Author's Note: Constructive criticism is loved, and what I wish for on stars. And eyelashes. And palindromic times of the day.
"I love being a writer. What I can't stand is the paperwork." -Peter De Vries
I don't own Newsies.
A steam bath of human body odor and malice. That's what Aidan McDermott had named her work place. A name that she had steadily laiden with contempt and a sense of exhaustion throughout her years of work at Keller's Textile Company. There she spent her hours quickly trying to dance her fingers around the dangers of the machines. Keller's Textile Company. Well that's what the man who ran the place liked to call it. As though by giving it such a fancy name improved the state of the inside. It was a small building located behind his more grand establishment and it held about sixty workers and several rows of thunderous machines. She would arrive every morning at 6 and would leave twelve hours later, exhausted and feeling very sour.
It was only because of her thin, rather bony, and long fingers that she'd even gotten the job. The man who ran the place may be disgusting, crude and, in her own mind, the spawn of the devil, but he knew when an opportunity came. She worked with the more high powered machines, taking the place of a petite seven year old girl who had been either moved to a new position or fired. Aidan wasn't sure which but partially hoped it was the latter. Either way, she'd been working there for two days and was eagerly anticipating the payday.
As she joined the line for the front desk she felt her eyelids drop as though bricks had been glued to her eyelashes. Walking forward numbly she repeatedly had to mutter a 'sorry' to the person in front as she constantly ran into their back.
"Next!" The man barked, his gravely voice wearing on her already perturbed thoughts. She blinked and looked around, noticing vaguely that she was next and she stumbled forward. Thank god she had finally reached her one day off that week. Maybe it would offer her the chance for some real rest since her legs felt as though they were made of crumbling wood.
"Aidan McDermott." She fought to get the words out, raising her light brown eyes up to look the man in the face.
"McDermott. Pieces o' cloth," he flipped through the small black book before him, his fat finger traveling down the list of names. Beside each one she could read the daily output records. "Seventeen." She smiled wearily at her success. "Fifteh cents a piece, an' 20 seams at 10 cents. Means ya made ten dollars an' fifteh cents." A wide beam broke out over her face and she quickly dropped her head to hide it.
"Take away three spools o' thread. Six dollahs. Machine costs, thirty-five cents an hour." The smile immediately disappeared and her head shot up.
"Wait. What?" She demanded harshly.
He seemed to either not hear her or not care because he continued to speak, a smug grin on his face. "That means," he drawled, leaning forward and causing Aidan to step back with disgust. "Here's yer pay." He slammed three dimes on the table and leaned back into his chair, sniffing and scratching his stomach. Aidan stared at the dimes and frowned before she grabbed them and left feeling more and more cheated as the seconds passed.
Stepping out into the empty back road she glared at the wall. 'So much for pay,' she sighed and looked down at the three dimes in her palm. They were stained with soot and dirt and what she noticed to be a little blood from her hands where she hadn't been fast enough. Sighing heavily she accepted the fate and wondered if her new landlord would mind giving her some extra time for her to gather the money for the first payment. He seemed nice enough, she supposed and decided it wouldn't hurt to ask next time she ventured towards her home.
As her anger began to whittle away she shoved the money in the waistband of her plain brown dress, securing it in the folds and making a mental note to figure out a better way to keep her money with her. Perhaps a purse, if she could afford one later. She made her way through the secluded streets until she heard the familiar chirp of commotion not too far away. Picking up her pace, she entered the street and quickly joined the rhythm of the late night crowd.
She decided to amuse herself and followed a couple as they walked down the street. The young woman seemed middle class with a nice dark blue dress that skimmed the ground. Her heels made a melodic beat on the sidewalk as she walked quietly beside a man. He seemed well dressed from what she could see, with a simple suit and neat brown hair.
"Bryan, you really think these boys can do something?" The woman's voice couldn't mask the uncertainty that Aidan thought to be rather insulting. Bryan seemed to think nothing of it and instead laughed lightly.
"They seem to have good leaders. Jack has the respect and David has the smarts." He explained calmly. Aidan fell back a few steps and averted her attention to a store window as they paused as a corner. 'Leaders? Boys?' Aidan couldn't help but mull over what she heard with faint excitement. At least something interesting what going on besides the blasted trolley strike.
"Besides, I haven't had much else to cover and this newsie strike could be important. No one else is covering it." Bryan continued to explain as he wrapped an arm around the girls waist and escorted her across the street in full gentlemen fashion. Aidan took a step to follow but decided against it as she felt her stomach growl. After giving one last glance at the pair she turned in the opposite direction and continued to wander.
Down the street her nose instantly picked up on the smell of fresh bread and she felt her eyes close in euphoria. Regardless of the fact that such wonderful smells came from expensive food she wandered after it and stood outside the bakery, scanning the window display ravenously. If only looking at food gave you a taste, she thought to herself as she smiled slightly. When she glanced up into the shop she realized the baker was standing behind the counter, obviously annoyed by her poor state and the grime her hands left on his polished windows.
Instantly she stepped away and shuffled two doors down, past a book store to a smaller bakery. Upon entering she noticed sadly that the ambient smells weren't nearly as delectable, but as she looked at the price for bread she remembered a saying. 'Beggars can't be choosers.'
Well she might not be able to be a picky person but she certainly would make sure she didn't get the bread that seemed iced with green mold. I'm not that poor, she thought as she pointedly picked out a different, slightly more expensive, bread. Yet.