Notes: Awright. Here goes my first attempt at a Newsie fanfic.
Comments and criticisms highly appreciated and to be rewarded with cookies,
because this is not only my first Newsie fanfic, it's my first fanfic ever,
which means I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. Ahem.
The title of the fic is drawn from the song "The Low Spark of High- Heeled Boys" by Traffic. *boogies down*
Warnings: A bit of swearing here and there (or "cussing," as you Americans like to put it), eventual slash (Skits/Race), and completely shameless references to David Bowie and Lou Reed. A brief self-insertion stint as a background character is incoming.
Oh yeah, and the disclaimer: Newsies and everything related to it belongs to Disney, except the fanfiction (although who knows, Walt D. might have gotten down and written out a heated slash or two in his time.) and any OCs therein. I wish I owned Newsies. Then I could start a man-brothel. Hee hee. Ahem.
Endless bouts of thanks to Mis and Shade for bugging me to write a Newsie fic. (And slash, no less!)
So, bear with me. Or, if I'm lucky: Enjoy!
-Ish
---
In a lesser-known area of New York, its description wavering uncertainly between a city and a suburb, there was an avenue called Fifth. Fifth avenue was nicely lined with large, admirable deciduous trees that shed a relief of shade for pedestrians suffering in the terrible summer heat. Walking down this avenue, such a humidity-tormented pedestrian would inevitably pass a pleasant brick house with white trim, and a mailbox in the front yard that said "Reed." In this house lived a youth who, in this sheltered, lush neighborhood, was about to be spiritually enlightened in a way that certainly his family or his neighbours would have heartily disapproved. This young man, in effect, was about to take a casual stroll on the wild side.
Louis looked across his bowl at the tiny portrait of the Negro chef that smiled up at him from the Cream of Wheat box. He traced the word "black" in the pasty white breakfast substance, the lines filling up even as he formed them, and recalled yesterday's conversation between his parents.
"Dammit, Liza," his father had said in a frustrated voice as his wife pulled her groceries out of the shopping bag. "You can't even buy damn oatmeal without seeing a black somewhere. New York had it right at the turn of the century, you know. Keep the blacks in their part of town and us in our own." He'd reached out a large, hairy hand and picked up the package, scrutinizing it scornfully with his small, grey eyes, before setting it down again with a derisive snort.
"Now, now, Jake," Louis' mother had replied soothingly. "It's only a food package. It's only right that they prepare our meals for us, hm?"
This blatant show of racism bothered Louis, but his stretched nerves didn't affect his judgment, and he knew better than to speak out against his father. His prejudices weren't the only traditionalist things about him - he wasn't afraid to use physical force to punish his son.
Now, as Louis was halfheartedly eating his supposedly Negro-prepared breakfast ("It's only the mascot that's black, dad," he'd pointed out), he heard his father emit a sound of utmost disgust from behind the newspaper he was reading. The paper - headline: "Baby Born With Three Heads!" - lowered so that his father was able to make eye contact with Louis, who flinched at his expression.
"You got a bad case of the skitters there, son. Take care of that. Now, listen," he said, folding the paper back and holding it in one hand. "The world's going funny; it's in a rut, you could say. Now, don't lose hope, boy. Our boy Nixon is going to take care of this nonsense once and for all, but while he's preparing to do so, I want you to watch out for yourself. There are all kinds of funny things going on these days, you hear?"
Louis grunted an assent. "What's up?"
"This," replied his father, throwing the paper across the table towards Louis (and, effectively, sloshing the picture of the baby with cream of wheat, so that it now only appeared to have two point five heads to speak of). Louis stared at the paper blankly and opened his mouth to ask a question, but Jake had reached across the table and rammed a finger into a column that said "Music Review" as a header.
"Er. The Best of Frank Sinatra?" asked Louis.
His father looked up at him in confusion for a moment, before seeing where he'd pointed. Quickly he shifted his aim and stamped the end of a greasy index finger on the review below it.
Louis began to read the strange title out loud: " 'Ziggy St-'"
"They've got fucking queers in the media!" raged Jake, standing up to his full six feet in indignation.
"Language, dear!" admonished Louis' mother from the living room where she sat placidly in her oak rocking chair, knitting.
"Just a minute, Liza," replied Jake distractedly, before turning back to his son. "Listen, Louis. I say Nixon's going to take care of this once and for all, but when they've got fags in the entertainment business - and giving them good reviews, at that! Son, there's something to be said for watching who you talk to and where to go. I'm saying this for your own good, Louis."
"Yessir."
"Good. Good," mumbled Louis' father, turning away and walking out of the room, clearly still shaken by the fact that the paper had allowed such a blemish on society into public press.
Louis watched him go before turning curiously back to the music review column, glancing apprehensively at that particular review his father had pointed out as though it would alert his father of his reading it.
He shot another apprehensive look toward the doorway, and then tried to look nonchalant as he scanned the title of the record.
"Ziggy Stardust," he read softly so as not to be overheard. "Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars?" A smile played at his lips. "The Spiders from Mars." He looked at the cover illustration: an androgynous young man leaning on a building, sporting an eyesore of a turquoise outfit. He scanned the rest of the article:
"David Bowie. revolutionary new album. glam rock. gender-bending . extraordinary." he repeated the words out loud as he read them.
"Crazy," he grinned, standing up. He dropped the paper unceremoniously onto the table and picked up his dishes. "Gender-bending. Crazy," he repeated. "He certainly does look like a pouf."
Funnily, though, this description didn't make him feel as repelled as he thought it would. Intrigued might have been more accurate.
The title of the fic is drawn from the song "The Low Spark of High- Heeled Boys" by Traffic. *boogies down*
Warnings: A bit of swearing here and there (or "cussing," as you Americans like to put it), eventual slash (Skits/Race), and completely shameless references to David Bowie and Lou Reed. A brief self-insertion stint as a background character is incoming.
Oh yeah, and the disclaimer: Newsies and everything related to it belongs to Disney, except the fanfiction (although who knows, Walt D. might have gotten down and written out a heated slash or two in his time.) and any OCs therein. I wish I owned Newsies. Then I could start a man-brothel. Hee hee. Ahem.
Endless bouts of thanks to Mis and Shade for bugging me to write a Newsie fic. (And slash, no less!)
So, bear with me. Or, if I'm lucky: Enjoy!
-Ish
---
In a lesser-known area of New York, its description wavering uncertainly between a city and a suburb, there was an avenue called Fifth. Fifth avenue was nicely lined with large, admirable deciduous trees that shed a relief of shade for pedestrians suffering in the terrible summer heat. Walking down this avenue, such a humidity-tormented pedestrian would inevitably pass a pleasant brick house with white trim, and a mailbox in the front yard that said "Reed." In this house lived a youth who, in this sheltered, lush neighborhood, was about to be spiritually enlightened in a way that certainly his family or his neighbours would have heartily disapproved. This young man, in effect, was about to take a casual stroll on the wild side.
Louis looked across his bowl at the tiny portrait of the Negro chef that smiled up at him from the Cream of Wheat box. He traced the word "black" in the pasty white breakfast substance, the lines filling up even as he formed them, and recalled yesterday's conversation between his parents.
"Dammit, Liza," his father had said in a frustrated voice as his wife pulled her groceries out of the shopping bag. "You can't even buy damn oatmeal without seeing a black somewhere. New York had it right at the turn of the century, you know. Keep the blacks in their part of town and us in our own." He'd reached out a large, hairy hand and picked up the package, scrutinizing it scornfully with his small, grey eyes, before setting it down again with a derisive snort.
"Now, now, Jake," Louis' mother had replied soothingly. "It's only a food package. It's only right that they prepare our meals for us, hm?"
This blatant show of racism bothered Louis, but his stretched nerves didn't affect his judgment, and he knew better than to speak out against his father. His prejudices weren't the only traditionalist things about him - he wasn't afraid to use physical force to punish his son.
Now, as Louis was halfheartedly eating his supposedly Negro-prepared breakfast ("It's only the mascot that's black, dad," he'd pointed out), he heard his father emit a sound of utmost disgust from behind the newspaper he was reading. The paper - headline: "Baby Born With Three Heads!" - lowered so that his father was able to make eye contact with Louis, who flinched at his expression.
"You got a bad case of the skitters there, son. Take care of that. Now, listen," he said, folding the paper back and holding it in one hand. "The world's going funny; it's in a rut, you could say. Now, don't lose hope, boy. Our boy Nixon is going to take care of this nonsense once and for all, but while he's preparing to do so, I want you to watch out for yourself. There are all kinds of funny things going on these days, you hear?"
Louis grunted an assent. "What's up?"
"This," replied his father, throwing the paper across the table towards Louis (and, effectively, sloshing the picture of the baby with cream of wheat, so that it now only appeared to have two point five heads to speak of). Louis stared at the paper blankly and opened his mouth to ask a question, but Jake had reached across the table and rammed a finger into a column that said "Music Review" as a header.
"Er. The Best of Frank Sinatra?" asked Louis.
His father looked up at him in confusion for a moment, before seeing where he'd pointed. Quickly he shifted his aim and stamped the end of a greasy index finger on the review below it.
Louis began to read the strange title out loud: " 'Ziggy St-'"
"They've got fucking queers in the media!" raged Jake, standing up to his full six feet in indignation.
"Language, dear!" admonished Louis' mother from the living room where she sat placidly in her oak rocking chair, knitting.
"Just a minute, Liza," replied Jake distractedly, before turning back to his son. "Listen, Louis. I say Nixon's going to take care of this once and for all, but when they've got fags in the entertainment business - and giving them good reviews, at that! Son, there's something to be said for watching who you talk to and where to go. I'm saying this for your own good, Louis."
"Yessir."
"Good. Good," mumbled Louis' father, turning away and walking out of the room, clearly still shaken by the fact that the paper had allowed such a blemish on society into public press.
Louis watched him go before turning curiously back to the music review column, glancing apprehensively at that particular review his father had pointed out as though it would alert his father of his reading it.
He shot another apprehensive look toward the doorway, and then tried to look nonchalant as he scanned the title of the record.
"Ziggy Stardust," he read softly so as not to be overheard. "Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars?" A smile played at his lips. "The Spiders from Mars." He looked at the cover illustration: an androgynous young man leaning on a building, sporting an eyesore of a turquoise outfit. He scanned the rest of the article:
"David Bowie. revolutionary new album. glam rock. gender-bending . extraordinary." he repeated the words out loud as he read them.
"Crazy," he grinned, standing up. He dropped the paper unceremoniously onto the table and picked up his dishes. "Gender-bending. Crazy," he repeated. "He certainly does look like a pouf."
Funnily, though, this description didn't make him feel as repelled as he thought it would. Intrigued might have been more accurate.