Reject
It's been almost a year now. I'm not sure if I'm proud of that or not. When I think about it, I mean really think about it, I can't believe that it lasted as long as it did. Honestly, we had nothing in common except for our roots, and as he didn't pay much attention to his ancestry anyway, that didn't matter much. I felt so guilty when I wasn't around him, but even worse when I was. But even with that, I can't truly say that I regret being involved with him.
My name is Racetrack Higgins. Well, at least that's what I say to everyone. Of course, it's not my birth name, but when one flees from their past the first thing that they shed is their name. That's what I've learned from running away, one of the many lessons that living on the street has taught me.
I didn't always live in alleyways and sleep among empty crates. Not even close. I used to have a home, with friends and a warm bed. But I can't live there now. I guess I passed some sort of invisible age limit that makes me unable to stay in the Lodging House. It happened only a few months ago. I thought that I would be safe with Spot. Ha, like anyone is ever safe with Spot. I thought that I was different, but everyone is the same in Spot's eyes. I thought that maybe our relationship would go somewhere. Once again, I was wrong.
Spot, I learned, was the kind of person who believed that hard work would mask any pain that you were feeling. So when I went to him, he put me to work right away. I would like to believe that he was feeling pain for me, and for the situation in which I had found myself. But if I'm really honest with myself, as I have vowed to be now, I know that the only pain Spot ever feels is pain for himself. I was his only contact in Manhattan, and I had, in his eyes, gotten myself thrown out, not only of Manhattan, but of his favor too. He never looked at me the same way again after that.
I stayed with Spot for two months. That was all. Then he kicked me out, and told me that if I ever returned to Brooklyn, I would regret it. I remember his words as clearly as I remember his eyes. That is to say, I would never forget them as long as I lived. I stayed around the Bridge for a while, a couple of weeks anyway. I don't know what I was trying to do there, but some thin thread of hope held me there. Maybe some part of me believed that I could guilt him into letting me stay. So much for that plan.
So here I am now, trying to scrape a living from the cold, unforgiving concrete. I can't sell the news anymore, not since the Lodging House booted me. Every so often I see one of my old friends around, hawking that day's headlines. They never acknowledge that I once lived with them, and we only share the polite greeting of one street kid to another. I really miss the days that I had a home to come home to, and I'll freely admit that. I wish that I could go back a year with every fiber of my being, but I know that I never can. Hope can only get you so far in life. That's another cruel lesson that life on the street teaches. I used to be a newsie, and a damn good one too. But I'm a reject now, and nights on the street can get awfully cold.