A young boy, his hair matted from drying rain water and his eyes overflowing with tears that remained unshed, sat on the fire escape outside of his apartment in Manhattan. His heart seemed to be aching from the inside, and his shoulders lightly shook with feverish sweeps. It hurt so much. Everything he was thinking, feeling, everything that he even knew was cutting into his soul, like salt on a wound. Inside his home he could hear yet another heated argument taking place.
"We need da money!! WE. NEED. IT."
"Not that much, not that MUCH!!"
"Listen ta me ya whore...."
"Don't you talk to me that way! I brought you into this world!!"
"Ya stupid immigrant..."
"I GAVE YOU LIFE!"
"SHUT DA HELL UP!"
He wouldn't cry, no matter how much it hurt. His mom had forced him outside (all the while weeping for him, herself, the small family, as her frightened tears fell onto his upturned face) and locked both the door of the apartment and the lock on the window. He knew very well why she wouldn't let him inside. He would intervene with his mother and his older sister in their all too common fight. He would get hurt.
'But God,' he thought to himself with a racking sob, 'It hoits jist da same when I'se not gettin' mixed up wit' it all.' With a light sniffle, he wiped his running nose on his long sleeved shirt, which was dirty from his escapades in the park that afternoon. Less than an hour ago, he was spending his time with his friends, laughing up at the few visible stars that dare show themselves to the coal dusted, industrialized, fear ridden city of New York.
His sister (five years his senior) had come home late this night. Again. She was drunk, once again spending her incredibly small pay that she received from the handkerchief factory on booze. Probably a few cigarettes. Some morphine. Anything to rile up her mother, or God. It always did.
"Don't you dare walk away from me, Jackie!"
"BITCH, YOU FU... BITCH, YOU... LET ME GO!"
As loving as she was, their mother was helpless. She worked all day cleaning other people's homes, doing laundry and sewing clothes that her children could never even think about touching. She could hardly handle the fiery eyed young girl that she had spawned. She was becoming more weak every day. Her heart was breaking. And in turn, it broke the boy's heart.
So, now he sat there wanting so badly to break through the foggy glass, wanting so much that it made him shiver in the cool night. It was a lovely night with a light wind that blew his loose, curly hair across his worried brow. His red eyes blinked, allowing another tear to slide down his round face. Suddenly, a crash from inside the apartment made him jump and clench his teeth together. The shouting continued.
"I'se leavin' dis damn house an' I ain't evah..."
"Don't say that! Don't!"
Mother was finally breaking into sobs, her calm tears subsiding into an act of pure love; her baby girl was talking to her as if she were one of her street corner customers. A low cough erupted from the young girl's lungs. An effect of her tobacco abuse.
"I'se goin'! Ya heah me!?" She yelled after her coughing fit had run itself through.
The boy could hear his mother recollect herself. "If you leave this house, your father will roll over in his gra..."
"LET HIM ROLL!" A slap. It was quickly followed by tumbling noise as the girl apparently went flying into the small couch in the center of the room. The lone boy kept his teeth and eyes tightly closed as he heard the harsh and startled breaths from his older sister... and then the fleeing footsteps as she ran from the building and onto the street in her purple, hiked up dress.
The wails of his mother in the room was too much to stand. He could make out the choked out names of his sister ("Why, Jacqueline, why?!") and his own ("Richard... darling!"). It seemed too much for the boy. He couldn't take any more of the crying, or the fights, or the drugs, or the mysterious men. He wanted out. OUT. He wouldn't leave his mother for the world, but by God, he didn't want to be there when his sister brought back her nightly friends. Or if she didn't come back.
"Richie! Ya comin'?" A voice called up to him from across the street. Richard looked down from his perch into the dark face of his friend, nicknamed Boots. He tipped his conductor's cap further away from his forehead so that his sparkling, black eyes could be seen by his pal. Boots wasn't much older than Richard, yet he had lived a much harder life. One on the streets, selling papers to those who didn't even give him a second look.
The small boy sitting on the window ledge outside of his apartment was not the same boy that Boots had spent most of his day with. He was broken in. Faded. After a quick sigh of understanding, (Richard had hinted around to the idea of his family's distress, before)Boots plastered his usual, cheerful grin onto his face, beckoning his friend to follow him.
The wails from Richie's mother had quieted down to a low sniffling. After a smirk down to his impatient friend, he looked through the window at her, seeing her curled into a tiny ball on her daughter's cot. She would fall asleep there, dreaming fitfully, as she had done many times before.
"Hey! We'se gunna miss da show!" Boots yelled through his cupped hands.
Richie looked down at his dusty shoes for a minute, pondering his flight. He could always come back to his mother. She was frail, and couldn't really take care of herself. She needed him. And he would be true to her. With a low, mummered promise that was meant to creep through the small cracks of the window pain and reach his mother, Richie turned back to his friend down below.
"Yeah, I'se comin'!" Richie yelled. He threw his leg around the railing that stood in his way, and then dropped swiftly to the ground, landing on all four limbs like a cat.
Boots grinned down at him from his crouched position. "Ready?"
"A 'coise!" Came the reply. The two started off for Irving Hall. On the way, the talked of the normal things: papes, girls, fights, girls, and of course.. girls. The pre-teen boys laughed dirtily as they remembered the cute little orphan girl who had kicked Jack in the jewels the week before.
"I ain't evah gunna foahget dat blue color dat covahed his face!" Boots choked out between laughter.
"Naw, it was moah... lavendah!" This sent the boys off into another peal of giggles.
"Remembah what she called ya?" Boots asked with a grin.
"Yeah... what was it... guttah snipe?"
"Haha!! Guttah snipe!!" Boots yelled, patting his friend on the back. "Maybe I should call ya.... Snipeshootah! It fits ya poifactly!"
"Nuh uh!" Richie protested, slapping Boots on the back of his head with his palm. "RICHIE!!"
"Snipeshootah, Snipeshootah!" Boots taunted.
"Blow it, man. Blooooow it!"
The two chased each other around the streets, laughing and mocking each other. They never made it to the show that night, for they were too late to make it in the packed place. Not that they cared in the slightest.
~*
Over time, Richie (who's nick name remained Snipeshooter, or Snipes for short, much to his dislike) never journeyed home to his mother. About a month later, a dead fifteen year old girl was found in an alley way, her wrists slit. Suicide. Her once bright green eyes were glazed over from the dusty dew that had fallen into them in the early morning. Snipes knew it was her, his sister, but he hid his grief and concern for everything inside of him. He became one of the guys, staying in the newsie lodging house off Duane street. And he liked it that way.
He never knew that his mother was frantically looking for him. Calling for her darling, Richie, through the grimy streets of New York City. Alas, he never answered. Never.
"We need da money!! WE. NEED. IT."
"Not that much, not that MUCH!!"
"Listen ta me ya whore...."
"Don't you talk to me that way! I brought you into this world!!"
"Ya stupid immigrant..."
"I GAVE YOU LIFE!"
"SHUT DA HELL UP!"
He wouldn't cry, no matter how much it hurt. His mom had forced him outside (all the while weeping for him, herself, the small family, as her frightened tears fell onto his upturned face) and locked both the door of the apartment and the lock on the window. He knew very well why she wouldn't let him inside. He would intervene with his mother and his older sister in their all too common fight. He would get hurt.
'But God,' he thought to himself with a racking sob, 'It hoits jist da same when I'se not gettin' mixed up wit' it all.' With a light sniffle, he wiped his running nose on his long sleeved shirt, which was dirty from his escapades in the park that afternoon. Less than an hour ago, he was spending his time with his friends, laughing up at the few visible stars that dare show themselves to the coal dusted, industrialized, fear ridden city of New York.
His sister (five years his senior) had come home late this night. Again. She was drunk, once again spending her incredibly small pay that she received from the handkerchief factory on booze. Probably a few cigarettes. Some morphine. Anything to rile up her mother, or God. It always did.
"Don't you dare walk away from me, Jackie!"
"BITCH, YOU FU... BITCH, YOU... LET ME GO!"
As loving as she was, their mother was helpless. She worked all day cleaning other people's homes, doing laundry and sewing clothes that her children could never even think about touching. She could hardly handle the fiery eyed young girl that she had spawned. She was becoming more weak every day. Her heart was breaking. And in turn, it broke the boy's heart.
So, now he sat there wanting so badly to break through the foggy glass, wanting so much that it made him shiver in the cool night. It was a lovely night with a light wind that blew his loose, curly hair across his worried brow. His red eyes blinked, allowing another tear to slide down his round face. Suddenly, a crash from inside the apartment made him jump and clench his teeth together. The shouting continued.
"I'se leavin' dis damn house an' I ain't evah..."
"Don't say that! Don't!"
Mother was finally breaking into sobs, her calm tears subsiding into an act of pure love; her baby girl was talking to her as if she were one of her street corner customers. A low cough erupted from the young girl's lungs. An effect of her tobacco abuse.
"I'se goin'! Ya heah me!?" She yelled after her coughing fit had run itself through.
The boy could hear his mother recollect herself. "If you leave this house, your father will roll over in his gra..."
"LET HIM ROLL!" A slap. It was quickly followed by tumbling noise as the girl apparently went flying into the small couch in the center of the room. The lone boy kept his teeth and eyes tightly closed as he heard the harsh and startled breaths from his older sister... and then the fleeing footsteps as she ran from the building and onto the street in her purple, hiked up dress.
The wails of his mother in the room was too much to stand. He could make out the choked out names of his sister ("Why, Jacqueline, why?!") and his own ("Richard... darling!"). It seemed too much for the boy. He couldn't take any more of the crying, or the fights, or the drugs, or the mysterious men. He wanted out. OUT. He wouldn't leave his mother for the world, but by God, he didn't want to be there when his sister brought back her nightly friends. Or if she didn't come back.
"Richie! Ya comin'?" A voice called up to him from across the street. Richard looked down from his perch into the dark face of his friend, nicknamed Boots. He tipped his conductor's cap further away from his forehead so that his sparkling, black eyes could be seen by his pal. Boots wasn't much older than Richard, yet he had lived a much harder life. One on the streets, selling papers to those who didn't even give him a second look.
The small boy sitting on the window ledge outside of his apartment was not the same boy that Boots had spent most of his day with. He was broken in. Faded. After a quick sigh of understanding, (Richard had hinted around to the idea of his family's distress, before)Boots plastered his usual, cheerful grin onto his face, beckoning his friend to follow him.
The wails from Richie's mother had quieted down to a low sniffling. After a smirk down to his impatient friend, he looked through the window at her, seeing her curled into a tiny ball on her daughter's cot. She would fall asleep there, dreaming fitfully, as she had done many times before.
"Hey! We'se gunna miss da show!" Boots yelled through his cupped hands.
Richie looked down at his dusty shoes for a minute, pondering his flight. He could always come back to his mother. She was frail, and couldn't really take care of herself. She needed him. And he would be true to her. With a low, mummered promise that was meant to creep through the small cracks of the window pain and reach his mother, Richie turned back to his friend down below.
"Yeah, I'se comin'!" Richie yelled. He threw his leg around the railing that stood in his way, and then dropped swiftly to the ground, landing on all four limbs like a cat.
Boots grinned down at him from his crouched position. "Ready?"
"A 'coise!" Came the reply. The two started off for Irving Hall. On the way, the talked of the normal things: papes, girls, fights, girls, and of course.. girls. The pre-teen boys laughed dirtily as they remembered the cute little orphan girl who had kicked Jack in the jewels the week before.
"I ain't evah gunna foahget dat blue color dat covahed his face!" Boots choked out between laughter.
"Naw, it was moah... lavendah!" This sent the boys off into another peal of giggles.
"Remembah what she called ya?" Boots asked with a grin.
"Yeah... what was it... guttah snipe?"
"Haha!! Guttah snipe!!" Boots yelled, patting his friend on the back. "Maybe I should call ya.... Snipeshootah! It fits ya poifactly!"
"Nuh uh!" Richie protested, slapping Boots on the back of his head with his palm. "RICHIE!!"
"Snipeshootah, Snipeshootah!" Boots taunted.
"Blow it, man. Blooooow it!"
The two chased each other around the streets, laughing and mocking each other. They never made it to the show that night, for they were too late to make it in the packed place. Not that they cared in the slightest.
~*
Over time, Richie (who's nick name remained Snipeshooter, or Snipes for short, much to his dislike) never journeyed home to his mother. About a month later, a dead fifteen year old girl was found in an alley way, her wrists slit. Suicide. Her once bright green eyes were glazed over from the dusty dew that had fallen into them in the early morning. Snipes knew it was her, his sister, but he hid his grief and concern for everything inside of him. He became one of the guys, staying in the newsie lodging house off Duane street. And he liked it that way.
He never knew that his mother was frantically looking for him. Calling for her darling, Richie, through the grimy streets of New York City. Alas, he never answered. Never.