Author's Note: This was written for the Newsies Pape Selling Competition. This was written for "Assignment Three: Write about the job of a newsboy after he was too old for the 'newsboy profession.'" I will warn you now - there's no happy ending, but it's what came to me as I started writing. I hope you enjoy...or at least don't hate it. ;-)
Race sighed and made the sign of the cross, as the priest did it over the simple pine box. He put on his hat and turned toward his ever-dwindling group of friends.
"Third time this month we've been here," said Skittery, throwing his cigarette on the ground.
"Hey," Race frowned, picking it up. "This is sacred ground. Throw it on the street." He shoved it back into Skittery's hand and walked off.
"Where you going?" Skittery asked.
"I'll meet you fellas at Tibby's later," was the only answer he received.
Race walked out of the small churchyard cemetery and down the street as a light drizzle began to fall on the streets of lower Manhattan.
Race rounded the corner and lost himself in zigzagging the streets until it was too wet to walk any further. He ducked under a storefront awning and waited for the downpour to pass.
It wasn't fair. Then again, life had never been fair for the streetkids. It was one thing for the adults who'd gambled or drank their money away to die young, but Snipeshooter had been just a kid – he didn't deserve to die so young.
Shortly after the strike, the "old gang" as they'd informally called themselves had begun to dwindle. Every time a newsie left the lodging house, two new, young kids came along.
The first to go was Jack. After Crutchy died that winter of '99, he just couldn't stomach New York anymore. He and Sarah boarded a train to Santa Fe after a small courthouse wedding ceremony. No one had heard from him since.
The second was Kloppman. Kloppman had a heart attack in the spring of 1900. As it turned out, Kloppman had owned the Newsboys Lodging House. He'd occasionally received aide from the Children's Aid Society, but for the most part he'd run it on his own dime, having received a large inheritance from his own family. Although his office had always appeared to be in total shambles, Kloppman had been very organized and intentional with his estate. In his will, he left the house to the Children's Aid Society, providing it always remain a Newsboys Lodging House, and providing "Anthony Higgins" step in to fill his role as caretaker.
That had surprised all of the newsies, Race most of all. Of all the newsies, he seemed the least qualified and prepared to run a Newsboys Lodging House. In fact, had anyone asked, he'd probably be voted Most Likely to Lose the Lodging House on a Bad Bet.
Kloppman had left no letter or message explaining his decision, but Race knew. He remembered all the late-night talks he and Kloppman had had as he grew up; talks that grew more frequent the older they both got. Kloppman was a father-figure to all the newsies, but he was the only father Racetrack had ever known. Many newsies had come and gone through the years, but Race was a constant. He was dropped on the front steps of the lodging house when he was days old with nothing but a St. Anthony's medal pinned to his baby blanket and a birth certificate left blank aside from the mother's name, which only listed "Mary Higgins."
Kloppman paid a nursing woman down the street a dollar a week to nurse Race until he was old enough for milk and baby food.
Kloppman had tried to teach Race right from wrong as he grew up, but very little stuck, as the young boy enjoyed cigarettes and cigars from a young age, spent most of his money at the track, and very soon got involved with some very shady people. Race was well on his way to becoming involved with one of the Italian gangs that called the Lower East Side their home.
When Kloppman died that all went by the wayside. Race doubted the faith his caretaker had put in him, but he would be damned before he let Kloppman down. He turned his back on his gang contacts, quit frequenting Sheepshead, and accepted the responsibility.
It had been hard for some of the older ones to accept that he was now in charge, but Race always tried to be fair. He knew he didn't have to worry about the older newsies – most of them were on their way out anyway.
The hardest part was when the winter hit, and sickness took hold. Race was no stranger to his friends and peers getting sick and possibly dying, but it was different when he was responsible for them. When they died under his watch. That was the worst.
He wasn't sure how much longer he could take. In October, Boots had been soaked beyond recognition. Race had tried to get a doctor, but there wasn't much to be done. He'd died days later.
A week after that, Blink had taken ill. Race knew it had been pneumonia, and he knew there was little he could do about it. Poor Blink had had 2 weeks of suffering before he didn't wake up one morning.
And now Snipeshooter.
Race dug a cigar stub out of his pocket and struck a match on the wall, lighting what remained of the cigar. At least it would pass the time until the rain subsided. If he'd still been a betting man, he would've put odds on who would get sick from this downpour and die before next Sunday.
When had he gotten so cynical? Back before Jack had left and before Crutchy, Kloppman, Boots, Blink, and Snipeshooter, he'd been full of hope. The world had been his oyster, and he'd intended to gather pearls.
They'd been the kings of New York for a few short years.
Now look at them.