"Twenty-one," he mused under his breath. "Twenty-one years of age," it came with a chuckle, as he rolled a cigarette, crouching in an alley. The ground was filthy, and he found himself picking bits of dirt out of the tobacco, but he needed the flat surface for his work. He'd roll a good bunch of them now, he figured, before it rained. "Have something to keep me warm," he laughed to himself. Brushing the dirt off his knees, he struck a match and lit his first of the evening. Smirking, he sang into the smoke.
"Happy birthday to me," his voice came harsh with the tobacco. "Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to Ja-ack," he took another drag of the cigarette, and as he inhaled, another voice joined the chorus.
"Happy birthday to you."
Had it been any other year, it wouldn't have been like this. There would have been a roof involved, and walls. There would have been twenty, thirty other people sleeping three feet away as the clock turned midnight and he turned another year older. There would have been Kloppman stomping in, in the morning, doling out the only present he ever gave: the promise not to hit you on your birthday morning, if he could remember which one you were. At twenty-one, however, he had none of that. At twenty-one Jack had some alley shadow singing to him, and only the light of a cigarette to figure out who the hell it was.
"Who's there?" he called, but there was no reply. "Who's there, huh?" The darkness made him edgy as he kicked around on the ground for a piece of crate, length of pipe, broken board, anything to swing. Being a newsie may have given him a few black eyes, but the last year scrounging without the newsies had given him a growing collection of scars. His foot felt out a bottle and he bent to pick it up, calling out to the alley shadow. "You just gonna cut in on my song and not say 'hello'?" Taking a few more steps forward, he reeled as a fist came from the right and knocked him in the face. Stumbling to the ground, he felt his mouth fill with warm-iron taste of blood, and holding his jaw, he turned again into the darkness.
"You hit me in the face," Jack cursed,"On my god damn birthday?" More blackness poured in as the fist came flying again. His head collided with the brick wall with an echoing crash, and he fell to the ground.
"You're a dead man," a voice broke through the haze that had settled around his head. Jack, disoriented, froze at the threat.
"How was I supposed to know?" another voice broke in, and Jack allowed himself a breath. The men didn't know he was awake. "I mean, it was a thing of beauty! There we are--the kid's singing to himself, singing Tom, and I finish with a little 'happy birthday to you,' and pop him one right over the head! Beautiful!"
"Yeah well hold onto that Cal, because it ain't gonna be beautiful for you later. You're dead," Jack could hear the first voice start to retreat, and the second plea as he chased after him.
"How was I supposed to know, Tom? Was I just supposed to look at him and see? I mean--" the voices trailed off and Jack rolled onto his side, holding his head. He was lying on the ground, but it was a different ground than the one he remembered being hammered into. And there were walls.
That's it, Jack thought, one lousy birthday wish for walls and I this is what I get. He supposed he should be trying to decipher whatever it was "Tom" and "Cal" had been fighting about, but his head hurt too much to focus on anything but the small space of the room. There was no window and the ceilings were pretty low, he noted, looking around. There was a door off to the left. With no lock. Jack felt for his cigarettes, surprised to find them still in his pocket, and lit up, lying on the floor. They hit me over the head, but don't take my shit. They bring me here, but don't lock the door. He made a move to sit up, his head throbbing, and managed to lean himself against a wall. So am I just supposed to…leave?
His cigarette now an ashy memory on the floor beside him, and his head throbbing slightly less, Jack made a move to do just that, and hobbled toward the open door. He had made it two feet into the waiting hall before a man looked up from his chair and hurried toward him. Without a word, he hoisted one of Jack's arms over his shoulder, supporting his weight, and made to help him down the hall. Shocked, but glad of the assistance, Jack lurched down the hall with him. Coming to the end of it, where it intersected another hall, the man turned to Jack for direction. More confused than ever, Jack gave an unsure nod to the right and the man obediently started off, helping down the new hallway. They came eventually to an open room with table and fireplace, where the man lead Jack to a chair and bowed out without a word. The chair, he supposed, was more comfortable than the floor had been, but he still hadn't managed to get out of just whatever it was he had gotten into. Voices he recognized as Tom and Cal came pouring into the room, but the men stopped dead in their tracks as Jack turned to face at them. At that moment, another man entered from a separate door, and Jack turned to see him walk in, buttoning his sleeves, adjusting his tie, cracking a smile. Jack turned to see his father.