note from the authoress: Hello. Wilkommen. I realized that everything I've been writing recently has involved Racetrack... and also that all my ideas for future fics and oneshots involve Racetrack. So, I figured I would create this little doc and put all my Racetrack bits in one basket, so to speak.
Here's how it will work: each "chapter" is actually a story. They are completely unrelated to one another, except for one common theme... they are all about Race. ;) Each chapter/story will include a title, rating, date written, and summary... and probably an author's note as well.
As always, feedback is awesome. Let me know if you are also a big Race fan! Thanks for reading! -Keza
Immortality
rated Kplus. (one swear)
written July 29, 2007.
I ain't afraid a death. Maybe I'm jus' scared that some day, ain't gonna be nobody who knows my name.
The kid knows the address because everyone knows the address, it's just that he's the only one brave enough to go right up to the door and knock. He's followed by a gang of supporters and admirers, on whom he flashes a cocky grin as he waits at the top of the stoop. His heart skips a beat, though he won't admit it, when he hears someone approach the door. He is not ready when that someone bangs on the inside of the door, twice, hard enough to make it shake and loud enough to almost knock the kid off the stoop in fright.
Lucky no one makes fun of him, because no one sees it, they're all running away, just as scared as he. So the next time he climbs the stoop, he does it alone, in the middle of the night, like he should have in the first place. He knocks politely, and the door opens a crack.
"Kid," says a tired, gravelly voice, "get outta my sight before I call the bulls."
"I ain't afraid of the bulls," the kid answers boldly. After a beat, he adds, "an' I ain't afraid a you."
"What do you want?"
The kid tries a different approach. "I know who you are. You're Racetrack Higgins. You're famous."
The voice laughs bitterly. "You don't want money?"
"No, sir."
The door opens wider, and the kid slips inside.
The room is lit by one lamp. There is one round table in the middle, with three chairs in various states of disrepair. The man, who is shorter and grayer than maybe he ought to be, and who now answers to Anthony, sits in one chair, and the kid across from him. Two tins are on the table, one with thin rolling papers and the other with a mound of dried tobacco. But for the ticking of an unseen clock, they sit in silence.
"How'd you do it?"
"Do what."
"How'd you become immortal?"
"Kid," Anthony says, looking up from his papers, "I ain't immortal." His voice is sharp, like a warning.
"Sure you are," the kid presses on. "I knows ya. All the boys, we all know you and the story of the strike. How you beat the big guy, saved the workin kids of New York."
"Do you?" Anthony doesn't look up, he is concentrating too hard on what should be such a simple task, rolling a cigarette. His hands shake like they're apt to do lately. Inside he curses, but he tries to remain calm through the frustration.
"Ya, sure, who don't? You, an' Jack Sullivan, an' his hoity toity friend Jacob, you all says, Poolitzah, if you ain't gonna pay us what we says we wanna be paid, then we ain't workin for youse no more. An' you meant it, cause you was the best newsies in all of New York, an' ain't no one else who coulda sold a hunnert papes every mornin. An Poolitzah, see, at first he don't believe ya, so you go and you get the King of Brooklyn, and all of New York unites an theys a big battle on newspaper row, an in the end, only the newsies is left standin."
Anthony finally succeeds in rolling an acceptable smoke and licks the edge, regarding the kid, who he sees is deadly serious.
"You kids still tell that story?" he says at last.
"Well, yeah," says the kid. "An ain't no one who knows it better'n me."
Anthony grunts and tries three times unsuccessfully to light a match. His hands shake, and the match shakes, and even the cigarette clamped tightly between his lips shakes, slightly, with the effort. The kid watches, appalled, and finally takes the match and its book from Anthony's hand. He plays it off like it's no big thing, striking the match, hard, and holding it up so Anthony can just lean in and let it take to the end of his stick. He pulls back and takes in a long drag, then removes the cigarette, ashing it accidentally. The kid waits for the exhale, but it doesn't seem to come.
"How old are you, kid?"
"Me, I'm thirteen last Thursday."
Anthony grunts again. "How d'ya figure that, thirteen? You still got your whole life ahead a you."
"Yeah," the kid says, looking down at a knot in the worn table, "an' maybe I don't. See, three days ago, my pal Lefty, 'e jus' up an' leaves, at least, ain't no one knows where he's gone. 'Cept that we all heard someone yellin' the same night 'e leaves, right? Maybe we jus' don' talk 'bout it. An' last winter this other kid, 'e was like seven or maybe six years old, an' no one told 'im where to go when it gets real cold, an' after one a' those big storms, we find 'im sittin' against a wall frozen solid like on a them ice blocks Mr. Downing delivers up seventeenth." He stops, looks up to find Anthony studying him, the cigarette burning down on its own. "Ain't nobody knows his name, neither," he adds.
"There's no such thing as immortality," Anthony says, having forgotten his smoke completely. "And you can't listen to anyone who tells you different. Where'd you get this mad idea anyway?"
"Nowhere," the kid says, guarded. They stare at each other, neither giving an inch.
"Well, listen close, kid. If there was such a thing as immortality, you wouldn't get it by wantin it, no matter how badly, and you wouldn't get it by thinkin about it or wishin for it. You want immortality, kid, you gotta earn it, and you earn it by doin things, big things, without thinkin 'bout yourself or your goddamn name. You gotta ask yourself this, kid, how much are you willin to give up in this here life on Earth? You think you can sacrifice enough to live forever? Cause after you're cold an gone an six feet under, that's all that's gonna be left, and if it's enough, then maybe, maybe, that's close to your immortality."
There is silence, heavy, until the cigarette burns down to Anthony's fingers, and he drops it with a jerk. It hisses when it hits the table, then smolders darkly.
"Guess I should be goin, then," the kid says, finding his words again. He looks at once dazed and determined. Anthony doesn't answer. He is staring at the cigarette, and the table, and the ashes. The kid pushes back from the table, trying not to make any noise, and leaves the room with one last glance back.
The door clicks quietly shut. The cigarette smolders. Anthony rises from the table, goes to the corner of the room, and pours himself a drink with trembling hands.