Here is a story written for the NYNA Spring Contest. The grammar/spelling isn't extremely good, but you'll understand once you read. This is kinda the introductory chapter. Things should get interesting rather soon. The rest of the story should be posted before next Wednesday. Without further ado, I give you-
Disclaimer: I do not own Newsies. Only the plot of this story.
Apocalypse? I Hope Not! Part 1
"Hey! Hey! Cowboy! Hey, Cowboy!"
I, the honorable Jack Kelly, toined around, me eyes flaming. Didn't people ever learn to ask once? Once. That's all I'm askin' for. Instead of somebody yellin' me name thoity-thousand times! All right, so mebbe I'm exaggeratin' jus' a little bit. But I mean, really! I know I'm the head of the finest newsie borough in New York, but there's got ta be bettah ways ta get a guy's attention.
Anyways, it didn't take me long to set my eyes on the kid who joined up (sounds like the army, don't it?) right aftah the strike. I guess he saw that pitcha of us in the Sun, and just had to become a newsie. And who can blame 'em! He was a scrawny kid, arms like sticks, and legs like broom handles. I mean, when ya look at that kid, he's got more legs then body! Sometimes, like in this instance, he reminds me more of a spidah then a person. His legs and arms move like windmills when he's runnin' or in a hurry.
Just look at them legs move, I thought, whistling softly as I watched him cut through the crowd like buttah on a hot summer day. His cheeks an' nose were red from the effort, and I wondered for a moment why we didn't call him somethin' othah then Ruff. Spider Boy, or just Spider would've been bettah. But I guess he's jus' stuck with Ruff for now.
Before I get off topic, I should probably tell you'se why I'se is writin' this. Well, okay, I'm not the only one writin, cause some of the othah boys are gonna add their stories in. I wouldn't even know how ta write if it weren't for Davey. He says I spell lots wrong still, but I jus' write words like they sound ta me.
There I go gettin' way off subject again. Okay.
This story is about a certain group of newsies from the great city of 'Hattan (I can spell 'Hattan!), who got together ta tell their story: a great…no, a giant adventure that happened to these venerable (venerable!) newsies of 'Hattan. This was the strangest thing that evah happened ta us, and there's even a lesson at the end- but don't skip the story, cause that's important too.
So yeah, back to Ruff, and his spidery legs. I was wonderin' what had got this kid so hot an' steamy- he was absolutely breathless, but still managing to elbow his way through the crowd quicker then you can say "Pulitzer is a lyin' rascal." Which he is, but that's not what this story is about.
Oh great. I fahgot ta say why we are writin' all this down. It was David's idea- his and Sarah's. They said we should write it down for our children ta read- sorta as a lesson, and maybe so's they can see just how crazy their pops was. So yeah, I guess in about twenty years, you, my kid (if I have any kids, I'm not even married!) will read this. So..,
Ruff is standin' in front o' me, all flushed like, and he keeps rubbin' his sweaty forehead, so there's a red spot, right smack-dab in the middle. I push back my cowboy hat, and look at my newsboy curiously.
"Whatsa mattah Ruff?" says I.
"Did somebody die or somethin'?" Race put in sarcastically. Davey shot him a glare- recently Race's wisecracks 'ave been getting' on his noives. Race just chuckled, and took another drought from his cigar.
"I-I-he-he-s-s-here…" Ruff breathed out, gulping in air so quick, I thought he might choke on it.
"Woah, slow down kid," I said, feeling a little worried that Ruff might have a heart attack if he didn't calm down some. So we had to wait an entire minute till the kid- he is a kid, only 'bout eleven years old, I'd say- could breathe like a normal person. When I could hear his pants slowin' ta deep, even breaths, I spoke. "Right. So what's eatin' ya, Ruff?"
"Yeah, are ya finally gonna tell us, or what? Ya gonna wait til the distribution centah closes?" Race quipped.
"Sh!" Davey hushed, looking more annoyed. My poisonal belief 'bout David's general grouchiness, was that it was because his folks had sent him back to school-leastways during schooling hours. But once and a while he would sell in the mornings. Guess they gave 'im leave. And at least his Saturday's are free. So maybe that's why he's really sore at Race- he's not so happy with school.
"Leave the kid be," I said to Race, and turned back to Ruff. "Now tell me."
"Spot," he sputtered out, all dramatic-like. "He's comin' here- ta 'Hattan!"
I frowned. Spot had been too busy to visit 'Hattan since a couple months after the strike. Some business with a local, aggressive gang had kept 'im busy. So what in New York could convince him to come see us? It must be real important, I decided. The king pin himself was coming.
Don't get me wrong, Spot /is/ the king- king of Brooklyn at least. I could call myself king of 'Hattan I guess, though Spot would probably bloody me nose for it! Not that bloodying my nose would be easy. If Spot Conlon and meself got into a fight… well it would be an interestin' thing ta behold. I ain't gonna say in these pages who'd win, and I'll tell ya why. If I said I would win, and somehow Spot himself got ahold of this writing-well I don't want no trouble. An' if I said /he/ would win, I wouldn't have no dignity. So ya see, it's a great mystery that might never be solved, unless we get into a fight. I hope we don't. But it's possible, 'specially when he trespasses on 'Hattan with unknown purpose. But enough of that.
"Were you'se spyin' on him?" I asked quietly. The boy opened his mouth to respond, but before a word could come out, a cold, clear voice cut through the air.
"Yes he was, an' I don't appreciate it," Spot said, tapping the ground with his sil… interestin' cane as if ta prove a point.
I'm sahrry ta say I gaped a bit. "Spot," I finally said, crossing me arms as me newsies gathered round. "What brings you here?"
He merely quirked an eyebrow, and actually had the guts ta give me the smirk. If you're readin' this Spot- you always did have guts! So he just sits down on the distribution center steps, right where I usually sit, and sort of looks off in the distance for a second.
"Well, Jack be nimble, Jack be quick…you always were quick ta get the answers, weren't you'se?" I felt my face flush, and I even clenched one fist at my side, which o' course caused Spot to raise an amused eyebrow- again.
All right, so Spot Conlon ain't a bad guy, and he's a great borough leadah. But he does have this arrogant streak, or maybe he plain likes ta annoy people. I dunno. So I finally jus' tilted my head back ta read the board where they'd written the headlines for the day.
"Whatta ya want Conlon?" says I, grimacing at a 'specially bad headline."
"Oh, I jus' heard a bit o' news that ain't in the papah," he says nonchalantly.
"That so?" I keep my head turned away as he hums softly a moment, before continuing.
"Yeah, and it's uh, causing quite a ruckus in Brooklyn," he says, and I just know there's a smirk formin' on his lips. "Mebbe it'll even spread here- ta 'Hattan."
I turned and glared at him, not liking where the conversation was goin'. "Spot, I don' want no trouble, so mebbe you should jus' tell me straight out what's goin' on. I don' need no riddles," I said evenly, lettin' my words hang in the air.
"Yeah, I know, Jacky Boy. I know." He looks at me skeptically, then at all me newsies, standing about and listenin' so obviously. "But I ain't talkin' heah. Not in front of this sahrry lot anyway."
Some of me pals look offended. I hold a hand up ta stop 'em from doing somethin' drastic.
"Might wanna be careful who you call names," I say coolly, holding his steele blue gaze. "Me boys haven't been part of a good fight for a while."
Spot's lip tipped up. "You and I both know, Cowboy, that none of your boys would evah last 'gainst me in a fair fight. I'd lick 'em for suah."
I knew my newsies would be fumin' now. I really hate to admit it, but I knew Spot was right. After all, he didn't become leader of the toughest borough in New York by hostin' a tea party. I know that he's seen plenty o' bloody knuckles- and noses. Maybe if a group of newsies jumped him… But no, the boys would want a fair fight- none of that secrecy business. And a fair fight was one on one.
I ran a hand through my hair, and studied Brooklyn's leader. He wasn't the tallest of fellows. Fact is, he was kinda scrawny. (I hope he don't read this!) But when word went out on the street, just before the strike, that Spot was the new leader of Brooklyn, I hadn't been surprised at all. He was tough- I knew that.
He was young too- at least two years younger then me. Yet he managed ta control Brooklyn all by himself. Well, mebbe his right hand, Pistol, helped some. But me point is, Spot's tougher then he looks. And he can fight bettah then almost anybody I ever seen. Many an older boy has regretted pickin' a fight with Spot o' Brooklyn. Some boys thought because he was younger and smaller he would be easy pickins, and /they/ could be the new leader of Brooklyn. I laughed when I heard them stories, cause I knew what happened ta them boys. They got a black eye and a bloody nose if nothin' else. Sometimes when a fella was particularly tiresome, he'd give 'em a full out soaking. And I'll tell ya those boys didn't come back!
Oops. Dave's lookin' over me shouldah, and scoldin' me for me spellin'. And he's remindin' me not ta get off subject, though really you, whoever's reading this, need ta know the whole story, an' all about us. I would tell ya 'bout the strike, but Denton's writing a book 'bout that, and Dave says that's another story. But Denton thinks it could be made into a flicker someday. Boy, wouldn't that be something!" Uh oh. Davey's lookin' at me strange. I guess I should hurry up…
Okay, so I looked straight at Spot, an' this is what I said. "Me boys are tougher then they look. But… fine. We can have a private meetin'."
Conlon nodded, lookin' satisfied. "Any place in particulah you wanna meet?" he asks lazily.
"Lodgin' House," says I. "In the office."
Spot shakes his head. "Nah, these boys will hear for suah, an' I jus' want you'se ta know foah now. How 'bout Medda's?"
I saw Race's mouth drop open, an' I shook my head in exasperation. "I don' see how Medda's can be as private as the office at the Lodgin' house," I said, irritated.
Spot gave me a look that actually sent shivers down my back. Man, that kid has one crazy pair o' eyes! "But Medda's got herself a dressin' room that I'm suah she'll let us use. Trust me Kelly, it will be much more private."
I grunted, displeased. Besides the fact that Spot wanted ta meet in a building unclaimed by any borough, even if it was in 'Hattan, I plain didn't like that he wanted to meet alone. In almost all secret newsie meeting, the leadah's brought their seconds with 'em. We never established who the second in command leadah was here in 'Hattan. I guess it's Race or Blink. Davey's got brains, but he hasn't lived the life, and hasn't been a newsie long enough. I would've liked to insist on bringin' one of me boys, but I knew Spot would refuse, an' I didn't want ta look foolish in front of the entire group of newsies.
"Fine," I grunted, feeling extremely displeased.
"Tonight at ten," Spot said, and then disappeared into the crowd of newsboy's without a word. I – oh, apparently it's Blink's turn ta write. Well… goodbye for now. ~Jack Kelly