Jack couldn't figure out why he kept blacking out – one moment he'd be standing near a streetlamp and the next, he'd have gone down the corner of the street without exactly remembering why or when he did so. It wasn't that customers were scarce, in fact there were so many that he was even considering it a lucky choice that he had shifted his selling spot here.
Wonder who's taking me usual place.
It was quite possible no one would, since his usual place of selling was famously located at the 15 Park Row near the City Hall on the Main Road – and because the trolley workers had taken up the road for their strike that day, Jack himself had shifted his place to the next avenue – here.
Strikes, and all that stress.
He had initially been quite a supporter of the trolley strike, along with many other newsies who were hawking for an interesting headline. But now that the headlines had been stuck at the Trolley Strike every single day for the past 3 days, Jack was starting to feel a bit uneasy.
And of course it didn't help any better that it was now affecting his place of selling.
And what was it that she talked about the trolley workers…
No, he mustn't think of it. He must focus on today's selling and getting the news heard around and not, certainly not, wandering in memory to her.
Jack was nothing if not persevere. Maybe even a little bit persistent at that. He believed in the proverb, where there's will, there's a way. So it shouldn't be hard to keep his mind off other things…
He also believed that anyone who had courage to dare would finally get what they were demanding for – in the case of the trolley workers, better wages and recognition – and in his case, well, he was hoping he'd get his dream of Santa Fe.
But it was difficult to keep that belief when knowing one's disposition in the world. It was difficult to continue to cherish a dream when life blew cold winds and harsh storms to send him back down to the bottom of the gutters from where he'd tried hard to climb from.
And these years of survival had left the 17-year-old somewhat bitter about the world he lived in. Manhattan, it was clearly the place for big dreams and big people. Manhattan would never reserve a place for a street rat like him – not when she was bustling with crowds and innovative entrepreneurs with family backgrounds.
But I got Santa Fe.
The trolley workers could go on with their strike, for all he cared, but secretly he wished for the end of it all soon. He wished the workers would get their justice, or at least be better off with whatever resolution they ended up at. And then, he and the boys could rejoice at something interesting worth of a headline.
Wishes don't get yer very far, though, do they?
A girl came up to him with a nervous demeanor as she asked for a paper. He didn't study her carefully but his lips curled into a charming smile automatically that showcased his perfect lips as he passed the newspaper into her hand.
"A pape for a pretty lady," he said naturally, making the girl go red with a shy delight before trotting away gleefully. Jack stared at her braided pigtails from the back, and for no reason at all, his mind started to wander around as he tried to imagine the girl from last night in pigtails.
She had piled up her hair in a beanie so he had no clue of what her hair was like, but something told Jack that it would be the most ridiculous sight in the world if she had pigtails. For some reasons, it just didn't feel right that a feisty one like her would ever choose to have pretty pigtails.
Wait, what was he even thinking? He had not known her for more than 12 hours at most, and here he was trying to imagine the hairstyle of a complete stranger. Jack shook off his thoughts away, but when he did, it only made him more aware of the beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead under the hot June sun at noon.
He didn't have a watch, but he guessed it was well near or around noon. More than a thousand days in Manhattan had taught him more things than just selling papes – for example, knowing the time of the day from the environment. The way the people rushed to work in the morning, the way the heat gets unbearable in the noon, and the way the air smelt sweet and cool in the evening.
After all, Jack Kelly was not considered one of the best of his generation for nothing.
But the thought of the evening sparked a train of other thoughts that followed up right behind: how the breeze was blowing in that dark alleyway and how her breath had felt so warm in contrast…
Jack felt the need to shout all of his stupid frustrations out but he did not, as he was fortunately interrupted from the moment of shame.
"Yo Jack!" A thick Italian accent came up from behind, and Jack turned round to look at Racetrack Higgins racing towards him flailing his flat cap in the air excitedly. Jack raised an eyebrow of amusement, not only at his friend's behavior as if he'd seen the long lost love of his life (which would probably be a chestnut horse) but the fact that he was actually here – during work hours.
Jack tilted his chin as he called out lightly, "Whassup, Race?" He was quite glad for Race's appearance, if truth be told. It was starting to feel like he desperately needed an interruption from his thoughts of the heat and reminiscences of the encounter.
Forget 'bout it.
There was little to no way of not thinking about that girl from last night. Why, Jack thought with horror, even the sight of Race running towards him resembled too eerily close to the strange person he had met in the dark.
Before Race reached him, Jack had a hard time trying to gulp down the saliva in his throat. He was still trying to shoo the ridiculous image away when he realized Race had just said something and was now waiting for an answer.
Jack blinked, leaning in a bit as if to hear Race properly amidst the imaginary noises of traffic. "What?" he asked, not fooling his friend who was rolling his eyes too much they were about to sink in. But the excited boy's spirits were not to be dampened by this seemingly lack of attention, because he repeated,
"I asked, would you like to go to Sheepshead with me?"
The countenance of Jack must have been quite incredulous though, for Race hurriedly added in, "I- I didn't mean, like, ya know, go with me- What do you call that, a- acom…"
"Accompany,"
"Yes, yes, accompany," Race repeated gratefully, although his tongue had to adjust to the strange English word. He was still trying to learn new words ever since coming from Italy, and obviously 5 years of being in Manhattan was still not enough.
"Yeah, yeah, sure," Jack agreed without really knowing what he was agreeing to. His mind was still a mess after what just happened awkwardly. "And don't worry 'bout it, man, you's good," He patted the shoulder of a vigorously agitated Racetrack who was silently cursing at the language.
"Ya wanna git lunch farst?" he offered, to which his companion shook the head.
"Can't," Race explained, "Dere's a match right at two,"
"But I's hungry!" Jack insisted, not really out of hunger but merely to go back on his word. He had not seriously been in his right mind when he agreed to accompany Race to Sheepshead, which was in Brooklyn.
Which, by the way, is a 3-hours' walk.
Jack wasn't also really keen on spending his day at a stuffy steamy racing match – it just wasn't his thing. Sure, he liked crowds which meant selling more papes, but a hundred of people screaming at each other wasn't that an inviting call to sell. Plus, he was pretty sure he would be the one selling both Race and his papes since the former was likely to go off somewhere to get better bets.
Or at least those were tales from Mush.
"What's happened to Mush then?" he asked of Race's usual companion to these races.
"That jerk's got his sellin' spot swarmin' with bees and flies, or so he says," Race grumbled, clearly upset about it.
"But I's selling too then!"
"No, you's not, and so you's gonna come with meh or else I's will have ter find Skit – and his place is far, and he ain't nice ter be 'round,"
Jack's eyebrows knitted in confusion at this sudden spill of word vomit mixed with the very heavy Italian accent which almost would have not made any sense to passersby.
"How d'you know I ain't selling?" The older boy challenged with a determined look, which was returned by an exaggerated scoff and a roll of eyes.
"You's not shoutin' as much as usual," and to further prove his point, Race deliberately directed his eyes to glance down at the stack of newspapers still held in Jack's arms. Jack nervously just held his breath and prayed whatever was to come later, it would not be a question of "What's the matta' wid ya?" because a nosy Race on a hunch trail was enough to scare Jack out of his wits.
He couldn't possibly let anyone – especially Race – know what had been going through his mind lately. But thankfully, the dreadful question never came. It was his luck that Race was in fact in a hurry that day to be determined enough to get to Sheepshead Races on time of the match, and did not really detect any signs of, well, anything.
"And da crowd's thin, you's gonna sell much better dere," he continued to encourage hopefully with a brotherly pat on the shoulder.
Jack grinned smugly, and sighed secretly, as he slumped the newspapers onto his shoulder. "You ain't foolin' anybody, Race," he said almost ironically although taking a step forward to his friend's great delight.
Race started gleefully trotting beside him, and started on all sorts of promises to express his gratitude, for he had a slight feeling Jack wasn't feeling that willing yet.
After all, even Mush never was that willing. No one ever was.
It was such a chore to accompany Racetrack Higgins, it was more like babysitting. The guy would practically forget everything and everyone once his concentration was secured on something. And so far, that something had always been horses and money. Jack wondered what Race would do if a girl popped up in his life though.
And for a split moment, Jack saw everything pass in a flash – the world around him turned bleak, Race's constant chatters turned bland, and the sight of his eyes turned blur. What was even worse, was that his mind was blank all save for a vision of a curious figure cloaked in the darkness which somehow seemed to radiate light.
It was… it was as if he wasn't a part of this world he was walking on. As if a part of him was just suddenly found, a part of him that he never knew was missing or even necessary. Jack had met countless girls before, and a few had even marked their stay in his memory, but never did he ever feel this forlorn about any subject in particular.
And suddenly, he felt blue.
Even as he came to realize the feelings itself, he couldn't help but wondered if her favorite color was blue.
Jack cursed at himself for these unsteadily wavering thoughts. Why was he, or more specifically, his brain acting this way? Why was it lingering in the past, something Jack Kelly never liked to do, or admit about? And lastly, why was he finding a poignant pleasure in these thoughts.
He groaned mournfully.