," a new voice interrupted. He looked up to find a tall authoritative boy glaring down at him. "He had a heart attack a couple years ago. I'm the leader around here; what do you want?" He had his arms crossed, and was quite intimidating. He was rather like Jack; sure of himself and quietly domineering.
Kloppman, dead? The idea seamed impossible. He had always been there, just an understood presence who didn't need to do much to be respected by everyone. It was a shame he'd be gone.
He realized that the leader was waiting for an answer. He ran his hands along the rim of his bowler. "I had hoped to talk to him," he repeated. "I was a newsboy here once."
"You?" the fat boy sneered. "You were a newsie?"
He nodded. "A long time ago, yes." He put his hat on his head. "I'll just be on my way, then. G'night, boys."
He kept walking, feeling his years on him. He wasn't old, but to those newsboys, he was ancient. He was in his late twenties, but the strain of life was beginning to show.
He pulled out his keys again and stuck his apartment key into the doorknob. He lamented his age, and how it took him away from the life he had loved and from the people he had loved. It was unfair, and he hated that he had to grow up.
He sighed and turned the doorknob, entering the apartment he shared with an unloving wife and three loud daughters, the apartment he paid for from the few profits he made off of an unsuccessful grocery he owned with a horrible business partner, whom he met when times were better and life was easier.
It was only one more day in the life of an aged newsboy.
A/N: So do you know who my newsies are? One may be more obvious than the other, but if you've read my other story, "Midnight", you should be able to make an educated guess (coughreaditcough). Tell me who you think they are, and if you get it right, you win free hypothetical groceries.