Author's Note: This is sort of a companion piece to "Alone in the Spotlight", taking place a few months afterwards. It can be read on it's own, though a few references will make more sense if one has also read "Alone in the Spotlight". Sprace-i-ness will ensue. Yum.
Discaimer: Don't own Newsies. Duh.
He is waiting for me. I see him, right there at the end of the bridge. I think I might be crazy. After months of him ignoring me, and me ignoring him, he shows up out of nowhere. It can't be him. I was happy to pretend him away. I was fine when I shut Brooklyn out of my life. Fine is a relative term, of course.
"Hey," He says. It truly is Spot Conlon. He says the greeting casually, as though we saw each other every day.
"What are you doing here, Spot?" I ask.
"I'm walking to Sheepshead with you; what does it look like?" He replies in an annoyed voice. It's as though he's forgotten that we haven't spoken since the strike. And even the few times we spoke during that summer, our conversation were superficial, sounding scripted and rehearsed, purely so the other Manhattan boys could continue thinking that Spot and I were friends. It was too difficult to explain why we stopped being friends.
The sight of him smirking at me (just the way he used to) is unbearable, yet so sinfully delightful. What did this mean? Spot made a clean break. We weren't supposed to even talk. We both knew it wasn't right. Our chemistry was dangerous and sick.
I don't answer, I just fall into step next to him and we start to the journey for Sheepshead. We keep a safe, unnatural distance. I am again reminded of actors, pantomiming an exaggeratedly platonic friendship. Part of me feels comforted just seeing him again. The other part of me longs to tear out my own eyeballs so I can spare myself from looking at him. I realize that sounds very dramatic and Greek tragedy. I've been in kind of a Sophocles mood lately. Don't seem so surprised.
"How's Manhattan?" He asks, keeping the conversation strictly business.
"Same as it ever was." I say coldly. I refuse to forgive him. Of all the people in New York, I will not pretend for Spot Conlon. I play my part for my friends, but that is all. I will not act funny and fine and chipper for him. I still play that game for the rest of the world to watch. I blame Spot for making me that way. And I will not be lowered to playacting for him.
"Ah, great, Jacky-Boy keeping you bums in line," Spot teases, not noticing my severe tone. Or else choosing to ignore my tone. "How is the old dog, anyway?"
"I don't know; I ain't his mother!" I snap, taking a brisker pace. Spot catches up to me.
"What is with you?" He demands, inching a step closer, trying to be menacing.
"You think I'm just gonna act like you didn't come up outta nowhere?" I say angrily, "You- you- you--!" I can't find the words. You betrayed me? You ignored me? Nothing I could think of seemed to fit.
"I- I- I--? What?" Spot mocks cruelly, "Spit it out, Higgins. Ain't you the one with all the clever comebacks?"
"Forget it." Disgust drips off of my voice.
"Seriously, kid, I ain't heard from Manhattan in a good few months," Spot persists, "How's Jack and Dave, and the boys?"
"Jack and Dave have been fighting lately, actually," I relent to talk to him in a civilized voice, "Some disagreement about Sarah, I think."
To my surprise, Spot laughs. "Figures. I always thought Jack was more in love with Dave than he was with Sarah. Those two always acted like such queers."
"Ain't like it's a concept you don't understand." The words are out of my mouth before I realize it. Spot stops me, his hand closes around my wrist and he twists my arm back. Ow.
"Take it back."
"No!" I ain't scared of him, King of Brooklyn or not.
"Why would you suggest that I would have any familiarity with-- you know, queers and stuff?"
I say nothing. I give him a look. All the words that remained stubbornly silent, all the feelings, and pain was etched onto my face in the absolute defiance of Spot's denial. With effort, Spot matched my gaze. It was a moment of chemistry and understanding. I used to live for those moments with Spot. At first, it was all fun and electricity. Like we were laughing at a joke no one but the two of us could understand. As time went on, the frequency of such moments increased. They became laced when awkwardness, then tainted with our own rejection.
"Listen, Higgins, I know you like to be the smart-ass and all, but get this one straight:" He growls, twisting my arm back further, and bringing his face close to mine. My heart has stopped, but whether from the touch of his skin, or from my own fear of getting soaked, I do not know. "I don't understand that. I don't. You think I do, or you think I could-- because of-- before!" He tone rose dangerously, "It was all before and it was all nothing and you know it. Leave it alone Racetrack. None of it meant nothing" He spits with rage, "Get it through your damn brains. I will never. Ever. Understand people like you."
He releases his grip around my wrist, but shoves me away forcefully. I land on the uneven cobblestones, tasting blood in my mouth after the my jaw and the curb are acquainted. I pick myself up in time to see Spot's retreat. He pauses and glances over his shoulder at me. He gorgeous somber eyes fill with regret and remorse as he sees me struggle to my feet and carry on toward my destination without him. Or maybe his eyes are blank and cold and uncaring. I can't tell from here. I will believe what I want to believe.
My day at Sheepshead is only a blur of crowds and popcorn and beer and papes. I doubt I sell half my quota of newspapers. I don't even care.
It's getting dark when I leave the tracks, and I'm counting up the days take (including a stolen cigar and a generous tip from a poor chap trying to impress his date by lavishing fine tips on nobodies like me). I count with no heart. My heart isn't in anything today. The morning events and encounters left me too distracted. I've long sense learned that it's easier to not have a heart anyway. I step out onto the streets, welcomed by a thick shower of rain. Wide drops pound mercilessly against the stone ground. I'm soaked to the skin within minutes. What a perfect match to my mood.
"Higgins!" A voice behind me rakes the evening air. It's Conlon. It's Spot. I wheel around to see Spot approach me purposefully. I brace myself for a beating.
"Higgins, why are you still here?"
"It's my selling spot. Been going to Sheepshead for years."
"I don't want you in Brooklyn anymore."
"What?" I feel like I'd been kicked in the gut. Brooklyn is as much home to me as Manhattan. Spot knew that. I was the almost-Brooklyn newsie.
"Shut up." Spot grabbed the scruff of my neck forced me in to the alley opposite the tracks.
He lets me go, once we're out of the rain, deep in the safe shadows of the alley. I don't know why he chooses today to speak to me. I'd long ago given up hope that we would ever acknowledge each other again. I don't say anything; I just watch him pace the alley. He's trying to figure out his words. He needs to say something to me, but he isn't sure what that something is. I know the exact feeling. How many times have I myself struggled over how I felt about him and how to communicate that feeling? Too many times.
I understand. This is a scene off the books. No matter who says what for the next few minutes, it will never be discussed again. Backstage of The Life of Racetrack Higgins, if you will. The messy greasepaint and unfinished flats my audience will never see.
At last, Spot speaks.
"I hate you." He tells me. The words don't sting as much as I thought they might. "You ruin everything. I'm fine, then you show up, walking on through Brooklyn, and-- I hate it!"
"Yeah, why you think that is?" I say snidely.
"Shut up! You never shut up." Spot snaps, pushing me again, so's I have to catch myself on the brick wall behind me,"This is all your fault. You act like I'm a terrible friend or something, just because I did what I had to--"
"What you had to do, Conlon? Bullshit, that's absolute bullshit, you know it!" I interrupt him, furious. This is not my fault. I shove him in retaliation.
"What was I supposed to do?" He asks, rocking backwards.
"You didn't have to run."
"You act like this was something, Higgins, you act like this really happened." Spot says accusingly, "If you ain't never said nothing, we could have left things how they were."
"Yeah, I know that's how you like to live--"
"Shut up." He snarls again. I feel my eyes widen in their sockets; I fear I my have taken it a step too far. Spot backs me against the wall, with one hand tight around my wrist. I would not put it past him to break my arm. "What do I have to do to get you to shut up?" He asks me, his face inches from mine. At that moment, I think of a joke. Not a very good one. For once, I use good judgment and keep the joke inside my head.
"Nothing." I say hollowly, "Nothing. I won't come back." The fight has gone out of me. I'm beaten. I don't want to deal with Spot Conlon anymore. I'll say out of Brooklyn. I don't care. I suddenly can't care about anything. I just don't want him to break my arm. I just want to go home. Maybe just go home and die. I want to go back to my friends and make-believe my happiness.
"Good." And he kisses me. I had not expected this. It isn't a soft, tender kiss. It's rough kiss, like he knows it's something he has to do. It's something we have to do. But neither of us wanted this. I feel his lips against mine, tongue in my mouth. It's the very feeling I wondered so often about. It's the scenario I so often fantasized about. It's everything we never wanted.
And then it's over. The kiss is broken. We can't even look at each other. There are a couple of awkward moments where neither of us move. Then I realize, that's all. That's all. All the years of agonizing over this boy, and this was all it had amounted to. A few seconds of pleasure, spoiled by our own inhibitions.
I can go home. I certainly can't stay here. And I can't come back here. Spot and I retreat in separate directions, our one kiss, one night, one memory, over. I can go home and die, if I want. I start the lonely walk down the bridge. To Manhattan, to my friends. My spotlight, my stage.