Somebody's Nobody
William Lewis stared out the window of his second floor bedroom, tentatively sipping a hot cup of tea. Down on the dirty streets below, a young lad was screaming headlines to those who passed. The boy was tall and lanky, with a head of thick, messy brown hair that he constantly tried to straighten when the sales hit a slow moment. Around his neck were a red bandana and a cowboy hat that sometimes ended up on his head, and sometimes hanging back in place.
William folded his arms over chest, holding the cup in one ancient, trembling hand. He pressed his thin, cracked lips together to form a slight smile, and his lively brown eyes watched the spunky boy run from one customer to another, cajoling, laughing, frowning, and of course, selling his newspapers.
The kid had fire in him, determination that seemed to draw the attention of everyone, and instill in he or she the need to buy a newspaper that would tell them news they already knew. He had charm. William was fascinated watching him, recalling days of his youth when he too had been spry and enthusiastic. He even hoped the boy would soon dig his way into a higher status, away from the drudgery of slum life. He was too hard a worker not to hope for.
Drawing a thick shawl around his frail shoulders, William slowly set his cup onto the small table beside the window and sank into his rocking chair, still observing the boy, rocking back and forth at a creaky, leisurely pace.
A young man, his butler Andrew, came in and gently placed a newspaper onto his lap. The aged man thanked him and then insisted the window be opened. His butler did as told and then left William in peace. He smiled, hearing snips of the newsboy's shouts as he thumbed through the pages of his paper, reading it carefully through his bifocals.
Quickly, this became his daily routine. He noticed the high-spirited lad sold at the same corner everyday, except every other Sunday, coincident with the time he had his afternoon tea, for months. So he watched, always smiling, always reminiscing, some days with the window open, others just the opposite. He found it amusing when the boy would get chased away by the police, or buyers who were unsatisfied with their newspapers, only to return to sell again the next day.
There came a day when suddenly, the boy wasn't at his selling spot. William wasn't too perturbed, assuming he had taken a well-deserved break. But when the boy didn't appear the next day, or the day after that, for the next week, he began to wonder. Had he taken the climb in social status? Had something heinous happened to him? Did he just find a new selling spot? The old man was surprised at how consuming these thoughts were. He hadn't realized that watching the boy survive day to day, some days comically, others almost tragic, as he sold through rain and sleet, heat and cold, had become part of his life.
Two weeks since the boy's disappearance had come and gone. Andrew came into William's room, as he did every afternoon, and dropped off a newspaper. As always, William carefully began thumb through the paper, when a headline caught his eye.
Newsboy Found Dead in Alley.
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