THE SLINGSHOT
What I found at the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House in the bunkroom…
My first evening at the lodging house, I caught the fearless Brooklyn leader Spot Conlon banging his head against one of the posts of a set of bunk beds in the bunkroom.
I had fancied that I could come up to the bunkroom for some peace and quiet, not for the commotion that was ensuing.
I quietly entered the room, shutting the door behind me. I did slam the door rather loud, hoping that he would notice my presence and decease in this racket, yet he did not.
I loudly cleared my throat.
That did the trick. Old Spot quit banging his head to connect with my gaze, his eyes narrowed and a rather large welt beginning to form plum in the center of his forehead.
"Forgive me," I said, "but I am just going to read my book."
He said nothing in reply, only let his gaze follow me as I slid into an extra bunk. I propped my head against one of the pillows and opened my book to page thirty-five, where I had left off. Yet no sooner had I completed the first sentence, the loud banging started again once more.
I do declare that I was quite irritated, and I placed my book on my chest. "Ex…excuse me!"
The banging continued.
"I declare! Sir, will you please stop banging your head! I wish to read!"
The banging immediately subsided.
I sighed contently and once again picked up my book, yet, the banging continued…again…
Now the pounding was not only deferring my train of thought, it was starting to produce one splitting headache.
I threw my book down on the bunk, and swung my legs over the side of it. Cupping my hands around my mouth, I hollered, "STOP!"
The banging quite decreased.
Sighing, I rose from the bunk and occupied one that was across from Spot, whom now had a fantastic purple bruise forming.
"May I ask, if I may, why you are banging you head against the post of a bunk bed?" I inquired.
Spot, looking very dazed—for his head lolled from one side to the other and his eyes were doing circles—spoke. "Angah management," he slurred.
I was taken aback. "Anger management?" Then I realized the newspaper clipping. It fit perfectly.
He disorderly nodded his head. "Yeah…dey makin' me take angah management. Dey say I'se too angry. Too angry cause I nearly killed Petey when I'se soaked 'em. Too angry. Dey want me ta control me anger. But I can. I'se tryin', dough. Dat's why I'se bangin' me head."
I raised an eyebrow, looking at how pathetic he looked with his eyes rolling around in his head and that incredible lump on his forehead.
"Too angry, dey say. My angah nevah wouldah been cured if it wouldn't have been foah Jacky-boy. Jacky-boy told ta bulls dat it was me who soaked Petey. Jacky-boy told 'em. T'anks ta 'im, dey's getting' me ta control me angah. T'anks ta Jacky-boy." It was then that the banging of the head must to got to Spot, for he quit blacked out, his eyes rolling up into his head and a bizarre smile on his face. He fell back onto the bunk.
I sighed and prepared to return to my book once more, when something he held in his grasp caught my attention.
His slingshot.
A loaded slingshot.
"A slingshot?" I murmured as I rose off the bunk, collected my book, and exited the bunkroom.
Spot Conlon had been incomprehensible. But I figured that it was Jack that had ratted out Spot for his own sake when he beat that fellow newsie Petey to within one inch of his life. Spot would have ended with a lifetime at the House of Refuge, it a few strings had not been pulled.
Or at least the newspaper clipping had said.
But why would Spot want to be chums with Jack again? And why would he want to spend the weekend with him in the Lodging House.
And why did he have a loaded slingshot?
What I found at the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House in the bunkroom…
My first evening at the lodging house, I caught the fearless Brooklyn leader Spot Conlon banging his head against one of the posts of a set of bunk beds in the bunkroom.
I had fancied that I could come up to the bunkroom for some peace and quiet, not for the commotion that was ensuing.
I quietly entered the room, shutting the door behind me. I did slam the door rather loud, hoping that he would notice my presence and decease in this racket, yet he did not.
I loudly cleared my throat.
That did the trick. Old Spot quit banging his head to connect with my gaze, his eyes narrowed and a rather large welt beginning to form plum in the center of his forehead.
"Forgive me," I said, "but I am just going to read my book."
He said nothing in reply, only let his gaze follow me as I slid into an extra bunk. I propped my head against one of the pillows and opened my book to page thirty-five, where I had left off. Yet no sooner had I completed the first sentence, the loud banging started again once more.
I do declare that I was quite irritated, and I placed my book on my chest. "Ex…excuse me!"
The banging continued.
"I declare! Sir, will you please stop banging your head! I wish to read!"
The banging immediately subsided.
I sighed contently and once again picked up my book, yet, the banging continued…again…
Now the pounding was not only deferring my train of thought, it was starting to produce one splitting headache.
I threw my book down on the bunk, and swung my legs over the side of it. Cupping my hands around my mouth, I hollered, "STOP!"
The banging quite decreased.
Sighing, I rose from the bunk and occupied one that was across from Spot, whom now had a fantastic purple bruise forming.
"May I ask, if I may, why you are banging you head against the post of a bunk bed?" I inquired.
Spot, looking very dazed—for his head lolled from one side to the other and his eyes were doing circles—spoke. "Angah management," he slurred.
I was taken aback. "Anger management?" Then I realized the newspaper clipping. It fit perfectly.
He disorderly nodded his head. "Yeah…dey makin' me take angah management. Dey say I'se too angry. Too angry cause I nearly killed Petey when I'se soaked 'em. Too angry. Dey want me ta control me anger. But I can. I'se tryin', dough. Dat's why I'se bangin' me head."
I raised an eyebrow, looking at how pathetic he looked with his eyes rolling around in his head and that incredible lump on his forehead.
"Too angry, dey say. My angah nevah wouldah been cured if it wouldn't have been foah Jacky-boy. Jacky-boy told ta bulls dat it was me who soaked Petey. Jacky-boy told 'em. T'anks ta 'im, dey's getting' me ta control me angah. T'anks ta Jacky-boy." It was then that the banging of the head must to got to Spot, for he quit blacked out, his eyes rolling up into his head and a bizarre smile on his face. He fell back onto the bunk.
I sighed and prepared to return to my book once more, when something he held in his grasp caught my attention.
His slingshot.
A loaded slingshot.
"A slingshot?" I murmured as I rose off the bunk, collected my book, and exited the bunkroom.
Spot Conlon had been incomprehensible. But I figured that it was Jack that had ratted out Spot for his own sake when he beat that fellow newsie Petey to within one inch of his life. Spot would have ended with a lifetime at the House of Refuge, it a few strings had not been pulled.
Or at least the newspaper clipping had said.
But why would Spot want to be chums with Jack again? And why would he want to spend the weekend with him in the Lodging House.
And why did he have a loaded slingshot?