AN: Well this is kind of a random idea, but now that I've started it I
really like it.
Disclaimer: Don't own Newsies, yada, yada . . . I do own Marisa and the Restview Retirement Home
Brooklyn, New York 1969
Marisa Cottrell shuffled hesitantly along the institutional green tile of the hallway, prolonging her arrival at room 319 for as long as possible. This was the first time in the week she had been interning at Restview Retirement Home that she had been required to check on this particular patient, but she had heard the rumors. They hadn't said anything to her personally of course. They didn't want to spook the impressionable little intern, but she had heard the nurses talking amongst themselves. Mr. Conlon, they whispered, was old as dirt and mean as a snake. He would let his formidable temper loose for the smallest imagined offense. Finally Marisa could mince her steps no more. She had arrived. She poked her head hesitantly in the door. "Mr. Conlon?" she called softly. "Whaddaya want?" a voice from within the room demanded sharply. Marisa steeled herself and stepped fully into the room. "My name is Marisa," she announced boldly, "I've come to see if you need anything." "Marisa?" the voice was suddenly gentler, then with a sharp intake of breath the former sharp tone returned. "Go away, don't need your meddlin.'" Marisa considered slinking away, but she stiffened her resolve instead and said crisply, "I'm supposed to tidy up in here and I'm going to do it." There was a moment of silence, then a chuckle that sounded rusty from disuse. She moved forward cautiously until she saw the wizened old man propped up in the bed, his thin, pale lips curved into a mischevious looking smirk. "I'll be damned," he said, as though highly amused. "You'll watch your language if you please," Marisa retorted. The chuckle came again, this time a little less forced. "You're just like her," he said, shaking his head wonderingly. "Who?" Rather than answering her question, the old man painstakingly shifted himself to an upright position. "Let me tell you something," he began, "When you find love, don't let anything keep you from it. Not pride or a reputation, not anything. Just hold onto it for all you're worth and never let go." Marisa stared at him, mystified. "What are you talking about?" she asked. Mr. Conlon looked vaguely annoyed. "Well just listen and I'll tell you!" he said irritably. "I'm sorry, please go on." "Well, it all started in the fall of 1899. That's when I met her."
Disclaimer: Don't own Newsies, yada, yada . . . I do own Marisa and the Restview Retirement Home
Brooklyn, New York 1969
Marisa Cottrell shuffled hesitantly along the institutional green tile of the hallway, prolonging her arrival at room 319 for as long as possible. This was the first time in the week she had been interning at Restview Retirement Home that she had been required to check on this particular patient, but she had heard the rumors. They hadn't said anything to her personally of course. They didn't want to spook the impressionable little intern, but she had heard the nurses talking amongst themselves. Mr. Conlon, they whispered, was old as dirt and mean as a snake. He would let his formidable temper loose for the smallest imagined offense. Finally Marisa could mince her steps no more. She had arrived. She poked her head hesitantly in the door. "Mr. Conlon?" she called softly. "Whaddaya want?" a voice from within the room demanded sharply. Marisa steeled herself and stepped fully into the room. "My name is Marisa," she announced boldly, "I've come to see if you need anything." "Marisa?" the voice was suddenly gentler, then with a sharp intake of breath the former sharp tone returned. "Go away, don't need your meddlin.'" Marisa considered slinking away, but she stiffened her resolve instead and said crisply, "I'm supposed to tidy up in here and I'm going to do it." There was a moment of silence, then a chuckle that sounded rusty from disuse. She moved forward cautiously until she saw the wizened old man propped up in the bed, his thin, pale lips curved into a mischevious looking smirk. "I'll be damned," he said, as though highly amused. "You'll watch your language if you please," Marisa retorted. The chuckle came again, this time a little less forced. "You're just like her," he said, shaking his head wonderingly. "Who?" Rather than answering her question, the old man painstakingly shifted himself to an upright position. "Let me tell you something," he began, "When you find love, don't let anything keep you from it. Not pride or a reputation, not anything. Just hold onto it for all you're worth and never let go." Marisa stared at him, mystified. "What are you talking about?" she asked. Mr. Conlon looked vaguely annoyed. "Well just listen and I'll tell you!" he said irritably. "I'm sorry, please go on." "Well, it all started in the fall of 1899. That's when I met her."