"Stretch Out And Wait"
by a fish called sid
[an] First newsies fic! Yay fer me. I've been into the Newsies 'scene' for a while, but I haven't written a fic in forever, and have -never- posted one...so forgive the newbie her errors. Now, I am aware of the one slight chronological problem, but it's so slight I bet you won't even catch it...m&ms to whoever can! And BTW, there were such things as pin setters... --sid
[disclaimer] The title is from the really great Smiths song of the same name. I really don't own anything, except for Boney, he's mine, as well as his character and other defining stuff about him...he's completely original and from my brain, so if I see any Boney clones running around, there -will- be a soakin'...
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Jackson Atrium Bonney woke up in the basement of a ten pin bowling alley, on a cot wedged between a coal stove and a box of what looked to be old files. He'd been a pin-setter for ten days now, and though he didn't necessarily enjoy the work, the owner did promise him a place to sleep. The work was simple enough: he sat between the bowling lanes and re-set pins when customers knocked them down. It paid ok for the day, and that was only because the work was so boring it was hard to get anyone else to do it-also, you had to be quick, or the customers would just let a bowling ball fly at you while you were still in front of the pins.
It was strange remembering that a week ago he'd been in New Mexico, living with what remained of his family, hustling cattle and picking pockets to get money for his Ma. He didn't know about the pick-pocketing, but he knew that the cattle hustling was in his blood, and that he'd probably have his ability to steal and get out of tight spaces all his life. His father was, after all, William H. Bonney, better known as Billy The Kid: thief, sharp shooter, triple murderer and the best dancer in New Mexico (as far as the Mexicans were concerned). Jackson's Ma was a Mexican immigrant who'd spent years with Billy during the confusing times of the Lincoln County War. Billy had loved the Mexicans and spent most of his life living with them, and his Ma said he had spoken perfect Spanish. Jackson had met his dad a couple times as a kid, and even now he remembered how incredibly youthful he was-more like a big brother then a father.
'Jackson'-it still sounded weird when his boss called him that. Only his Ma and dad had called him that-all the old ladies in town had called him 'pequeño cabrito', and all the kids and any anyone else had known him as Boney. His nickname was just a mispronunciation of his last name, but everyone had started using it. Although, looking at himself in the broken mirror across from his cot, he supposed it could've been a remark on his physical self. He wasn't exactly buff, and he looked just like his dad had. Medium height, thin and wiry, shaggy brown hair, bright blue eyes and a spattering of freckles. Under the long johns he wore, his chest was covered in minor scars from knife throwing, angry horses, 'hunting accidents'. He turned away from his reflection and quickly threw on his usual uniform of patched brown pants, ancient lace-up boots and a couple of sweaters. Walking up the steps of the basement and taking his place between lanes three and four, Boney thought how ironic it was that he was in New York. He'd been forced by his family to go there when the Mexican Revolution broke out-they didn't want him forced into fighting. They wanted him to find his distant relatives; he presumed he had some since his dad was born here. He hadn't been able to find any, and Boney wasn't about to go home when a war was raging just over the border from there. Besides, he'd lived with listening to Spanish for so long he'd nearly forgotten what English was like.
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Boney woke up on the top half of a bunk bed, in a small room surrounded by many other beds, all empty. He struggled to remember how he got there. He remembered being at the bowling alley, pin-setting as usual. There was nothing different about that-but this definitely wasn't the alley. He looked under the covers at himself-he was fully clothed, except someone had thrust up his right sleeve in order to bandage his upper arm. His injured arm reminded him of what happened.
He groaned as he thought of it-it was embarrassing. He'd let his violent temper get the best of him again. It wasn't really his fault, it ran in the family, but Boney knew that he exploded a lot more then other people. At least his temper hadn't caused him to kill anyone, unlike his father. Boney remember pit-setting earlier, working for some really impatient bowler who looked like one of those high-and-might union men or something. He remembered purposely setting the pins slowly to piss the guy off, because it was funny to see his face go all red when he got fed up. Boney guessed he did it one too many times, because soon a bowling ball came hurdling down the aisle toward him, and hit his foot, hard. It shouldn't have bothered Boney, it happened to him all the time, and pin-setters were always treated that way. But for some reason, this union guy really pissed him off, and he dove for the guy. Before he could get to the guy, though, the huge, Russian immigrant that owned the alley had grabbed Boney's arm and thrown him out of the place. He'd taken that as his cue that he was out of the job, and gone to spend the night on a bench in central park, despite the bad bruises the Russian had given him.
And somehow woken up here. Boney decided that it must have been a goodwill shelter of some sort, probably run by nuns or something. They must have found him and brought him in. He hated nuns-they were all over New Mexico, preaching to the converted. He swung his legs over the side of the bunk and dropped to the floor. He was surprised when he looked up and saw another kid had been sleeping in the bunk below him. The kid's eyes were wide open now, presumably he'd been waken up by Boney's loud thump.
The sleepy kid's dark, wavey hair was matted and a cloud of tiredness marred his bright eyes. The kid rubbed his face and looked at him. "Uh, hi. You must be the kid the odders took in last night."
"I guess so," Boney said. "Where am I?"
"Manhattan newsboys lodgin' house. You're a newsy in the Bronx, aincha? The guys thought they recognized you, and so they did you a favor and brought ya here, so ya didn't have to sleep outside all night."
Boney was confused. "Uh, no, I'm not a newsy...in fact, I've only been in New York a couple days...I used to be a pin setter for the last couple days, but I lost that job yesterday."
The kid blinked, then shrugged and hopped out of bed. "Ah well, then it was yer lucky day. The odder guys are out sellin' papes, I stayed in because sumthin's up with my head..." he sat back down on the bed, suddenly. "I keep havin' dizzy spells, can't see straight." He shook his head and extended a hand to Boney, who excepted it. "People call me Skittery. I hate my real name. Maybe if yer good enough, I'll tell ya it one day," he said with a smirk.
Boney smiled back. "People can -me- Boney. My real name's Jackson Bonney. I'm here because I was avoiding getting' tangled up in the fighting back home...I'm originally from New Mexico, ya see."
"That explains yer lack of an accent."
"You don't have much of one either."
"I was born in Boston. When I was in grammar school our teacher would beat us to stop us from using our natural Boston accents."
"Ouch, that's harsh."
"Yeah, that's Boston, it's a tough city, even more so then New York. You say yer from New Mexico?"
"Yeh."
"Any where near Santa Fe?"
"I lived in Puerto de Luna. It's a few a hours away."
"Wow, Jack's gonna love you. He's always had fantasies about going to Santa Fe. We even call him Cowboy."
"I'll tell him everything I can, if it'll get me a place to stay the next couple days."
Skittery got up from the bed slowly this time, and led Boney downstairs. "Sure thing, Boney. You can stay as long as ya like, just earn yer keep, sell some papers. Ya want some oatmeal, we got some left." Skittery trudged into a small kitchen, scratching himself through his long johns. The kid amused Boney, he liked him. The newsy waved to an older man, reading a paper at the large kitchen table.
"That's Kloppman, he runs the place. Kloppman, you remember Boney, he's the kid the odders brought in last night? Well, guess what, he's from -Santa Fe-."
"I just lived near-" Boney began, but was cut short by the old man.
"Jackie's gonna love you'se."
+++
Tell me if ya like it.
If you wanna know what Billy the Kid looks like go here:
http://www.hometown.aol.com/radioclash326/pic.html
That is basically what Boney would look like as well. He greatly resembles his father :]
by a fish called sid
[an] First newsies fic! Yay fer me. I've been into the Newsies 'scene' for a while, but I haven't written a fic in forever, and have -never- posted one...so forgive the newbie her errors. Now, I am aware of the one slight chronological problem, but it's so slight I bet you won't even catch it...m&ms to whoever can! And BTW, there were such things as pin setters... --sid
[disclaimer] The title is from the really great Smiths song of the same name. I really don't own anything, except for Boney, he's mine, as well as his character and other defining stuff about him...he's completely original and from my brain, so if I see any Boney clones running around, there -will- be a soakin'...
+++
Jackson Atrium Bonney woke up in the basement of a ten pin bowling alley, on a cot wedged between a coal stove and a box of what looked to be old files. He'd been a pin-setter for ten days now, and though he didn't necessarily enjoy the work, the owner did promise him a place to sleep. The work was simple enough: he sat between the bowling lanes and re-set pins when customers knocked them down. It paid ok for the day, and that was only because the work was so boring it was hard to get anyone else to do it-also, you had to be quick, or the customers would just let a bowling ball fly at you while you were still in front of the pins.
It was strange remembering that a week ago he'd been in New Mexico, living with what remained of his family, hustling cattle and picking pockets to get money for his Ma. He didn't know about the pick-pocketing, but he knew that the cattle hustling was in his blood, and that he'd probably have his ability to steal and get out of tight spaces all his life. His father was, after all, William H. Bonney, better known as Billy The Kid: thief, sharp shooter, triple murderer and the best dancer in New Mexico (as far as the Mexicans were concerned). Jackson's Ma was a Mexican immigrant who'd spent years with Billy during the confusing times of the Lincoln County War. Billy had loved the Mexicans and spent most of his life living with them, and his Ma said he had spoken perfect Spanish. Jackson had met his dad a couple times as a kid, and even now he remembered how incredibly youthful he was-more like a big brother then a father.
'Jackson'-it still sounded weird when his boss called him that. Only his Ma and dad had called him that-all the old ladies in town had called him 'pequeño cabrito', and all the kids and any anyone else had known him as Boney. His nickname was just a mispronunciation of his last name, but everyone had started using it. Although, looking at himself in the broken mirror across from his cot, he supposed it could've been a remark on his physical self. He wasn't exactly buff, and he looked just like his dad had. Medium height, thin and wiry, shaggy brown hair, bright blue eyes and a spattering of freckles. Under the long johns he wore, his chest was covered in minor scars from knife throwing, angry horses, 'hunting accidents'. He turned away from his reflection and quickly threw on his usual uniform of patched brown pants, ancient lace-up boots and a couple of sweaters. Walking up the steps of the basement and taking his place between lanes three and four, Boney thought how ironic it was that he was in New York. He'd been forced by his family to go there when the Mexican Revolution broke out-they didn't want him forced into fighting. They wanted him to find his distant relatives; he presumed he had some since his dad was born here. He hadn't been able to find any, and Boney wasn't about to go home when a war was raging just over the border from there. Besides, he'd lived with listening to Spanish for so long he'd nearly forgotten what English was like.
+++
Boney woke up on the top half of a bunk bed, in a small room surrounded by many other beds, all empty. He struggled to remember how he got there. He remembered being at the bowling alley, pin-setting as usual. There was nothing different about that-but this definitely wasn't the alley. He looked under the covers at himself-he was fully clothed, except someone had thrust up his right sleeve in order to bandage his upper arm. His injured arm reminded him of what happened.
He groaned as he thought of it-it was embarrassing. He'd let his violent temper get the best of him again. It wasn't really his fault, it ran in the family, but Boney knew that he exploded a lot more then other people. At least his temper hadn't caused him to kill anyone, unlike his father. Boney remember pit-setting earlier, working for some really impatient bowler who looked like one of those high-and-might union men or something. He remembered purposely setting the pins slowly to piss the guy off, because it was funny to see his face go all red when he got fed up. Boney guessed he did it one too many times, because soon a bowling ball came hurdling down the aisle toward him, and hit his foot, hard. It shouldn't have bothered Boney, it happened to him all the time, and pin-setters were always treated that way. But for some reason, this union guy really pissed him off, and he dove for the guy. Before he could get to the guy, though, the huge, Russian immigrant that owned the alley had grabbed Boney's arm and thrown him out of the place. He'd taken that as his cue that he was out of the job, and gone to spend the night on a bench in central park, despite the bad bruises the Russian had given him.
And somehow woken up here. Boney decided that it must have been a goodwill shelter of some sort, probably run by nuns or something. They must have found him and brought him in. He hated nuns-they were all over New Mexico, preaching to the converted. He swung his legs over the side of the bunk and dropped to the floor. He was surprised when he looked up and saw another kid had been sleeping in the bunk below him. The kid's eyes were wide open now, presumably he'd been waken up by Boney's loud thump.
The sleepy kid's dark, wavey hair was matted and a cloud of tiredness marred his bright eyes. The kid rubbed his face and looked at him. "Uh, hi. You must be the kid the odders took in last night."
"I guess so," Boney said. "Where am I?"
"Manhattan newsboys lodgin' house. You're a newsy in the Bronx, aincha? The guys thought they recognized you, and so they did you a favor and brought ya here, so ya didn't have to sleep outside all night."
Boney was confused. "Uh, no, I'm not a newsy...in fact, I've only been in New York a couple days...I used to be a pin setter for the last couple days, but I lost that job yesterday."
The kid blinked, then shrugged and hopped out of bed. "Ah well, then it was yer lucky day. The odder guys are out sellin' papes, I stayed in because sumthin's up with my head..." he sat back down on the bed, suddenly. "I keep havin' dizzy spells, can't see straight." He shook his head and extended a hand to Boney, who excepted it. "People call me Skittery. I hate my real name. Maybe if yer good enough, I'll tell ya it one day," he said with a smirk.
Boney smiled back. "People can -me- Boney. My real name's Jackson Bonney. I'm here because I was avoiding getting' tangled up in the fighting back home...I'm originally from New Mexico, ya see."
"That explains yer lack of an accent."
"You don't have much of one either."
"I was born in Boston. When I was in grammar school our teacher would beat us to stop us from using our natural Boston accents."
"Ouch, that's harsh."
"Yeah, that's Boston, it's a tough city, even more so then New York. You say yer from New Mexico?"
"Yeh."
"Any where near Santa Fe?"
"I lived in Puerto de Luna. It's a few a hours away."
"Wow, Jack's gonna love you. He's always had fantasies about going to Santa Fe. We even call him Cowboy."
"I'll tell him everything I can, if it'll get me a place to stay the next couple days."
Skittery got up from the bed slowly this time, and led Boney downstairs. "Sure thing, Boney. You can stay as long as ya like, just earn yer keep, sell some papers. Ya want some oatmeal, we got some left." Skittery trudged into a small kitchen, scratching himself through his long johns. The kid amused Boney, he liked him. The newsy waved to an older man, reading a paper at the large kitchen table.
"That's Kloppman, he runs the place. Kloppman, you remember Boney, he's the kid the odders brought in last night? Well, guess what, he's from -Santa Fe-."
"I just lived near-" Boney began, but was cut short by the old man.
"Jackie's gonna love you'se."
+++
Tell me if ya like it.
If you wanna know what Billy the Kid looks like go here:
http://www.hometown.aol.com/radioclash326/pic.html
That is basically what Boney would look like as well. He greatly resembles his father :]