Chapter 4
"So how much can I get for a penny?" A newsboy had wandered over to my fruit stand and stood eyeing the merchandise with cunning eyes. He held a cane, and I figured if I didn't give him something for a penny, he'd wallop me one with that cane. He glanced up at me, his gray eyes pretty demanding. He was rather short, but I could tell he had quite the attitude. "Well? Cat got yer tongue?"
I flustered but refused to blush. "A-an apple for a penny's alright." I muttered.
"Dat's much bettah." He picked up an apple and tossed it into the air catching it and taking a bite. "Heah you are miss. Me names Michael Conlon, call me Spot, you call me Michael and I'll pack you one." And he could too, but his eyes were nice now, smiling almost, even though the smirk on his face wasn't too nice.
"Spot?" He nodded. What an odd name for a boy. "Alright, I'm Brenna O'Reilly, call me Brenna." We stood eyeing each other and then he spoke again.
"Alright Brenna. Pleasah to meetcha." This small conversation continued for a couple weeks, us talking about the weather, our jobs, and family life.
"We live in this place called da newsboys lodgin house. No parents, nothing. Just us boys. We'se got some girls too, but not many heah in Brooklyn, more ovah in Manhattan." Spot and I were walking back towards my Doughty Street apartment. We often got off work around the same time in the evening and he had taken to walking around Brooklyn with me. I had met a couple other newsies, as Spot called them, and they seemed friendly enough. They weren't all street trash as the old lady had lovingly dubbed them, however that old lady did not approve of my hanging around with this "Spot Conlon character." She told my Mother about him, telling her he probably had fleas or something, and that made Mother freak out a little, but she gave in to my begging. I had to make friends, otherwise my life in this city would be a bore, she had said.
The freedom of the newsboys lodging house sounded so nice, not to have to answer to parents, and to be making your own money and paying for lodging. And to meet all those kids your own age who have similar experiences. Spot's family was Irish as well, and we often talked about our fathers' alcohol abuse. His father worked in a big factory as well, and the stress of it, Spot thought, drove him to spend every night and early morning in the bars.
"Befoah I became a newsie, we, me bruddahs and I, used ta hafta go get him from da bars. Once we had to coax him from jumpin off da Brooklyn Bridge in da middle of the wintah. Rough shit." He spat on the ground, I normally would get disgusted by this but I had grown used to the roughness and crudeness of the newsies. "But we'se got used ta it. Me little bruddah Ryan has ta take care of him now. I'm outta the house fer good now, nevah goin back." We had reached the beginning of my block and he would continue down the road to the lodging house, and I would turn down Doughty and go home. How I wished at that moment that I could go with Spot down to the lodging house and hang out with the boys. His stories were so fascinating, all the poker games with Manhattan and the slingshot contests they held on the bridge.
"Come down to da docks whenevah you get a chance Brenn, and I'se can show ya how to shoot Brooklyn style." He gave me his usual smirk, which I came to realize was as close to a smile as I was gonna get.
*****
Aidan came home for church on Sunday morning, looking all prim and proper in his new suit. It was used he told us, but the man kept it in real good shape and he got it for a good price. It's always nice to have him around the house. Being the oldest is hard, he says, but its worse without him being there. Worse without Michael. Michael was just a couple years behind me, and in a way we were the closest having our childhood ripped away from us at such a young age. We always shared that bond, of knowing how hard life can be and how unfair as well. Unfair it definitely is. Michael was taken from us on the boat and buried away at sea. I can't even go visit his gravesite when I want to.
Church was the same old same old, and now I'm back out on the fire escape. It's always the quietest on Sunday morning, and I notice I've got company. The old man from the floor above is out on his folding chair smoking one of his long slim cigarettes and humming some tune I don't recognize. I smile up at him to be nice and he just makes a tight-lipped attempt at a smile. Even Spot's smirk is better than his weak attempt to be kind. We both sit out here in silence, not enjoying each other's company but just accepting it as time wears on. He's managing to get the ashes over the fire escape so they don't land on me, however, which is nice I suppose.
Today I'm thinking a lot about Pa. He's been drinking heavily, I know that for a fact now. His breath wreaks and he's been escorted home by the police twice already. I don't know what to do about him, Mother is insane with worry over her children and now add in her husband, it doesn't make a good combination. She's looking ever more frazzled. Her hair is graying, and the lines are definitely more prominent around her eyes and forehead. Life has been hard on her, and Pa's lapse into alcohol doesn't help her much at all. Aidan told me on the way back from Church that he may be gambling again. Poker, the game Spot talks about him and his pals playing every weekend with his Manhattan buddies.
"You sure he's into gambling again?" I had asked him
"Pretty sure. People have been talking, and the talk isn't good. We can't afford him to go gambling off all our money. We can't afford it." He sounded worn out, as if the news were affecting him personally. I guess in a way it was since it was his father and he was his father's son. However, he wasn't living with the family anymore, he was providing for himself and not relying on someone else who happens to like the drink and gambling.
I also want a new job, this newsboy job seems so much more free than living at home. I could support myself! I've met a nine year old who was supporting himself, a 13 year old like me certainly should be able to. I glance up at the old man who has a tired look to him, but there he is puffing away at his cigarette, dealing with his life problems in his own head. His problems couldn't be worse than mine, I think as I climbed back through the window and back into my family life