"Come on Crutchie!" I called as I clambered down the stairs toward the vestibule, which the newborn sun bathed in its clashing daffodil rays. Not all like the sun in Santa Fe; that one must be grander, more majestic- a yolk in the cloudless azure sky, where you could actually see it. Or so I figured.
"Hold ya horses, Jack." Crutchie gripped the rail tightly, making his way down as fast as possible. The rumbles of the crowd behind us urged him on. "This is why I wanted to go early."
"Gee, I thought you only wanted to break your good leg," I retorted playfully.
"Shut up."
"Face it, you owe me."
His face wrinkled. "Never."
"Wanna a bet?"
"I'm not stupid enough to do bets. Who do I look like, Race?"
Speaking of the little devil, Race's shrill whining bounced off the boarding house's paper thin walls upstairs.
"That's my cigar!"
"You'll steal another." Albert, the local trickster, lazily drawled. Handsome black eyes, copper skin, curly brown hair- picture a Mexican version of the Monkey King, a wily, rebellious hero in Chinese stories that brought us Buddhism from India. It made sense, I realized, considering Albert came into this world in the year of our Lord 1884- the Year of the Monkey.
"Give it back, you rotten tightwad!" Race screeched, charging him.
"Nothing doing, chump!" Albert burst out the vestibule doors into Duane Street, laughing as he triumphantly held up the Corona. Race bolted after him, face steamed red, fists clenched.
"Get outta here, boys, or you'll be bumming tonight!" Kloppmann, the poor ancient fellow the city hired to keep the boarding house tidy, herded the rest of us out like sheep, literally waving a wooden stick at our backs. "Then you'll be remembering how nice this steam gratin was while you're freezing in the old alley in the worst neighborhood. And you'll wonder why you didn't listen to old Kloppmann and poke up at the right time so you could stay at this diggins!"
"Even me, old Klopper?" I saucily asked. Kloppmann swung his stick at me; I ducked and jumped over the stair railing onto the vestibule floor. My boots slammed onto the creaky pine boards while my front lurched forward. I landed on my hands, pushing up fast enough to stumble over to the door, still on two feet.
"Jack, you nuts?" Kloppmann shrieked. "You mighta killed yourself! Are you off your trolley? That shoulda rendered ya dead, and I wish it had! You always do these dangerous things just to upset me- are you even listening?" He went on and on about my new publicity stunt, shaking his head as he trudged back upstairs to clean.
On the other hand, the boys- my boys- cheered as they rushed down the stairs, Mush pulling me up and clapping me on the back.
"Brilliant Jackie!"
"How'd you learn to do that?"
"Best one yet!"
I smiled and shrugged as if nothing happened. Getting the boys' attention became a daily ritual for me, being their leader and all. It wasn't that I was a bit of a glory hound- wait, I take that back, I did love being in the spotlight. Probably too much for my own good.
"Jack, you're too much," Crutchie muttered as he reached me. An odd mix of laughter and disapproval clouded his brown eyes. That summed Crutchie pretty well, in all honesty: an odd mixture. He could voice his doubts about my dumb ideas without a second thought, but he believed he could make it in this city, even with a Chinese face plus a gimp leg. Optimism for himself, realism for the rest of us. Strange, but that's what I liked about him.
"I know."
"Hey, can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"I need to find a new selling spot. There were these church ladies who saw my limp and said they should call for someone to come and…" He swallowed nervously. "Collect me. Make sure I get taken care of."
I didn't bother hiding my shudder. To imagine someone as happy as Crutchie locked away in the Refuge, for who knows how long under Warden Snyder's thumb… we needed to get to Santa Fe as soon as possible. There he could ride a horse, breathe fresh air, live a life of freedom that our type couldn't find in New York.
"Just hold on till that train makes Santa Fe," I whispered, letting Jack the Dreamer break through for a moment. Crutchie gave a half hearted grin.
"Hey, you coming?" Henry, Lover of Food, hollered. This boy dreamed of nothing but a good meal; he'd spend precious pennies on extra elaborate foods on a whim. One time he sprinkled Indian chili powder over a hunk of bread. When I axed him why, he shrugged. "Reminds me of home." he said dryly before swallowing the bread whole and choking on the spiciness.
"Yeah, yeah," I shouted back. We left the Newsboy Lodging House for the sunny streets of New York City. So placid, calm, rather clear. But I knew its moods; within a single hour we'd be pushing to get through the ever-growing crowd, hoping folks would want to pay us to get bad, exaggerated news. Only at night, long after the sun sunk back below the horizon, would the illusion of quiet return.
"Any ideas for a new selling spot?" I ask for Crutchie as we pass the Horace Greeley statue stuck in the middle of the cobblestone. Answers flood rapidly.
"Try Bottle Alley or the harbor," Race suggested, chewing on his reclaimed cigar.
"You stupid? Italians don't like Orientals," Finch, a Filipino fighter, snapped. "Try a baker, bum, or barber. They almost all knows how to read."
"Bums don't read, nitwit." Specs interjected, peeping through his glasses. How he got glasses, hence the name, I haven't the slightest idea. All we knew was that he didn't steal them; he swore on the Bible, and you never swore on the Bible and lied unless you wanted a ticket to Hell. Nevertheless, the color or the shape or something looked good against his hazel skin and tight, curly hair.
"Well bankers and barbers do. They gotta go to school to get such high up jobs."
"Barbers don't have to read to cut hair." Romeo d'Art, who couldn't live a second without a girl(s) on his arm, added.
"Then bankers for sure."
"I still thinks Bottle Alley's a better idea." Race grumbled.
"You thinks everything you come up with is a good idea." Finch snorted.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing. Nothing much."
"Nothing much? You looking for a fight?"
"Hey you two, can it," I barked. "We gotta stick together or the other gangs are gonna get our asses on a silver platter." That shut the boys up real quick. Gangs were no joking matter; in cities as big as New York, resources could get scarce. Rich men just dug into their bottomless pockets while finding a way to make a buck off it, but for poor fellas, including newsies, it could mean war.
"Like when Brian was around," Elmer, the sixteen year old baby, said.
"Did you have to mention that?" Race hissed. "Like we don't already know?"
Brian O'Kelly. Our leader before me, who pulled us through most of the last newsie gang war two years ago. It was us, the Tigers- immigrants, a good deal of us black and brown- against the "Natives"- Protestant, mostly white (some mighta hid their full identities)- who accused us of stealing their jobs and places in the boarding house. (Henry took personal offense at them calling themselves "Natives," considering his Mohawk ancestors lived here long before any of them.) From small scuffles on the street to giant brawls that landed some kids in jail, the hospital (given that someone could pay), or the graveyard, we battled over everything, from selling spots to our claims to Americanness. Things got so bad that Spot Conlon and his Brooklyn boys nearly stepped in after Brian…
Brian, I hope you know I took your last name to honor you, not steal it. To remember you died saving us from Don, that scumbag who told us we didn't belong here.
But I couldn't say Don Rump,- I'm sorry, Don Trumpeter- who also lay in the ground due to the war, wasn't entirely wrong. Was it possible for your destiny to be in a place that hated you? I would not believe Fate to be quite that cruel.
"Oh, would you look at that beauty?" Romeo gushed, his cherubic face aglow. I glanced towards the corner, where Duane St. met Centre St. Sure enough, a pretty girl clad in a purple ladies' suit stood next to the street lamp. A scrawny man squished into an oversized dapper suit nervously stood next to her- I hated chaperones. They always got in the way.
"Why hello beautiful," Romeo sang as we passed the girl, removing his cap. Rolling my eyes, I shoved the flirt aside.
"Whoa, whoa, step aside Romeo; nothing here concerns you." I tipped my hat to the miss. "Can I interest you in the latest news?"
"The paper hasn't come out yet," she replied coolly. Now that I got a close look at her face, she truly was a beauty. Curly copper hair with a single curl peeking out from behind each ear. A high, broad forehead and large earlobes- very lucky. Her smooth skin showed no signs of hard labor, save for a writer's bump on her left hand. Her lips pressed together in a pensive line while her doe brown eyes absentmindedly gazed at the sky.
"I would be delighted to deliver it to you personally," I offered, tilting my head so that my hair shadowed my face. The boys sniggered behind me, but I personally thought my hair looked good when a few loose strands hung out.
The miss's frown curled into a crisp simper. "No, I've got a headline for you." She beckoned for me to lean in closer. "Cheeky boy gets nothing for his troubles."
"Oooh!" The boys hooted. My cheeks reddened, but I kept my smiling demeanor. A smart working girl… I did enjoy a good challenge. Unless they hated Chinamen, most girls fell straight into my arms, expect when some other lucky bastard picked them up first. Such as…
"Back to the bench, slugger," Romeo gleefully called. "You struck out!"
I pushed him again. "Stupidhead."
"Good day, boys," the chaperone squeaked as they hurried away. I shrugged, hoping that'd be the last I'd see of him. Damn chaperones. I was willing to bet a lot of rich girls would take me, even for only a day or two, if the bloody adults stayed out of the way.
"Jack, my selling spot?" Crutchie nudged me.
"Oh yeah. So you doing what Finch said?"
"Since when was Finch right about anything?"
"True."
"I heard that!" Finch flicked his hand at us. "You're just jealous, aren't ya?"
"Jealous? Of you?" I threw my head back, guffawing. "Yeah, talk in the mirror some more."
"Bonehead."
"Muttonhead."
"Idiot."
"Fool."
"Will you two stop it?" Crutchie butted in. "We're talking about my selling spot, not comparing which one of you is more stupid. Finch, why you always getting into fights? You're not even in the tavern."
Finch shrugged. "Waiting makes me antsy. Me, I likes living chancy."
"I'll carve on your gravestone," I volunteered.
"Very funny," he pouted. "At least I ain't a hot air artist."
"Excuse me?"
"You don't see me jumping off railings just to impress us and piss off Kloppmann, eh?"
"You piss off Kloppmann when you come back stinking of beer, your face breaking out in a rash, and pus leaking off you. It's disgusting."
"I do not leak pus."
"Yes you do. You just don't remember 'cause you're drunk every time you stumble in our door, whining bout this or that. By the time you're sober, the wounds are cleaned and Kloppmann's too worn out to give you a lecture."
"He gives me a paddling sometimes. It's stupid; I'm eighteen, for God's sake!"
"You're stupid."
"Watch it, Jack!"
I stuck my tongue at him. He raised an eyebrow warningly before returning to his usual grin. Even if I inherited Brian's title, older boys required respect.
"Jack." Crutchie sounded exasperated.
"Oh, sorry Crutchie, I was-uh, well, I'm sorry." I truly meant it. No matter how hard I tried, sometimes I forgot he still needed attention.
"It's fine. I'm not doing Bottle Alley, in case you're wondering. Italians don't like Chinamen."
"Yeah, you're right. So you selling to bankers?"
"Maybe they'll feel sorry for me. I don't know."
"Don't worry Crutchie," Race yelled from behind Romeo. "A limp sells fifty papes a week all on its own!"
I cringed. Why Race? Why you have to make an ass outta yourself every single day? I swear…
If the comment upset Crutchie- I had a sinking sensation it did- he didn't show any sign. "I don't need the limp to sell papes," he insisted adamantly. "I got personality."
"Such as?"
"A good smile. That turns a lady's head." He winked at me. "If Jack wasn't hogging them all, I'd have a whole herd of 'em."
"You think I'm hogging them?" I poked Romeo's head. "What about this fool?"
"Aw shut it," the lovesick newsie yowled. "Half of your girls are the ones you stole from me?"
"Why, they sick of you?"
"Are not."
"Are too."
"Are not. They only want to make me jealous. You're just a tool to get closer to me." He puffed out his chest. "Who'd pass this up for a scarecrow like you?"
I jabbed his side. Romeo yelped, stumbling. We all chuckled. Romeo rammed into me. I shoved him for the third time that day. We tussled lightly- no injuries, no hard feelings, no sinister motives. I eventually got him in a headlock, which made him howl.
"Stop it, stop- Jack, I'm gonna skunk you!" he wailed when I began messing up his hair. "Oh, you'll never wanna let me go after this…"
"Big baby." I let him go. Romeo eagerly took a swing at me, which I ducked.
"I hope we have a good headline," Specs noted.
"If it stinks, make one up," said I. "Headlines don't sell papes, newsies sell papes."
"They better, after all that trolley strike garbage," Albert chimed in. "A mi no me gustan noticias lentas, especialamente cuando necesito comer."
"What you just say?" Specs inquired.
"Ninguna de tu negocio."
"Albert, you know I don't speak Spanish!"
"Por eso lo hablo." He smiled in satisfaction. Specs pouted and poked him in the ribs.
"That's real mean, Albert, real mean."
"Ellos no ensenan espanol en Harlem?"
"Leave Harlem out of this!"
"It wasn't an insult." Albert snatched his hat, revealing a mass of tight curls. "I just said they need to teach you more Spanish."
"My old neighbor spoke Spanish- give me my hat!" Specs lunged and missed. "Albert, please!"
"Say it in Spanish!" Albert waved the hat enticingly above his head. "Seriously, if we're gonna be partners-"
"Forget it!" Specs elbowed him in the ribs, buying enough time to jump up and grab his precious cap. "We're through."
"You'll be back!"
"No I won't!" Specs stormed off to talk to Mush, who shared his Harlem heritage and dark skin.
"I'd like to bet on that," Crutchie muttered on his breath.
"They'll prolly be sucking the lips off each other by tonight," I added. "Then fighting again. Then kissing. It just goes on and on."
"I heard that!" Albert growled. "God, does anyone get any privacy around here?"
"What are you, new?"
"You two, stop that!" A tall, severe looking nun stood in a wagon full of bread. "I don't feed bad boys!"
Ah, the Holy Sisters of St. Andrew's Roman Catholic Church, who'd come out to feed the poor hungry orphans. Three at a time, they rode out of the church's safety in a wagon, passing out slices and crusts of bread to starving children. A good free breakfast that saved us money, but like everything in New York, their good deeds demanded a price.
"Thanks for the grub, sisters!" Elmer blabbed as he shoved a hunk in his mouth.
"When are we going to see you inside the church, now?" the saucy leader queries sternly.
"I don't know, Sister," he said between bites. "But it's bound to rain sooner or later."
"Today if you don't get outta the way," Race warned, butting him aside. One by one we got our bread; Specs and I hoisted Crutchie up to grab his piece.
"Hello?" An older woman, dressed in washed out rags, grabbed Albert by the shoulders. "Patrick, that you?"
"Excuse me?"
"Patrick, Patrick, please-" The woman shook him erratically, her voice spiraling into a desperate wail. "Is that you? Don't you recognize me, your mother? I know it's been a long time, but please, you broke my heart when you left me… Patrick, it's me, your mother! Don't you recognize me?" Her pupils dilated with hope, but shrunk into tiny specks upon an amber plain as realization dawned.
"I'm not Patrick, I'm sorry, I ain't your son." Albert warily backed out of her embrace. "My parents are dead. Patrick is not here."
"No, no." She shook her head repeatedly. "Patrick is here, yes, Patrick is somewhere. Patrick is, he is-" Her words sputtered in great sobs. One of the sisters jumped off the wagon to comfort her.
"There, there," she murmured softly, resting the mother's head in the crook of her neck. "Take it easy. God is watching your son. If he is a good Christian, then he'll have eternal life."
God. Another thing about New York, or all of America, really, that confused me. How could God be benevolent if he demanded you worshipped him and him alone? Maybe I was biased; after all, if my father hadn't been forced me to sit through hour-long sermons preached in English that I didn't understand, I might have learned to accept American religion on my own terms.
"Let's go," Crutchie urged. We hurried down Centre without hesitation. It was terrible to see parents searching for lost children, but the nagging sadness numbed since it wasn't uncommon.
I wonder if Aileen ever… Stop, I commanded my brain. Stop right there. If I couldn't control what happened around me, at least I might be able to discipline my mind.
"I think Central Park's the best place, honestly," I finally told Crutchie. "Lots of people who'll admire your personality. Or Park Row, if you want rich folks to fawn over you."
"Thanks Jack," he said. I clapped his back as we hurried to Joseph Pulitzer's building- a magnificent tower rising from Park Row, made of stone, covered in giant glass windows, and topped by a golden dome with a flag pole. The biggest building of the time, and the crowning jewel of the World.
"Come on, you," I chuckled. New York was waking up with us; the sun had banished the night's melancholy blues completely. Carts, wagons, and buggies already cluttered the streets, pushing through throngs of people. Stalls hawking every product imaginable, from lumpy vegetables to fried donuts attracting more flies than paying customers, sprang up almost instantaneously, the way a flower bud opens the one moment you turn your back. The lucky salesmen who actually had buildings shooed vendors away from their windows, afraid their stores literally would be blocked out.
So we walked, in a pack of brothers, a mosaic of faces. July 17, 1899 bloomed as we traveled down the familiar cobblestones, to where Centre St. bled into Park Row, to where Joseph Pulitzer sold us our daily papes, to where I'd meet a pair of brothers who'd change the game for good.