I parted from Specs with a new sense of courage that was foreign to
me: I trusted Specs, and would trust him with my life, for the rest of my
life. Sadly, I hadn't felt this kind of trust. ever? At least not since
before I had left my family in New Jersey seven years ago, when I was ten.
I had trusted Jack Kelly during the strike, but that could hardly be called
trust... It was more like... faith. Yes, I had faith in Jack, knowing that
he would get us through the strike successfully. But, today, after the
lengthy yet enjoyable discussions Specs and I had in Central Park, I found
that I could place trust in my fellow newsie... my friend.
It had all started in the most scary of predicaments: I heard the whistles and shouts of the bulls as they rushed after a supposed 'wrong-doer.' In a rush on panic, a non-rational thought came to my mind: maybe the bulls were after me...? I hadn't done anything wrong, at least not to my knowledge, so I now realize that this worry was completely uncalled for, but at the time, the concern seemed perfectly understandable. Apprehensive, I then rushed into the nearest alleyway, hoping to dodge the rush of cops that were sure to come only moments later.
Keeping an eye out for the sight of the blue material that the policemen wore religiously, I backed into the alleyway nervously. Just as I thought I was in the clear and out of trouble's way, I bumped into something... that wasn't the wall... it... he... was living. I froze, afraid to death that it was a member of the police force.
"Dutchy?"
My eyes widened, and I turned slowly, relief now flowing through my veins as I recognized the person before me. "Specs?"
The brunette in front of me nodded, now smiling. "What'cha doin' out heah, Dutchy?"
I shrugged, no longer tense. "I heard da bulls, an' I hid, jest in case." After a hesitation, I repeated Specs' own question to him.
Fidgeting nervously, Specs took in a deep breath and looked at me, obviously debating whether or not to tell me... what, I didn't know yet.
"I was also getting away from da bulls, but... dey were afta' me." Specs told me with a wince of uncomfortable-ness.
"Afta'... Afta' you?" I asked, my eyebrows burrowing in confusion.
"Yeah."
And that's when Specs told me his story, from the beginning. The surprising and almost terrifying story of his life before Kid Blink had found him a year and a half ago shocked me. Things had been bad for most of us, but for a five-year-old to witness his family's cold-blooded murder was something that even I, who hadn't had a wonderful childhood, couldn't imagine. His detailed retelling of his past days at the orphanage, running away, life at the refuge, and his nearly-dangerous escape were so elaborate and graphic that I felt I had been beside him the entire time he was locked up in solitary in the refuge, beaten and starved.
"I... I neva' knew, Specs..." I stuttered, shaking my head in disbelief.
"Why should ya'?" He responded good-naturedly. "I never told no one, so dere's no reason why anyone shoulda suspected it, eidda'. Though non a' us like da refuge, I'se dun really like ta admit dat I'm scared a' it." His head dropped, ashamed of his fear.
"It's all right, Specs," I told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Glancing out of the alleyway to make sure it was all clear, I steered him in the direction of Central Park: a good place to sit and talk. "Ya' told me yer deepest secrets... Now I'se feel I need to tell ya' somethin' 'bout me," I started.
Specs immediately protested. "I told you 'cause I wanted to tell ya', don't feel obligated," he advised.
"It's all right, I wanna tell ya'," I said with a small smile. With this said, I began my own story: depressing compared to some, yet cheerful compared to others, such at Specs'.
I lived with my uncle and his two younger children. My mother and father hadn't been quite suitable as parents when I had been born, so my uncle had taken me in. By the time his sister and brother-in-law felt that they were ready to take on the responsibilities, I was eight-years-old and had grown attached to my uncle, and refused to go. Finally, by the time I was ten, my uncle told me, regretfully, that it'd probably be the best for me to leave... He told me that I needed to get to know my parents, or something to that amount. An obstinate child, I again refused, and 'mysteriously disappeared' from my bedroom in the night, according to the small newspaper article I noticed several days later.
I had a life on the streets for about a month as I traveled, trying to find a place where I could stay... a place that would take me. What exactly I was looking for, I don't know. But I do know that if Kloppman hadn't found me when he had, things would be extremely different for me now. At the time, Kloppman didn't own the Newsboys Lodging House, but he brought me home with him (I was ecstatic, though I did feel somewhat like a lost puppy... I probably looked like one, too.). Home... a small room on the third floor of an apartment building... after a month on the streets, it felt like a palace. 'Mister Kloppman' gave me food, and that night, asked me if I wanted to stay... for good. I fell asleep that night with a smile on my face.
A few years later, the two of us moved to the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House, where we've lived ever since.
Specs smiled at me as I finished my story. "I always wondered why Kloppman likes ya' best," he teased.
"Yeah, yeah," I said with a grin, shaking my head. It quite surprised me just how much I was really enjoying this conversation with Specs; we'd never really talked before - of course, we weren't complete strangers, considered we lived in the same bunk room together, but we'd always be involved in different things. I, in one of Racetrack's many poker games, and Specs... somewhere else, I'm not quite sure the exact location.
Cocking his head to the side, Specs watched me closely for a moment. "Uh, Dutchy?"
"Yeah, Specs?" I asked curiously.
"Ya' won't..... Ya' won't tell anyone 'bout me past, will ya'?"
"A' course I won't," I assured him, understanding his fear.
He smiled gratefully and let out a small breath of relief. "T'anks."
We sat in silence for a few moments - it wasn't that we had nothing to say; it was a comfortable silence, both of us pondering over the information we'd learned from the other. "Dutch?"
I tore my eyes from the people gazing I was doing and turned back to my fellow newsie, raising an eyebrow to acknowledge his questioning tone.
"Cin we..... Cin we make a promise to one anudda'?" He wondering, wringing his hands. "I jest..... I feel like we could be real good friends, an' I'd..... I jest..... I dun want ta have lived in vain, ya' know?" He stumbled through his words, obviously working hard on trying to make his thoughts understood. "I've lived through so much pain, an' I dun want to 'ave been fer nothin'. I've thought about endin' me life before, an'..... Odda' den our new friendship, I haven't had much else to tell me dat it was woith continuin' me life." I watched my new friend carefully, worried by the words I heard. "Will ya' promise me that we'll help each odda' make our lives woith it?" Specs questioned, ending his complicated and confusing speech.
Now smiling, I nodded. "Yeah, Specs. I promise - I'll try me best."
No longer fidgeting nervously, Specs beamed at me. "T'anks."
Our new moment of accepting silence was interrupted by the large clock's chiming. My head snapped up at the sound. "Well, I'd betta' get on ta finish sellin'," I admitted.
"Same heah," Specs agreed, glancing at the pile of newspapers in the hands. "Well, I sell down by da harbor, so..... I'll seeya' in Tibby's lata'." He said, standing.
I spat in my right hand and stuck it out for my friend to accept, which he did. "Seeya'." I said with a wave as Specs turned away. I watched after his retreating figure, going through our last conversation in my mind, hoping to not forget a word of it.
Smiling, I turned and left Central Park and began heading towards East Side, which is where my story beginning in a scary predicament ends and the present catches up.
My broodings were sharply interrupted by a crash and loud, robust voices. Pivoting my step, my curiosity seemed more important at the time, than my future hunger - selling my papes could wait. I jogged a couple blocks, wondering where all the noise was coming from. Finally, I spotted the trouble-maker: an overturned cart - the horse and driver were all right, fortunately; they didn't seem to have come to any harm, though the horse was obviously frightened by the ordeal.
Wondering what had caused the cart to overturn, I glanced around, a flash of light catching my attention. My eyebrows furrowed and I stopped, staring at the burst of light that seemed to explode from the cobblestone ground. Taking a few wary steps forward, I knelt down, placing my fingers slowly around the item that was reflecting the sunlight. Broken spectacles. Staring at the wire frames, I noticed that my coarse hands were shaking uncontrollably. It was almost as if..... as if my unconscious being had realized the situation before I could calmly fit the puzzle pieces together.
Keeping my hand loosely wrapped around the bent wire, I stood and turned my head towards the growing crowd near the front of the cart. Making my way to the group, I pushed my way to the front, and glanced down at the reason for the wagon over-turning. I gulped back nausea, and closed my eyes for a moment before turning and escaping from the busy street.
From the nearest empty alleyway, I continued to watch the accident site sadly. Clenching my fists, I felt a prick as I realized that I was still holding the eyeglasses. Opening my hand to display them, I sighed, allowing a tear to stream down my cheek. "You wont 'ave lived in vain, Specs..... Neva'." Bowing my head, my eyes wandered one last time from the ground beneath my feet towards the cart-crash. "I promise," I whispered before leaving the alleyway and making my way to Tibby's, pocketing the broken spectacles.
It had all started in the most scary of predicaments: I heard the whistles and shouts of the bulls as they rushed after a supposed 'wrong-doer.' In a rush on panic, a non-rational thought came to my mind: maybe the bulls were after me...? I hadn't done anything wrong, at least not to my knowledge, so I now realize that this worry was completely uncalled for, but at the time, the concern seemed perfectly understandable. Apprehensive, I then rushed into the nearest alleyway, hoping to dodge the rush of cops that were sure to come only moments later.
Keeping an eye out for the sight of the blue material that the policemen wore religiously, I backed into the alleyway nervously. Just as I thought I was in the clear and out of trouble's way, I bumped into something... that wasn't the wall... it... he... was living. I froze, afraid to death that it was a member of the police force.
"Dutchy?"
My eyes widened, and I turned slowly, relief now flowing through my veins as I recognized the person before me. "Specs?"
The brunette in front of me nodded, now smiling. "What'cha doin' out heah, Dutchy?"
I shrugged, no longer tense. "I heard da bulls, an' I hid, jest in case." After a hesitation, I repeated Specs' own question to him.
Fidgeting nervously, Specs took in a deep breath and looked at me, obviously debating whether or not to tell me... what, I didn't know yet.
"I was also getting away from da bulls, but... dey were afta' me." Specs told me with a wince of uncomfortable-ness.
"Afta'... Afta' you?" I asked, my eyebrows burrowing in confusion.
"Yeah."
And that's when Specs told me his story, from the beginning. The surprising and almost terrifying story of his life before Kid Blink had found him a year and a half ago shocked me. Things had been bad for most of us, but for a five-year-old to witness his family's cold-blooded murder was something that even I, who hadn't had a wonderful childhood, couldn't imagine. His detailed retelling of his past days at the orphanage, running away, life at the refuge, and his nearly-dangerous escape were so elaborate and graphic that I felt I had been beside him the entire time he was locked up in solitary in the refuge, beaten and starved.
"I... I neva' knew, Specs..." I stuttered, shaking my head in disbelief.
"Why should ya'?" He responded good-naturedly. "I never told no one, so dere's no reason why anyone shoulda suspected it, eidda'. Though non a' us like da refuge, I'se dun really like ta admit dat I'm scared a' it." His head dropped, ashamed of his fear.
"It's all right, Specs," I told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Glancing out of the alleyway to make sure it was all clear, I steered him in the direction of Central Park: a good place to sit and talk. "Ya' told me yer deepest secrets... Now I'se feel I need to tell ya' somethin' 'bout me," I started.
Specs immediately protested. "I told you 'cause I wanted to tell ya', don't feel obligated," he advised.
"It's all right, I wanna tell ya'," I said with a small smile. With this said, I began my own story: depressing compared to some, yet cheerful compared to others, such at Specs'.
I lived with my uncle and his two younger children. My mother and father hadn't been quite suitable as parents when I had been born, so my uncle had taken me in. By the time his sister and brother-in-law felt that they were ready to take on the responsibilities, I was eight-years-old and had grown attached to my uncle, and refused to go. Finally, by the time I was ten, my uncle told me, regretfully, that it'd probably be the best for me to leave... He told me that I needed to get to know my parents, or something to that amount. An obstinate child, I again refused, and 'mysteriously disappeared' from my bedroom in the night, according to the small newspaper article I noticed several days later.
I had a life on the streets for about a month as I traveled, trying to find a place where I could stay... a place that would take me. What exactly I was looking for, I don't know. But I do know that if Kloppman hadn't found me when he had, things would be extremely different for me now. At the time, Kloppman didn't own the Newsboys Lodging House, but he brought me home with him (I was ecstatic, though I did feel somewhat like a lost puppy... I probably looked like one, too.). Home... a small room on the third floor of an apartment building... after a month on the streets, it felt like a palace. 'Mister Kloppman' gave me food, and that night, asked me if I wanted to stay... for good. I fell asleep that night with a smile on my face.
A few years later, the two of us moved to the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House, where we've lived ever since.
Specs smiled at me as I finished my story. "I always wondered why Kloppman likes ya' best," he teased.
"Yeah, yeah," I said with a grin, shaking my head. It quite surprised me just how much I was really enjoying this conversation with Specs; we'd never really talked before - of course, we weren't complete strangers, considered we lived in the same bunk room together, but we'd always be involved in different things. I, in one of Racetrack's many poker games, and Specs... somewhere else, I'm not quite sure the exact location.
Cocking his head to the side, Specs watched me closely for a moment. "Uh, Dutchy?"
"Yeah, Specs?" I asked curiously.
"Ya' won't..... Ya' won't tell anyone 'bout me past, will ya'?"
"A' course I won't," I assured him, understanding his fear.
He smiled gratefully and let out a small breath of relief. "T'anks."
We sat in silence for a few moments - it wasn't that we had nothing to say; it was a comfortable silence, both of us pondering over the information we'd learned from the other. "Dutch?"
I tore my eyes from the people gazing I was doing and turned back to my fellow newsie, raising an eyebrow to acknowledge his questioning tone.
"Cin we..... Cin we make a promise to one anudda'?" He wondering, wringing his hands. "I jest..... I feel like we could be real good friends, an' I'd..... I jest..... I dun want ta have lived in vain, ya' know?" He stumbled through his words, obviously working hard on trying to make his thoughts understood. "I've lived through so much pain, an' I dun want to 'ave been fer nothin'. I've thought about endin' me life before, an'..... Odda' den our new friendship, I haven't had much else to tell me dat it was woith continuin' me life." I watched my new friend carefully, worried by the words I heard. "Will ya' promise me that we'll help each odda' make our lives woith it?" Specs questioned, ending his complicated and confusing speech.
Now smiling, I nodded. "Yeah, Specs. I promise - I'll try me best."
No longer fidgeting nervously, Specs beamed at me. "T'anks."
Our new moment of accepting silence was interrupted by the large clock's chiming. My head snapped up at the sound. "Well, I'd betta' get on ta finish sellin'," I admitted.
"Same heah," Specs agreed, glancing at the pile of newspapers in the hands. "Well, I sell down by da harbor, so..... I'll seeya' in Tibby's lata'." He said, standing.
I spat in my right hand and stuck it out for my friend to accept, which he did. "Seeya'." I said with a wave as Specs turned away. I watched after his retreating figure, going through our last conversation in my mind, hoping to not forget a word of it.
Smiling, I turned and left Central Park and began heading towards East Side, which is where my story beginning in a scary predicament ends and the present catches up.
My broodings were sharply interrupted by a crash and loud, robust voices. Pivoting my step, my curiosity seemed more important at the time, than my future hunger - selling my papes could wait. I jogged a couple blocks, wondering where all the noise was coming from. Finally, I spotted the trouble-maker: an overturned cart - the horse and driver were all right, fortunately; they didn't seem to have come to any harm, though the horse was obviously frightened by the ordeal.
Wondering what had caused the cart to overturn, I glanced around, a flash of light catching my attention. My eyebrows furrowed and I stopped, staring at the burst of light that seemed to explode from the cobblestone ground. Taking a few wary steps forward, I knelt down, placing my fingers slowly around the item that was reflecting the sunlight. Broken spectacles. Staring at the wire frames, I noticed that my coarse hands were shaking uncontrollably. It was almost as if..... as if my unconscious being had realized the situation before I could calmly fit the puzzle pieces together.
Keeping my hand loosely wrapped around the bent wire, I stood and turned my head towards the growing crowd near the front of the cart. Making my way to the group, I pushed my way to the front, and glanced down at the reason for the wagon over-turning. I gulped back nausea, and closed my eyes for a moment before turning and escaping from the busy street.
From the nearest empty alleyway, I continued to watch the accident site sadly. Clenching my fists, I felt a prick as I realized that I was still holding the eyeglasses. Opening my hand to display them, I sighed, allowing a tear to stream down my cheek. "You wont 'ave lived in vain, Specs..... Neva'." Bowing my head, my eyes wandered one last time from the ground beneath my feet towards the cart-crash. "I promise," I whispered before leaving the alleyway and making my way to Tibby's, pocketing the broken spectacles.