Vision
By Princess MacEaver
Disclaimer: Disney owns anything in this fic worth owning. Moshe's mine—I know you want him.
Thanks go out to Kora, Poet, and even Moneybags and Scribbles. : ) Sorry if I forgot anyone!
In the summer of 1899, Jack Kelly led a newsies' strike against the newspaper moguls Joseph Pultizer and William Randolph Hearst. The newspaper owners had raised the cost of the newspapers for the newsies from fifty cents per hundred papers to sixty cents per hundred. In the face of scabs, corruption, and police brutality, the newsies were successful in getting their rights restored. This is for those of you who wondered, "and then what happened…?"
It was September 1899, not two months after the strike was over. The newsies had long since returned to their regular schedules and the strike was only a memory, though not a distant one. Jack Kelly, known as Cowboy to the newsies, was still lauded and recognized for his efforts in the strike, as was his friend and partner in leading the strike, David Jacobs.
David, however, had returned to school just weeks before to start the fall semester. He remained friends with the newsies, but saw them only after working hours, and on nights he didn't have to study. He had dreams of going to college and getting a law degree, working as a lawyer instead of in the factories. His younger brother, Les, also attended school, at least on days he could be found and forced to go. When he didn't show up for school, everyone knew to look for him at the newsies' usual selling spots, where he would hang out with his friend Boots and sell papers again.
Other than Davey and Les returning to school, however, life for the Manhattan newsies remained largely unchanged, until one day in September when a new boy arrived at the lodging house during a late summer rainstorm.
In the storm of the afternoon, the newsies had sought shelter in popular indoor hangouts such as Irving Hall theater or Tibby's, their favorite café. At four o'clock in the afternoon, the lodging house was deserted save for Kloppman, the elderly proprietor.
At the sound of the door opening, Kloppman shook out the pages of his newspaper and didn't glance up. "Don't drip on the floor," was all he said, his bespectacled eyes scanning a story about a scandal at the races.
The boy in the doorway looked to be about sixteen, muscular but slender. He wore a blue shirt soaked against his skin, dark trousers, and white suspenders. Beneath the brim of his gray tweed cap, black hair clung to his forehead in thick wet strands, trickling water down between his straight black brows. His skin was dark, and his ethnicity was unclear—likely Jewish, or possibly Italian. He took four long, slow strides to Kloppman's desk, his black boots leaving watery prints in spite of Kloppman's admonition, and set down his sack.
The landlord only looked up at the sound of coins clinking on the counter. He lowered the paper and looked the boy over. "Moving in? Just a minute." He folded his paper noisily, bent below the counter, and reemerged with a thin gray ledger book. "Just sign yer name there," he said, tapping a blank line on a yellowed page.
The boy took the offered pen and his eyes flicked up briefly to meet Kloppman's. The gaze lasted only a fraction of a second, but the intensity of his dark eyes made Kloppman take an involuntary step back. The new boy almost seemed to be sizing him up, judging him, in that quickest look. But then he broke the gaze and printed his name in the register.
Kloppman took the book and turned it to read the name. "Moshe Lipman, eh?" he said. "You'll find that name won't stick long here." He laughed humorlessly, shut the book, and nodded toward the stairs. "The bunkroom's up that way. There should be an empty or two."
"Thanks," the boy—Moshe—said, not cracking a smile, and took his bag and headed up the stairs.
Kloppman squinted up at Moshe's back and then shivered ever so slightly, as if the room was colder for him being gone. Then he shook off the feeling and took up his paper again.
An hour later, when the rain had ceased, Jack Kelly walked down the wet street, a thin stack of papers hanging from the rope slung over his shoulder. He was taking a break from hawking the headlines and heading down to a pretzel stand at the corner of Bleeker and 31st. As he passed, he heard a voice call his name.
"Jack!"
Jack turned to see Les Jacobs, David's younger brother, wooden sword in hand and Jack's oversized black cowboy hat cockeyed on his head. Les rushed at his idol, whom he hadn't seen in over a week, and wrapped his arms around Jack's waist in an overwhelming hug.
"Whoa," Jack said, laughing, and pushed Les away so he could regain his balance. "Les! Hey you, ain'tcha supposed to be in school?"
"Holiday or somethin'," Les said innocently, pushing his hat up though it promptly fell forward again.
"Oh really?" Jack raised his eyebrows. "Hey, pop quiz, Les. What's four times five plus six?"
The hat slid farther down Les's brow as he started silently whispering numbers to himself. Jack laughed to see his puzzlement, knocked him on the hat (effectively jamming it right over his eyes), threw him a penny candy, and continued down the street without listening for the answer.
"Tell your sistah hi for me," he called over his shoulder, hands in pockets.
"Oh yeah," Les said, shoving the hat up and running after Jack. "I was supposed ta say…she wants ya to come by tomorrow night for dinner. You'll come?"
"Shoah, kid," Jack agreed. "I'll be dere."
Les ran off to mock swordfight and Jack continued down the street with his easy, casual gait. He got in line at the pretzel stand and recognized the customer in line ahead of him as Specs, a friend of his and a fellow newsie.
The boys greeted each other and Jack noticed Specs had no more papers. "What's up, Specs, you sold 'em all already?"
Specs got his change and his snack from the vendor and smiled. "My luck to be caught in da rain just outside da matinee opera. All da rich folks bought some to covah deir heads with to run to da cabs. I was out in ten minutes flat and coulda sold anudda sixty, at least, if I'd had 'em."
"Dat many?" Jack asked, then, to the vendor, "Just one, thanks."
Specs waited as Jack got his pretzel then the two headed down the street together. "Yeah, think I'm gonna see if my goil's free t'night, maybe catch a show. How 'bout you?"
"Well I still got dese papes to go t'rough," Jack said, "but aftah, I don't have any plans."
Specs pointed out Jack's papers and laughed, "Hey, ain't losin' your touch, are ya, Cowboy?"
"What's dat supposed ta mean?" Jack asked, halting, but Specs continued, shrugging.
"Ah, nothin'. Catch ya later, Jack."
Jack glanced down at his papers and then back up at Specs' receding back. Losing his touch?
Jack strolled back into the lodging house just after his dinner. Upstairs, he found the boys sitting around and playing cards in the bunkroom as usual, though a sizeable group was clustered around one table. His friends called him over when they saw him and he approached the group.
"What's goin' on?" he asked sociably.
"Look Jack, we got a new kid," Crutchy piped up, pointing across the table. A dark head turned around slowly and Jack met Moshe's eyes. He felt something of the same feeling Kloppman had experienced when first he met the boy's gaze.
The new boy stood up. "Moshe Lipman," he said, extending his hand.
"Jack Kelly. Fellas call me Cowboy," Jack replied, shaking Moshe's hand and trying to figure out his first impression. Though he seemed to radiate a heat that drew the others to him like beggars around a warm grate, there was something cold about the boy. Something not quite friendly. Jack couldn't have explained it as he tried. Maybe it was the way he felt the other boy's dark eyes were studying him so intensely—intense, that was the word for it. Moshe's grip was firm, and a dark ragged cloth was bound around his knuckles.
"You from around heah?" Jack asked, taking a seat someone quickly vacated for his use.
Moshe returned to his own chair and his long legs spread under the table. "Not really," he replied, straightening the cloth around his hand and slouching back in his chair. "Grew up in Queens but I've been livin' in Detroit these past five years. Lost my job dere and thought I'd give sellin' papers a try." His accent sounded something like the others', owing to his youth in New York, but was not quite as thick.
"Well it ain't too glamorous a living," Jack warned him.
Moshe's mouth twisted up in wry smile. "I ain't used to glamorous anyway."
"Ain't dat da truth," someone said, and there was a murmur of agreement around the table.
"So you're new to dis newsie business?" Jack asked.
"I seen it done, but no, nevah sold."
"How's about I help ya get started tomorra?" Jack asked, standing up and starting to head toward the bathroom. "Show ya da ropes, like."
"Sure," Moshe agreed. "Appreciate dat."
As Jack washed his hands and face he could hear the newsies continue to talk behind him.
"Cowboy's kinda in charge around heah," Blink explained.
"I could tell," Moshe's voice replied, and Jack smiled into his washcloth.
"You hoid about our strike dis summer?" Boots asked.
"Didn't get much news of dat in Detroit. What's it all about?"
Jack then entered a stall and missed most of the explanation. When he returned to the table, the boys were just reaching the conclusion.
"So when Jack an' Davey came out, wit da whole crowd dere an' everything, dey announced dat we'd won it," Mush said excitedly, interrupting Race's version of the story. "We'd gotten da papes back down to fifty cents a hundred an' ended da strike!"
There was a silence as all the boys looked to Moshe for his reaction. When it came, it was chillingly understated. "Dat's it?" was all he said.
Race and Blink looked at each other uncertainly and for once, had nothing to say.
After several moments of uncomfortable silence, Jack spoke. "Whattya mean, 'dat's it'? A course dat's it. We won."
Moshe turned in his chair to face Jack, who was standing behind him. "Well, I'm just not dat impressed, is all," he said, shrugging insolently.
This time, the boys exploded, disbelieving and insulted. Jack automatically held up a hand for silence, and in front of him, Moshe made the same gesture. The boys shut their mouths and looked to Jack.
Jack set his hands on the table and leaned in close to Moshe, covering his anger with a smooth contemptuous expression.
"Just what would you have done, Lipman?" he asked softly.
Moshe wasn't fazed at all. "Just taken it as far as it could go, Cowboy. Dat's all." He turned his eyes away from Jack and looked out at the assembled boys.
"I mean, isn't it obvious?" he asked them. "You had da power, didn't you? Why not ask for more when you could?"
Jack threw up his hands in disgust and stepped back from the table, but the other boys looked at Moshe with interest.
"Like what, Moshe?" Mush asked tentatively.
"Yeah, like what?" Itey echoed.
Moshe shrugged and stood, making some vague reply, but turned to find himself nose-to-nose with Jack. "Like what, Moshe?" Jack asked, each word soft as a whisper but edged in malice.
Moshe smirked and Jack saw something like amusement in his eyes. "Doesn't matter, Jack," he said. "Anything. When you had the power, you coulda got anything." He started to walk away and then turned deliberately to add, "Like, forty cents a hundred." Then, without a word of excuse, he brushed against Jack and left for the bathroom.
Jack stood a moment in shock, then turned to the newsies. "Would ya get a load of—" he started, and cut off, seeing the newsies conferring intently among themselves.
The phrase 'forty cents a hundred' was traveling through them like an electrical impulse, issuing in a whisper each pair of lips. Jack could not believe what he was hearing.
"Are you really listening to dat?" he asked, his voice jumping out louder than he had intended. Every mouth shut with a snap and all eyes focused on him. "He's full of it!" Jack insisted, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
A few boys dropped their eyes, or looked to one other. Jack just stared silently and then stalked away to finish getting ready for bed.
The next morning as he shouldered his papers, he felt a sudden wave of loneliness and strongly wished David hadn't had to return to school. At the same time, he envied his friend, for the opportunities his education would provide him. Jack's education had been inconsistent and incomplete, and as his eighteenth year fast approached, he wondered just what sort of employment he would be able to secure once his newsie days were done. That was the sort of thing to talk to Dave about, he knew, and planned to bring it up after dinner that night.
That, and this new unrest among the boys. Last night, muffled conversations had carried on long past lights out, and that morning boys in the washroom fell silent when he entered. He'd heard enough, though, to know what they were talking about: that ridiculous idea the new boy had planted in their heads the night before. Forty cents a hundred! Papers had been selling two for a penny ever since he'd started working as a newsie eight years before. It was like tradition. Not to mention that the math involved in switching prices made his head hurt. Who did that Lipman fellow think he was, getting everyone stirred up over it?
Jack turned with a start, feeling a tap on his shoulder. It was Moshe, the instigator himself, carrying his own stack of papers and looking at Jack with that cocky half-smile fixed firmly on his face.
"Whattaya want?"
"Well, you did say you'd help me out sellin' today," Moshe replied, his smile unchanging. "Show me da ropes an' all that."
"Oh yeah," Jack said grudgingly.
"Unless you've changed your mind—" Moshe spoke up quickly, pointing like he was preparing to go.
Jack shook his head immediately, remembering that he was, after all, the Manhattan leader, and had to at least pretend like he liked all the newsies. And he had offered. "Oh, no, no problem," he said. "Come along wit me."
And he started his usual speech about headlines and selling spots, the same introduction he'd given every new newsie for years. As he rattled off the spiel, he remembered back to when he'd succeeded Matches Monroe as the unofficial leader of the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House and surrounding territory. He wondered where Matches had ended up; he hadn't heard from him after his departure those two years before. Matches had been a good leader, if somewhat irresponsible and a little too fond of fire for comfort. But every good leader had to leave sometime.
And who would take Jack's place when he was gone? He'd always kind of seen Racetrack as his right-hand man, but it was unlikely Race would ever be a leader. He was more of the sidekick type. And he was probably in fact older than Jack, though he had never said. Then who else? Neither Mush nor Blink had the ambition, and the ones Jack considered more serious, Skittery or Specs for example, lacked the popular appeal. Boots had the potential to be a good leader in his time; Jack liked his initiative, his maturity, and his loyalty, among other qualities. But Boots was still young, younger than any other leader around. The older boys wouldn't like to answer to someone whose voice hadn't even changed.
And Moshe. Jack looked at the boy walking beside him. He had charisma, that was for sure. And ambition. The boys liked him already. He seemed to fit every requirement, but the idea repelled Jack. The question was, did he have character?
"Okay, I get it, I get it," Moshe interrupted, and Jack realized he'd still been reciting the speech. It was very unlike him to get preoccupied and forget where he was like that.
"Right," Jack said, straightening his collar. "Well heah's da boxing ring," he said, and pointed. "Da crowd heah's easy. Why don'tcha give it a shot."
Moshe tugged his cap and set off for the crowd, but suddenly Jack called him back.
"What?"
Jack pulled at his bandana and leaned one arm against the brick wall. "Actually, I wanted ta tawlk just a minute."
Moshe cast a glance toward the crowd behind him, then turned back to face Jack. "Okay, shoot," he said, holding his papers against his chest.
Jack decided to get right to the point. "Just what were you aiming at, getting' all da fellas woiked up last night?"
Moshe's expression didn't change for a moment, then he asked, "What, you mean dat strike stuff?"
"Yeah, 'dat strike stuff'," Jack said. "Dis business wit forty cents a hundred an' all dat. Look, you'se a smart guy. You know you don't need to be puttin' no ideas in deir heads."
"Well why not?" Moshe interrupted.
"What?"
"Why not? It's a good idea."
"It's a—a good idea?" Jack flung his arm down, exasperated. "I understand dat you're new here an' all, but dat's just not smaht. We don't need ta strike again. We got what we wanted. Maybe we was lucky da foist time, an' we don't need ta press our luck. Fifty cents a hundred, dat was fair. Forty cents, dat's just—dat's just greedy."
Moshe's smirk crept back onto his face. He didn't say a word.
Jack adjusted his bandanna and stepped closer. "So do ya heah me, Moshe?"
Moshe regarded Jack silently, his smile widening slightly. "You know what your problem is, Jack?" he finally said. "You don't got vision." He tapped right beside his eye with two fingers. "You don't got vision."
Then the new boy turned and blended into the crowd, leaving the Manhattan leader speechless and stunned by the wall.
"Somebody get the door!"
"I'll get it, Mama," Jack heard a sweet female voice say. He quickly brushed off his jacket sleeves and smoothed back his hair.
The door opened and Sarah stood in the doorway in a brown skirt and white blouse, her hair loose and shiny past her shoulders. "Hi," she said softly, holding the doorknob, and brushed her hair behind her ear.
"Hi," Jack whispered back, and suddenly stepped in and kissed her. She giggled and pulled the door open wide, her cheeks flushing pink.
"Good evening, Jack," she said in loud, false tones. "Please come in."
Jack grinned at her and entered the Jacobs' small apartment, letting Sarah take his jacket and hang it by the door. Esther Jacobs, Sarah's mother, left her place at the stove to come greet their dinner guest.
"It's good to see you, Jack," she said. "Why don't you go tell the boys you're here? They're up on the roof."
Sarah stayed behind to serve up dinner as Jack exited via the window and started up the fire escape. On the roof, Les was sword-fighting with stockings as David sat, head bowed over a book.
"Whatcha readin' dere, Davey?" Jack asked, coming up behind him. David jumped and dropped his book, then knocked over the flowerpot next to him as he fumbled to catch it.
"A Tale of Two Cities," Davey replied, passing Jack the book as he knelt to right the flowerpot. "Dickens." He scooped the spilt dirt back into the pot and brushed off his hands. Jack rifled the pages of the book and made a face.
"It's long," he stated.
David took the book back. "Yeah, books without pictures are like that."
Jack was about to protest the insult when he realized his usually serious friend was joking. Instead, he socked David's shoulder and said, "Well, let's eat. Les, ovah heah!"
The three boys arrived back in the kitchen just as Sarah and Esther were setting the plates on the table. "Somebody get your father," Esther said, and Les volunteered.
As he scampered out of the room, David smiled at Jack and explained, "Papa just got home from work. You know he's in a union now?"
"Yeah?" Jack was reminded that he wanted to discuss the new strike idea with David when he got a moment. He knew his former fellow strike leader would agree that Moshe's behavior was outrageous.
He got his chance after dinner, as the women did the dishes and Mayer tucked Les in. Jack and David leaned against the rail of the fire escape talking, like they had the first day they'd met, earlier that summer, before either of them had even considered the idea of the newsies strike.
"So, what'd you want to talk about?" David asked after a few minutes of idle conversation.
Jack looked out at the rooftops beyond and then at his friend. "Well, dere's dis new kid…" he began, and relayed the events of the last two days. "So," he concluded, "all it is, is dat I'm afraid dis idea'll really take hold, an' da fellas are gonna try striking again."
"Really?" David asked. "Is that really all you're afraid of?"
Jack just looked at him. "Well, what else would it be?" he finally asked.
David looked out into the night. "It just sounds to me like maybe there's another issue behind all this. I understand what you mean about the strike, but I think at the same time you're afraid this Moshe is some kind of replacement for you. If the other guys are listening to him and not you, well…"
Jack glared out at the street below, his fingers twisting around the metal of the stair rail. "Well dat's what everyone t'inks," he said. "I tried tawlkin' ta Race an' Mush, and dey both just said I must be jealous of 'im. Well maybe I am, a'right? Maybe I am thinking he's gonna take my place, an' I don't want him to. I ain't about ta deny it. But dat has nothin' to do with whetha or not I support dis stupid strike!"
"That's what I thought," David said.
"Well, what am I supposed ta do, Davey?" Jack asked him, looking over. "How'm I supposed ta stop dis b'fore it gets started? Couldn't you come tawlk ta dem with me? Dey always listened to you."
"No, Jack, they always listened to you," Davey corrected him gently. "And I was the one who knew what was smart, and what wasn't. But now I think you have that part figured out for yourself. You don't need me for this."
Jack frowned, not liking what he heard. "So you're too busy with school, is dat it?" he asked.
"I could make the time, Jack. That's not it. I just want to see you handle this one on your own." His teeth shown white in the darkness as he cracked a smile. "Hey, and if it doesn't work out, there's always Santa Fe, right?" He clapped Jack on the shoulder then started toward the window. "Come on, let's go inside. It's getting cold out here."
"Santa Fe," Jack grumbled to himself, lingering on the stairs. Well, maybe there was once a time when he would have packed up and left at the suggestion of it, but not anymore. He took one last look out into the dark and followed David through the window.
Please Review! No reviews=no ending!