Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Newsies, supposedly Disney still has those. Nor do I own Wish, M, Tellie, Jolt, Kidah, Tink, Dewey or Twinks (at least, I don't think I own Twinks...been so long I can't remember if she belonged to anyone else or if I really do hold clame over that scatterbrain!). I do however own Corky and Murdoch so please don't take them from me.
Author's Note: Well, here it is...my attempt to write a Holiday story for Dewey's Holiday Story Contest! Hope you all enjoy it and please don't forget to review! Much obliged, to ya's. ^__^
The snow crunched under foot, and a stiff, cold north wind blew through the thin worn jackets of the boys and girls on the street, newspapers in hand as they struggled to hawk a bad headline. Garland and wreaths hung from the lamp posts, and every where a person looked, they saw the times of the season. At Milner's Meat Market, a large holiday ham was on display, surrounded by bushels of holly and mistletoe while Anderson's Department Store was all aglow with brightly colored paper garland, displays of wrapped gifts, and tiny candle holders lighting the way inside. Carolers stood on the street corners, their joyous voices filling the air with, "Hark! The Herald angels sing, glory to the new born king!" and "Joy to the World! The Lord has come! Let Earth reveal her king!" It was the most wonderful and magical time of the year for children, a time when anything was possible if you just believed. For grown men like Joseph Pulitzer, however, it was a time to think of how to improve his paper in order to make more of the ever important and empowering dollar.
The sun was shining bright that day, December 24th, 1900, as Joseph Pulitzer made his way to his looming World building. He didn't care that his employees, the newsies, were out on the streets freezing in their thin jackets and worn out shoes; he was quite comfortable in his custom-made leather shoes, freshly pressed clothes, and warm wool long-coat. Stepping out of his carriage, he moved briskly into the well heated lobby of The World building, scowling at the Christmas tree in the corner and the baskets of Poinsettias on the receptionist's desk. Reporters and secretaries were all smiling and laughing as they exchanged small gifts and hand painted Christmas cards. Grumbling to himself and keeping a look of distaste on his face, he moved past the crowd of people and to the lift where a lad of fifteen or so, with bright orange-red hair, stood, smiling and waiting for him.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Pulitzer! Beautiful day out, wouldn't ye say? Up to the top floor then? Oh it's such a nice day out today, Mr. Pulitzer. The sun is shining down upon us, the snow is glistening on the trees, and in a few short hours all the wee little ones will be tucked away in their beds waiting to see what the jolly old St. Nick will bring them," Joshua said, his whole face lighting up with excitement as he spoke. A little dimple appeared on each cheek as he smiled, his green eyes sparkling with unending joy.
Pulitzer glowered at Joshua as he entered the lift before him and turned to face the door again. He simply could not fathom how that boy could be so cheery. Surely the lad had nothing to be overly excited about that time of year? He was an orphan, granted to work as a doorman only as a favor to the head of the orphanage. He had no family, no siblings, and no place to call home. So what right had he for being so joyous? His lanky arms and legs had even begun to protrude from the ends of his red and gold uniform, and Pulitzer could tell by the way the boy was walking that his shoes had begun to pinch something horrible on his cramped toes.
The Irish boy nodded at his employer's silence as he stepped in behind Mr. Pulitzer, and pressed the button to send them up to where his grand office sat overlooking the city. As the doors closed, Joshua continued to talk, speaking about his Christmases back in Ireland with parents and siblings. He rattled on about the red candles they'd place in their windows, the seed cake his mother would make with care for everyone in their family, along with the three puddings they'd eat on Christmas, New Year's Day, and on the Twelfth Night. He told Mr. Pulitzer rather quickly about St. Stephen's Day (the day after Christmas) in which the townsfolk would meet up for games and meetings followed by the Wren Boys Procession in which all the boys would walk down the streets with a fake wren attached to a pole, singing and playing instruments asking for money to help feed the "starving wren". Joshua chuckled a little when he told of how instead of milk and cookies like some of the kids at the orphanage wanted to leave, they would leave mince pies and a pint of Guinness.
"Papa always said 'nothin' warms a man better than a pint of Guinness,' which must have been true, because wouldn't ye know it? Every Christmas morning we'd wake up and find it gone! Well, here we are, sir. Don't work too late, Mr. Pulitzer, sir. Santa knows when ye're awake. Be a shame for him to pass ye over just because ye were still working. Nollaig Shona Duit, Mr. Pulitzer," he said, wishing his employer a Merry Christmas in his native Irish tongue. The door to the lift closed on the smiling face of the boy just as Joseph turned to level him with a cold glare.
Shaking his head, the older gentleman moved down the hallway towards his office. Ropes of evergreens intertwined with strings of blood red cranberries and large red, purple, and gold bows decorated the oak paneling walls on either side of him, and filled his head with the tangy scent of the outdoors and sap. Whoever had hung those sticky branches had better pray they could remove the goop before it stained. Moving to the end of the hall, he paused as he saw a tall, lean, balding man standing outside his door, humming merrily to himself as he placed a large wreath decorated with bows, cranberries, popped corn, pine cones, and little flowers on the door. Squaring his shoulders, Joseph Pulitzer approached the man.
"Jonathon! What is that thing?" He boomed, nearly scaring the poor man out of his skin. Spinning around, his fingers wrapped securely around the holiday decoration, the skittish man stammered and sputtered in an attempt to answer before closing his mouth and taking a deep breath to calm his nerves.
"It's…it's a wreath, sir. A merchant from the street brought it up for you. She wanted you to have it as a Christmas present, and to tell you 'may God bless you on this wonderful holiday,'" he finally answered in his prim and proper way, his voice hinting at the slight lingering British accent.
"Heh…Christmas? Pah. Get rid of it," Pulitzer answered, waving a hand of dismissal as he turned and opened his office door. Walking into his office and removing his long-coat and hat, he turned to find Jonathon still standing in the doorway holding the accursed wreath. Splaying his hands out towards his secretary and hunching his shoulders slightly, he looked at the man in expectation.
"Well? What are you waiting for? Go! While you're at it, find something useful to do. I'm not paying you nearly enough to just be standing around like a common bum," Joseph said, voice low and aggravated as he moved for his desk. Looking out his window, he glowered out at the city below, so cheerful and joyous, the tiny buildings buzzing with holiday festivities.
"What shall I do, sir?" Jonathon questioned hesitantly. His look was a mixture of confusion and anticipation that, along with his pencil thin mustache, caused him to look much like a timid mouse waiting for the cat to leave so it could search out its cheese in peace.
"You have a brain, figure something out! Find one of those blasted newsies and have them shovel the walk outside the building, it is disgusting looking. Offer them a dime," he answered, still looking out over the city and watching as the children below finished selling the morning edition and were throwing balls of snow at each other as they made their way back to the distribution center to pick up the afternoon edition. Their squeals of delight and carefree laughter drifted up from the street and hung in the air around Mr. Pulitzer's head like the pesky mosquitoes of summer.
He heard the scuffle of shoes on the floor, and glanced over his shoulder to see Jonathon turning and hurrying down the hallway, wreath still in hands. He moved quickly to find some place to dispose of it and hopefully to find a newsboy or newsgirl in need of a spare dime and willing to shovel the walkway in front of their building. Jonathon hoped, though, that whatever newsie he did ask didn't decide to have their friends help in pelting him with soggy snowballs for even suggesting that they'd do his employer that kind of favor.
Sitting down at his desk to look over the copy of both the morning and afternoon editions he'd been given, Pulitzer lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.
"Christmas…pah."
Racetrack Higgins looked at himself in the mirror and made a face. How did he get suckered into this particular scheme? Nothing was going to change Pulitzer, especially not a bunch of orphans and their friends. Turning to face the others, he glared at each of them as they did their best not to laugh.
"Ey! I don't gotta do this, ya know? I still don't see why da kid can't do it!" he exclaimed, pointing to Les Jacobs perched on Skittery's bunk, hand clamped over his mouth to keep his laughter contained.
Turning back to look in the mirror once more, Race cringed in pain and embarrassment. His dark curly brown hair had been combed and parted in such a way that gave him a rather deceiving look of innocence and childish youth. The girls had gotten together to lighten the dark circles under his eyes and did their best to make him look much younger than he really was. He was, after all, the ghost of Christmas Past! They even went so far as to dress him in a bright white button up shirt, one of Les's school ties, and a pair of trousers that buckled just below the knees much like the ones Snipeshooter wore. To Racetrack, it seemed all they managed to do was make him look like a rotten, stuck up, scabber.
Corky smiled as she approached Race and placed her hand on his shoulder, looking at him through the mirror and chuckling.
"Aw but Racey, ya look so pretty! 'Sides…Mrs. Jacobs wouldn't allow us ta take Les up the fire escapes that high. 'Fraid he might fall an' break his neck or something. Plus, we need someone convincin' like you." Corky teased, kissing the side of her boyfriend's head before patting his shoulder and moving off to check on how Dave and Jack's costumes were going.
"Yeah…well…dis bettah work!" he grumbled, reaching into his trousers pocket to pull out his cigar. Chomping on its end, he headed for the steps. Checking his pocket watch, he felt his stomach tie up in knots as he turned to look out the window over the darkening streets. Something told him that Pulitzer wasn't enough like that "Scrooge" character to fall for their act.
"Time to go Race," Bryan Denton said as he stepped up beside the teen and placed a hand on his shoulder. Gulping and placing his unlit cigar back into his pocket, Race looked to one of the only adult friends the teens had and nodded. Following Denton and his pal Skittery down the stairs, Race shivered at the cold air that met them at the bottom.
"Ey…how come I don't get a jacket? It's freezin' out 'ere! I'm liable ta catch my death of cold! I'm Italian…we don't fare well in the cold," he said his teeth chattering as he wrapped his arms around himself in an attempt to stay warm.
"Cuz…you're a ghost now…'member? Ghosts don't get cold," Skittery answered, smirking slightly as he buttoned his own coat and thumped his ever present walking stick down on the snow covered pavement.
"How do you know ghosts don't get cold? You ever met or tawked ta one before?" Race chattered, his fingers and lips turning blue as they stomped through the snow and moved quickly for the back part of The World building where the fire escapes were located.
"No…but e'erybody knows ghosts don't get cold."
"I bet Cowboy and Dave get jackets," Race muttered, his face contorted in aggravation and annoyance.
Stepping into the narrow back alley, the trio paused to stare up at the building and all the ladders and stairs Race was going to have to climb before reaching the top level. Once he reached the roof, he would carefully have to run across it in order to reach the dome in which Pulitzer's office was located.
Gulping and tugging at the tie that was suddenly choking the life out of him, Race looked to the others and raised an eyebrow. "I suppose now wouldn't be a good time ta mention the fact dat I'm scared ta death of heights, would it?"
Denton offered a small smile as he patted the teen's shoulder and ushered him towards the first ladder.
"You'll be fine, Race. Just don't look down. Now remember the plan, be back out front there by nine o'clock, that gives you roughly an hour to do your part. Dutchy will be waiting in the side alley for you with a jacket," he said as he moved to one side of Race while Skittery moved to stand on his other side.
"Think you can handle all that, Race?" Skitts teased, a small, playful smirk on his face as he linked his fingers together and bent down to give his friend a boost up. Race made a face at Skittery as he placed his hands on both his and Denton's shoulders before carefully placing a foot into each man's hands.
"All I gotta say is, if I die while tryin' ta do any of dis…I'm comin' back as a real ghost to haunt all of ya's! Lift me up," he answered as Denton and Skittery carefully began to lift him up to grasp the bars and pull himself onto the ladder completely.
Once he'd made it safely to the first landing, he looked over the railing and felt his stomach lurch as he realized the only place left for him to go was up. Knuckles turning white as he grasped the cold, snow covered bar, he looked to his friends, their features blurred by the dim light of the ally.
"You'll be fine, Racetrack. Remember, just don't look down and take it slow across the roof. Be back here by nine. I have to go make sure everything is still good on my end of this plan. Good luck," Denton called, smacking Skittery's shoulder as he turned and moved off down the ally, disappearing into the darkness.
"Go on, what are you waitin' for, Race? You're burnin' daylight," Skittery said as he waved for his friend to get a move on.
"In case ya haven't noticed, daylight's already been burnt out," Race grumbled, turning to start his long trek up the twisting, turning steps. At least the north wind didn't bite nearly as bad back there as it did on the street. Focusing all his brain power at the task at hand, Racetrack decided the best way to keep his mind off of how high up he was climbing was to recite the names of the different horses that ran both in the past and present at Sheepshead along with their statistics and odds.
The cold air stung at his lungs as he panted and climbed. Who knew there were so many steps to get to the roof of a six-story building? Finally pulling himself up and over the ledge, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the dark sky above. Glancing at his pocket watch once again, he silently cursed to himself as he realized he was quickly running out of time. Pushing himself back up onto his feet and dusting the cold snow off his clothes, Race turned to look at the looming dome before him.
"Oh you have gotta be kiddin' me…," he said to himself as he saw the only way up to one of the large, floor to ceiling windows was to literally climb up the side of the dome and pray to God that one of them was still unlocked.
Grumbling to himself and vowing to break every finger on Jack Kelly's hands once he got back to the lodging house, Racetrack carefully found finger and foot holds big enough for him to pull himself up with and begin trying at the windows. He still didn't know why he was the only one who was going to have to be climbing up into the office. Why couldn't he just use the lift like everyone else? Well, he supposed he knew why he couldn't use the lift -- having a serious case of claustrophobia might have had something to do with their decision.
His fingers numbed to the bone, he growled angry as he pushed hard against one of the windows. Out of the four he had tried already, none had moved and inch. The last thing he wanted to do was circle all the way around to the front, climb onto Pulitzer's balcony and rap at his doors until he was allowed in. His eyes going wide with surprise, he yelped out as the window he'd been shoving against lurched open and sent him tumbling to the floor with a thud, a stringy mixture of Italian and Gaelic swear words leaving his mouth. At least his Irish stepfather had been good for something, even if it wasn't the most savory lesson he'd ever taught his stepson.
In his office at the end of the hall, Pulitzer's head shot up when he heard the crashing sounds in a nearby office. Knowing that all his office workers had gone home for the night, he quickly got up from his desk and moved to see what the matter was. Opening every door and looking inside, he stopped cold in his tracks when he looked into one office and saw a young boy struggling to close the window he had come through.
"What are you doing there, boy?" Pulitzer questioned, his angry voice bouncing off the walls of the office. Race rolled his eyes and looked over his shoulder.
"Closin' da window, what's it look like I'm doin'?" He grumbled as he finally was able to get the latch to catch and the window to stay closed. Dusting himself off and straightening his shirt, Racetrack turned to face the man all the newsies had grown to despise the year before. Squaring his shoulders, he raised a numb hand to Mr. Pulitzer and frowned.
"Joe Pulitzer…I am da ghost of Christmas Past. I am here ta show you what your Christmases of past were like and ta pinpoint da time you stopped believin' in Christmas," Race said, trying his hardest to sound like he really knew what he was talking about.
Pulitzer looked at Racetrack for a moment, first in confusion, then in anger. Shaking his head, he moved to take the boy by the arm and usher him out the door.
"Don't lie to me, boy. I know who you are. You're one of those newsies that tried to ruin me last summer. Out with you. Leave!" Pulitzer demanded as he reached out to take hold of Race. Jolting out of the way, Racetrack tsk'd and waved his finger at him before reaching into his pocket for his cigar.
"Tsk tsk, Joe…mustn't touch da Ghost," he mumbled around his cigar. Reaching into his pocket again, he pulled out a match and struck it against the doorframe and proceeded to light his cigar, all the while smirking as he saw Pulitzer bristle with anger.
"You are not a ghost; you are one of those obnoxious newsies and I won't have you in my office. Now go."
"How do you know I'm not a ghost? Have ya ever met a ghost before? Huh? Yeah…thought not. Now look, I ain't any happier 'bout any of this than you are…but I got my orders an' my orders are to take you to go see yer Christmases past…or at least one of 'em," Race said, leaning against the doorframe and puffing on his cigar. Pulling his watch out, he looked at it for a moment then back up Pulitzer.
"I ain't got all night, Pulitzer. I got a schedule ta meet too, ya know? You ain't da only one I gotta see tanight, believe me," he couldn't help but smirk and wiggle his eyebrows a little in a suggestive fashion before tucking his pocket watch away again.
"Why should I believe you?" Joseph questioned, his cold eyes burning a hole into the teenage "ghost" before him. He didn't want to admit that he had never met a ghost before; so far all he knew, the boy could be telling the truth. Though given the way he was shivering and the fact that Pulitzer could smell the smoke from the cigar, lead him to believe the boy was in fact lying. Still, Joseph was a newspaper man, he liked digging for the truth, it was the cornerstone to which he built The World on.
Racetrack shrugged as he pushed himself off the doorframe and stuck his hands into his pockets.
"You don't gotta believe nothin', Joe. But jest think about da headlines," he paused to pull the cigar from his mouth before raising his hands to punctuate each word as he made up a good headline, "'Da Undead Alive and Walking among Us dis Holiday Season.' It'd be a killer! Er…so ta speak of course. Now c'mon, grab yer dang jacket…an' be thankful you've got it…an' let's get a move on."
The Ghost of Christmas Past turned on his heels and moved out into the hallway, cigar dangling from his mouth as he hummed old Italian Christmas songs to himself and went to wait by the lift. If there was one thing Race knew besides gambling and selling papes, it was that human's were naturally curious. So even though Pulitzer more than likely knew he was being had, he was probably going to follow his curiosity and follow Race just to see what was going on, and if they really had anything on him like they thought they did.
"Shake a leg, old man! I ain't got all night, ya know!"
Puffing in anger and disbelief, Joseph moved out into the hallway and glared at the teen waiting at the lift for him. A boy that age should know better than to disrespect his elders in such a way! Pulitzer watched as The Ghost jutted his elbow back and hit the button on the wall behind him, calling for the lift to come up and get them. Racetrack raised an eyebrow and waved off towards the empty office where Pulitzer's coat and hat still hung on the hooks.
"If ya don't get yer jacket an' hat…yer gonna get pretty cold out there."
He should have objected, told the boy to go on his way and leave him alone in peace. He didn't have time for such foolishness; he was a grown man with a business to tend to. Still, there was a voice inside his head telling him to get his coat and follow the boy. Torn between his common sense—which he prided himself on thinking he had plenty of—and his inborn curiosity, Pulitzer stood in the hall debating on what to do. Sighing, the fifty-three year old man, his eye sight and health failing, gave into the little voice and moved to fetch his coat and hat before following Race into the waiting lift. Joshua had already gone home for the night which left just the two of them to try and figure out what buttons to push in order for it to work.
"If you claim to be a ghost of Christmas Past, then we shouldn't have to use the lift," Joseph grumbled, his arms crossed over his chest. Right eye narrowed and twitching, Race reached over and smacked his palm against the round knob. Still glaring at Pulitzer, he listened as the doors closed and the gears over head began to whirl and grind.
"Why's e'erybody think dey know so much 'bout ghosts? Was dere some big headline I missed dat told all of da ghostly secrets or somethin'? I'm a ghost…not a stinkin' magician," he answered, lowering his voice as he continued to mutter to himself, his head and shoulder jerking slightly.
"No good, rotten muttonheads. Think dey know sooo much 'bout ghosts, if dey know so much 'bout 'em then dey shoulda done this demselves. Nooo…had ta make li'l ol' me do it for 'em."
"What are you mumbling about now, boy?" Joseph asked in aggravation.
"Nothin'…just…ghost stuff, you wouldn't understand," Race answered, shaking his head as the doors opened allowing them exit into the main lobby. It was dark and deserted, with only the lights from the street casting their shadows across the floor as they moved for the large gold doors. Race had to admit, the place gave him the creeps, especially being alone with Pulitzer. Pushing the grand doors open, The Ghost and his charge stepped out onto the empty street, pausing only when Race's shoes slid out from under him on the thin layer of ice that had formed on the concrete.
"Jesus, Joseph, an' Mary, nothin' is worth this kind of abuse! I'm gonna kill Kelly when I see 'im next!" Race exclaimed softly to himself as he landed flat on his back, a dull pain throbbing in his head, and a nerve in his backside sending urgent S.O.S signals to his heart. Fighting back the urge to whimper, he carefully stood back up and gulped hard.
"You…should really consider puttin' somethin' down out 'ere. Someone's liable ta get hurt…on dat ice." He said between clenches of pain. Shaking his head, Race looked back to Pulitzer and swore he almost saw a small smile on the man's face. Only Pulitzer would think it funny ta see a kid fall on his butt.
Joseph blinked in the dim light of the street at the lad before him. He had to give him credit for trying, he supposed. A lesser man would have given up on him already and left him in peace, but not this boy. He seemed determined to get his job done, no matter what it cost. It was that spunk and drive that made Pulitzer see just the faintest glimpse of himself in the teen. Buttoning his coat and readjusting his hat, Joseph waited for what was to happen next.
"I suppose then, that ghosts are unable to fly also, is that so?" He questioned as Race started to move out onto the street.
"Look, when you die an' become a ghost, you can find out all da tricks of da trade yerself. Right now though," Race paused and turned back to face Pulitzer. Reaching out, he took hold of the man's coat sleeve gently. "Close yer eyes, Joe, an' follow me to yer past."