Skyfall

An Original Newsies Fanfiction

My mother had once said that there was nothing more beautiful than the sky just before the rising morn. At the time, I had disagreed openly—justifying that it was the little pastries, with their delicate marzipan leaves in red and blue, the ones vendors sold along Madison Avenue that we were never able to afford, that were the most beautiful.

But now, with the new dawn finally breaking through New York's perpetual cloud cover, I realize how right she was. Pink streaking soft cream, much like a satin pillow a man might give his lover, sparkles brilliantly against the bright robin's-egg blue of the lower segment; and beyond that, dark navy stretches into endless oblivion. A zigzagging patchwork quilt in the sky, I muse. Mom had always been good at those. That woman could've made a quilt out of anything; be it a scrap of romper, or a wind-blown pair of suspenders found behind some musty crates on the far end of Herald Square. It was her talent, her contribution to the little merry band of misfits we called a family. No one in Harlem was better at sewing or piecing together cloth than Mom.

Couldn't cook worth a damn, though.

It's when the sun breaks over the crest of Manhattan that I finally waken fully. The day is new, there are papers to be sold, and I haven't eaten anything since yesterday morning. A series of pronounced cracks expel from my bones as I straighten; the joints stiff from cold and lack of movement. Sleeping under a tree isn't optimal, but Prospect Park allows more shelter than most street corners tend to. I don't even bother fixing my hair as I work my way through some sparse underbrush; letting the short, brown strands fall loose around my face. My life has never really permitted much leeway in the realm of self-cleanliness, allowing the soot covering my skin to feel much a part of me now.

When I finally make it to the edge of Prospect, I silently rejoice at the fortune of the early hour. The streets are still pretty quiet, newsboys and vendors alike remaining in their beds until absolutely necessary. It's understandable, considering the recently turn of weather- which we might as well sum up plainly as "damn ass-freezing". The sudden onslaught of cold kept the entire borough under their blankets in a sort of late-morning haze that I unfortunately did not have the time or dime to enjoy. The unspoken gain, however, was that while they hunkered, shivering like pineapples caught in a flash snowstorm, I got the streets of Brooklyn all to my little ol' self. Clear, quiet, crisp as an autumn apple; it was Heaven on earth. My profession is being surrounded by multiple forms of chaos, submerged in screaming and scheming for the better part of fifteen hours a day. A little silence is occasionally appreciated.

The walk is disappointingly short, and I arrive at my destination in record time. The Distribution Center looms ghoulishly over my head; remaining unwelcoming in all its chilly, authoritative glory. I personally think that our beloved Teddy Roosevelt could have made a more accelerated effort to brighten the place up—what with the whole Newsie Strike madness a while back, you'd think they'd take more authority in bringing a bit of light into the city's sweatshops. But no; the place is still gloomy as a crypt. A crypt located in the deepest pit of Hell, haunted by Lucifer himself.

That leviathan might as well be Harlem.

The bell tome suddenly explodes over the fenced-in yard, surprising a flock of pigeons nestled in the confines of the belfry. They take off with in mad flapping storm of grey and white; hooting indignantly all the way. I snort in surprise, feeling a sparse, airy tuft land on my hair. It's a feather. Which is kind of appropriate—seeing how my hair currently holds the likeliness towards a bird's nest.

But after untangling the two to get a glance, I find that the feather itself is much prettier than I'd expected. Pristinely white, clean, with just a dapple of dawn-colored splotches along the outer edge. It looks more like a swan's feather than it does statue-perching pigeon fuzz. Hm. Finding it too interesting to just drop back on the somber cobblestones, I stuff it into my pocket before moving to join the slowly-growing trickle of newsies heading into the Center.

After a few minutes of shuffling, I find myself sandwiched in the rough line snaking up to the pape office. From what I can tell, the group is mostly made up of Brooklyn's newsie cartel. As usual, I focus on keeping my head down and my eyes hooded—remaining stoic without trying to appear threatening. That's the only way to survive around this bunch, I've found. I might talk a good game; occasionally slap the sweet Bejesus out of some over-confident Chelsea halfwits, but I know when enough is enough. Here's the jist of it: you don't mess with Brooklyn unless you want to wake up pinned to the bottom of the East River. One glance over at the hulking newsboys—not older than seventeen, but still looking like warhorses in their prime—and anyone with rocks for brains would know better than to so much as poke them with a ten foot pole.

Two boys dressed in ragged flannel have taken the space behind me in line; and I can smell their breakfast probably better than they can. A shiver dances down my spine, not enjoying the sensation of other humans inside my personal bubble. My initial impulse is to hurl the most repellant look I can in their general direction—but at the last second, I decide that I'd much rather live. Resigned, I tug my cap's rim down and try to disappear.

My experience with newsies is limited to one incident. It was not a pleasant experience. It can be summed up in but a few words: Bronx's Lay-low Jones has been successfully taught to keep his hands (and other appendages) to himself. I now know to keep both hair and hide as far from the rowdy newspaper rogues as possible.

Of course, it was impossible to avoid them completely. I guess you could say I kind of worked "with" them—"with" being a highly stretched term. Really, there were necessary courtesies required of those in the same business—an expressionless nod to one another when passing in the street, allowing the other to purchase papers without some kind of riot breaking out. It was far from friendship, that was for sure, but no one had died (recently); and in Brooklyn, that's what we call a successful partnership.

Stepping up to the purchase box, I offered the stout man working the counter a tight-lipped smile. "Hey Casper. You look well this morning."

He chuckles, bright doe-eyes dancing in perfect time with his portly gut. "Mornin', Annie. You're lookin' pretty well yourself." Casper pauses, reassesses, then adds, "Still too skinny, though. Need to get some meat on them bones of yours soon. You'll shrivel to nothin' come winter."

"Don't you go and worry yourself, Cas. I'm stronger than I look." I smile again—though it's mostly a reassurance towards him. Casper, portly and lovable as he may be, sees quite a lot from his little box in the wall. The old guy doesn't need one more thing to nibble his nails about. "But I could do with some papes right about now."

"The usual?"

"Please."

There's some shuffling around under the table as Cas gathers the papers up. He reemerges a moment later, toupee slightly askew, stubby fingers clutching the ink stained parchment. We make the exchange; I grimace as I hand over my last few coins, having to bite my lip as the dull copper disappears into the strongbox. That was all I had left from yesterday's sale. A soft sigh escapes me, realizing I'll have to skip breakfast. Again.

The papers feel heavier than stones in my hands as I turn to go; not so much as moving to respond to Casper's friendly farewell. I didn't even hear it. The momentary panic that comes with being utterly penniless leaves me with a cold, sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach—all of which I pray won't be recognizable on my face. The last thing I need is a barrage of war-hardened news boys thinking I'm some kind of weakling.

I'm so caught up in my inward battle that I don't even realize, against my better attempts to elude, I've attracted a bit of unwanted attention. And with me, all attention is unwanted, and is almost immediately discarded. In the past, just a glance from a passerby would make my heart beat a little faster—and not in the way deemed by flattery. After all was said and done, I just wanted to curl up in a ball somewhere warm and secluded, with no people to laugh down at me; to kick me in the ribs as they passed. And then just quietly let myself fade away.

All I ever wanted was to be invisible.

And, thanks to the crowd that I quickly submerged myself in upon feeling eyes upon me, I got just that.