Chapter 3.
Aidan has decided to move out, since we are running out of room and it would be cheaper for him. With him gone I'm now the oldest and the responsibility is weighing down my shoulders. Aidan still gives some of his earnings to the family, but they are small and we need full wages going towards the family. I started looking for a job and found one working at a fruit stand on the corner of York Street and Front Street. I sell apples, bananas and other exotic fruits, most I've never even tasted before. It's a dull job, makes little to nothing, but I'm out on my own and I don't have to babysit for any of the younger children. This little job at the fruit stand is my taste of freedom, my taste of independence. The taste goes sour though once I arrive home.
Pa has been in a foul disposition for the past 2 months, moaning and groaning about his job, his pay (or lack of) and how badly the boss treats his employees. Mother believes he's been drinking again at one of the bars because sometimes not a full paycheck will come home, or he'll arrive home at 2:30 in the morning banging doors and cursing at the neighbors cat, Priscilla.
"Sure sign he's dealing with that damn devil again." I can hear Mother cursing as she goes around the house cleaning, making sure there's not one dust bunny gracing the floorboards. Even the windows are cleaned from all the soot, which I find amazing. The few of the brick building isn't the best, but Mother hides it well with her latest purchase: pale blue curtains that rest dantily on the windowsill. It was her treat to herself, it being her birthday and all. Pa managed to come home at a decent hour and have dinner with her for her birthday, but we could sense he was only half there. Aidan also came, bringing her nice fresh flowers from a local stand. I thought about getting a second job selling flowers, wandering the streets selling pretty roses. Instead I have fruit. Barrels full of fruit.
I guess it could be worse. I could be one of those filthy factory children who have to go to work at 5 in the morning with their mothers at the garment factories. They all look the same; big eyes under filthy skin, blackened by soot and long periods of time without a bath. The newsboys are interesting characters, I sometimes see them when I first start working, shouting out the local tragedy of the day. I don't talk to them though, and they don't talk to me. It must be nice to just sell newspapers. You probably get lots more money.
"Be lucky you'se not one of those filthy street urchins. Those newsboys are all street mongril, the strays, the orphans of the lot. Criminals is what they are. Don't you go messin around with any of those damn newsboys." The old toothless woman who sometimes sits outside our building shelling nuts and watching the passerby's often tells me this as I go off to work in the morning. She must be married to the old man, both smell of cigarette smoke and old age. She says only the same thing, for some reason hating those newsboys. It's just their job I once told her and she scowled a look which made all her wrinkles stand out.
"They wouldn'ta hafta work as damn scummy newsboys if they were smart. Brains you got, but you'se just a fruit seller, get a factory job. More rewardin and respectful…" She'd drone on like this if I stuck around to hear, but I'd say well, ma'am I gotta run to work, can't be late! Bye! And run off down the road.
Mother hates that I didn't find a job nearer to Doughty street. I'm a few blocks away, but the walk isn't too bad. Some people have to walk across the bridge to get to Manhattan to work in one of the department stores. I would love to work in one of those pretty stores, windows filled with lacy dresses that I could never afford. I often find myself dreaming of that as I stand next to my cart, watching people, making sure they don't steal any of the fruit. Some of the factory children have been known to steal apples and oranges after they get out of the factories for the day. They come towards the end of my work day and my attention isn't that great, but I've caught a few of the thieves and now I know who to watch out for.
I often would tell the stories of how I caught a thief, or how I served a rich business man from Manhattan. They were always in their smart business suits, and had respectable hair cuts. Nothing like what Pa would ever wear.
"Aprons are for bloody women." He groaned the first day on the job when he found out he had to wear an apron in the meat packaging factory. He only muttered about it a few more times, but soon went into brooding about how he could have a much better job if we stilled lived in Ireland. Pa hates when I tell the tales of the business men in their suits. His face squints downwards like the old lady on the front stoop and he glances out the window. "Probably nothing better to do than to show off to all the lower class workers out here in Brooklyn. Don't you sell them any of your fruit, they're too good for our fruit. You tell 'em that Brenn." He would shove another forkful of food in his mouth and stomp away from the table, leaving Mother glancing discouraged after him and at the empty plates on the table.
I would always help Mother in the kitchen, washing the plates and putting everything away. It was always in silence, except for the occasional question about my job and whether I liked it or not. I liked it fine, I'd tell her, and continue scrubbing down the plates.
"You're a lucky lass. Some people would kill for a good job working at the fruit stand. You be a good worker, make the boss proud so you won't loose your job." Mother nodded, and I realized how old she looked. Had these few months caused her to really age that much?