DISCLAIMER: Crying beans! I don't own any of the characters from Newsies!
Seriously, now. Is this necessary? Obviously I don't! In any case, they
belong to that place called Disney that likes to ruin movies by making
sequels for them. : ) Anywho, the 52 other characters in this story are
MINE! And yes, I said 52. And then, Dimples owns herself. ^_^
*~*~*~*~THE BROOKLYN BOYS~*~*~*~*
52 Newsies, 1 Lodging House, Countless Stories
As I've earlier mentioned, there are two things that aided me in the rising to my potential to become the fearless young man many would revere across New York. First, there was Lucas and the open opportunity to apply that primeval -elder's right to scold- ordeal in chastising him whenever it suited me. Through this, the others realized I would not be lenient in all things, especially things that would inevitably determine my boys' character as Brooklyn newsies. I'd learn at a young age that discipline was the key in raising strong individuals and I would never dismiss that fact.
But my fining ways weren't the sole basis for the altitude I was steadily gaining on the social scale. It would be the night of my sixteenth birthday when I brought to the Brooklyn lodging house a young lady I had met while peddling papers. Her name was Kristen; quite the charming dame with her contagious laughter and endearing personality. When we entered the lodge hand in hand, lost in a mindless conversation, my ears instantly picked up the lack of sound in the main room. Having been stunned by the silence, I looked up and was greeted by the startled faces of about a third of my boys.
I didn't blame them for their astonishment, though, for up until that moment I had never been much of a flirt or 'skirt-chaser'. Something in the way they conveyed their admiration towards me then filled me with a growing power that assured me nothing would ever be out of reach for the leader of Brooklyn. Once the surprise had passed, they smirked at my accomplishment and even began whistling and catcalling, only causing Kristen to blush profusely and bury her face onto my shoulder.
I nodded at my newsies and led the girl to my room upstairs, my mind still dwelling in the new territory it had claimed. It was a wondrous feeling. I had no intentions of furthering my advances on Kristen but somehow the room had been filled with a sexual tension birthed from what the others expected us to do, and reveling in my newfound respect, I didn't mind the anticipation at all.
From then on, I would make it my business to seduce any girl that crossed my way into offering me her company for the night, and behind every effort my boys would root me on with the utmost support. Once I had unleashed my charm, newsies everywhere knew me for it. I wasn't just Spot Conlon anymore, I was the infamous womanizer who could have up to three different flings in one day and have three new dolls on his arm by evening.
The female population of the state both adored and despised me. The former because they knew they could never win my heart and the latter because the ladies were more like tally marks to me, ways to flaunt my authority. I never cared for any of them, never loved them. It was all a mere game, and they were the pieces I had no problem with manipulating. I admit it wasn't as admirable as I had been blinded into believing it was now that I look back on it, but such was life, and one day I'd put it behind me out of disgust...yet also out of love.
Of course, I'm mistaken in claiming that all my boys were enthralled by my heartless manners with the women for there was a certain group of Brooky's that could care less whether I had bedded six dames, or sixty! Never mind they were too young to even begin taking notice of the opposite sex, for that's beside the point. These fifteen 'half-pints', as I like to call them, esteemed me in other ways and appreciated those qualities of my disposition I had worked so hard at hiding for years.
The youngest of them were between the ages of five and seven, their rightful names being Runt, Blue, Detail, Two-Scoops, and Chips. It always pained my heart looking upon their faces for I was constantly filled with pity for their future. These were children who should have been in school, acquiring an education that would sustain them once they were adults! They deserved to be doctors, and lawyers, and bankers, not a lowly factory worker like the one I would one day become, earning a minimal wage that would have me starving for days until my next pay.
Fate has a wry sense of humor, however, and so apparently these young ones weren't meant to value any luxuries. It is perhaps for this reason that I guarded them more closely than the others, sheltering them with a fierce protection-though only when no one was aware of it.
I can't quite choose a favorite among them, but I know the most memorable story I was ever told was given to me by Blue. Blue was tall for his age, with raven black hair and dark eyes that seemed consumed by sorrow. When first he had been brought to Brooklyn by one of the older boys, he was constantly brooding, and resulting to insensitivity I had originally thought him unwilling to face the reality of his low class standings.
Nights later, he came to me while I was star-gazing on the roof of the lodging house and plopped down beside me, freely crying. Taken aback by this humble display, I looked about me to make sure there weren't others present and then draped an arm over his shoulders.
"What'sa mattah, kid?" He didn't answer me until I had asked a second time, and rubbing his eyes with deep breaths, he told me of the father he hated. He told me how this drunkard of a man had robbed him of all things he had ever held dear in his life. He told me how the bastard had beaten Blue's mother to death, leaving him in unvarying fear for his life. The final burden was laid the night Blue escaped his father's clutches. The man had seized Blue's only companion-a mongrel puppy named after the boy-by the scruff of the neck and had held his frail body of fur down in a sink full of freezing water until the animal ceased to move and suffocated.
Then the man had turned on Blue, but the boy had tired of the mistreatment and abuse, and had made a run in hopes of being dealt a new hand of cards from life. Maybe Blue's story won't ever be an award-winning tale in your collection of records, but I understood something more clearly that night. Not all my boys were blessed enough to come from backgrounds as my own...as a matter of fact, the majority of them were results of misfortunes, strife, and unavoidable troubles, but as their leader I would somehow have to meet them on common ground.
The only way to accomplish this was merely to be there for them when they needed to rant about their hatred concerning anything from family members to the drudgeries of hawking headlines. And so aside from being a role- model of some sort, I would be a friend to them as well.
Chips and Detail were known for the way they spoke. Chips, originally from England, spoke with that rich accent that would make one wonder why he wasn't exchanging small talk about politics with the aristocrats. Detail...basically, this kid rambled on and on, the words emptying from his mouth like honeybees escaping from their hive for a day's work. Half the time, you couldn't even decipher what the hell he was talking about until you heard him repeat it three times over. More than anything, though, he found it necessary to give everyone the 'details' behind everything. He was like a newspaper loaded with stories anxious to be told.
Runt's name came from his being the shortest five-year old one might ever meet and Two-Scoops received his alias during a leisurely stroll through Central Park, before which he had purchased an ice cream cone from a parlor. Displeased by the small amount of ice cream he had been dealt, he whined at the top of his lungs until the manager was convinced to add a second scoop to the cone. God, I love that kid.
To these five young boys, I was a would-be older brother, someone who chased away the monsters under their beds when they couldn't sleep or who stayed with them until they had fallen asleep to make sure the shadows in their room were just that. Naturally, the others thought I was going soft and criticized me for my sappy behavior, which accounts for why I avoided audiences when showing others that I cared. Eventually, the time would come when Blue, Chips, Detail, Runt, and Two-Scoops would have to grow up, but seeing how they helped me embrace the empathy in me, I wouldn't be the one to shove them ahead of their time.
Then, of course, there were those who simply annoyed me to no end. Barely ten years old, these kids represented all types of New York's classic grief- stricken impoverished accounts. They also were specimens I could've sworn were specially sent to test my wisdom, considering the large number of disputes I had to settle in which they were involved.
Truth, Vampire, and Brat set me on edge the most. It all started one summer morning before the 1899 Newsboy Strike when Brat started complaining in that crabby mood of his about how Runner had dumped a bucket of water onto his face to awaken him. Tempted to laugh at the matter, I instead heard him out and assured him it would be taken care of. Before the afternoon editions were fresh off the press later that day, a rumor had been spread throughout the borough by Truth (named so because he never tells it) that I intended on exiling Brat from my territory on the grounds that he had brawled with Vampire unfairly.
This in turn led Brat to believe that Vampire had fabricated some untrue story and was now trying to force him under my wrath. Infuriated, Brat passed up the afternoon edition and confronted Vampire on the docks where the two fought like bloodthirsty avengers. Vampire was in the process of...well, sinking his teeth into Brat's hand when I had finally arrived at the scene.
As Italics before me had done, I listened to each of their defenses and sides to the story before punishing them.
"Oriole told me dis joik had plans tah kill me!" Vampire yelled. "Didn't ya see 'im just now?"
"Bullshit!" screamed Brat. "I aint the one tryin' tah be Spot's second in command!"
"What da hell is youse talkin' about!?"
I hope you're aptly noting the chain reaction that was taking place and how a single grain of falsehood can quickly evolve into radical lies. They lunged for each other yet again, and this time I only watched, wondering how I could possibly weave my way out of this scandal. That's when an idea befell me. I knew Vampire and Brat loathed each other for their differences, but would a week of being forced to sell together change that?
From the start, I knew the plan wouldn't roll smoothly. Brat's golden hair and bright eyes weren't the only things that made him up to be the complete opposite of Vampire, with his long black locks and dirt-colored irises. Any conversation with two sides of a debate was theirs for the taking and once the arguments started, they were at each other's throats.
Sometimes, when one sold better than the other, the latter would throw rocks at him from a distance, trying to scare him from his selling spot. Other days, they'd tell lies to the police forces just to see the other arrested and carried off to the Refuge. Every night, they came home with new battle marks.
A change occurred after five days. The bickering stopped, as did the fistfights. No longer was there extreme dislike...only a lack of interest. They regarded each other as if they were strangers stranded on the same island, aware of the fact that they'd have to work together in order to swim off. When their punishment was over at the end of the week, I was surprised to see them still selling together, though neither of them ever acknowledged it. A month later, they were the best of friends.
When the others saw this, they commended me on having been wise enough to foresee the outcome of my reprimand. Honestly, I hadn't foreseen anything! I'd merely relied on a chip of wisdom I had gathered from my schooling.
Another instance that allowed me to practice some of this obtained wisdom occurred when Trouble and Julian ran up to me while I was selling papers one day, Julian angrily proclaiming in between gasps of breath that Trouble had stolen his pet grasshopper. I didn't remember ever saying the boys were allowed to keep any pets in my lodging house, but I didn't press the matter.
"Trouble," I said easily, "give it back tah 'im, huh? Why ya guys always gots tah make an issue outta somethin'?"
Trouble shook his head and clasped his hands more tightly over what I presumed to be the insect in question. "It doesn't belong tah 'im! Hops is mine!"
"Ya such a liar!" Julian stepped forward to the boy, looking ready to initiate a scuffle. I groaned in exasperation, dropped my papers to the street curb, and came between them. One of them had to be lying...but who was I to choose the culprit?
"Hops is mine," Trouble went on, "stop tryin' tah take 'im from me! Youse is just jealous that I'se was the only one able tah catch a bug in the fields!" I was almost sure he was the lawful owner when he uttered those words, but then Julian spoke up.
"Yeah right! You wish youse could catch bugs as good as me! That's da reason ya took Hops from me in da foist place!"
The situation reminded me of a Bible story we had been taught at school in which two women had approached a king, each attesting to be the mother of a baby one held. Unsure who was telling the truth, the king told them that since this unending battle was getting them nowhere, he would simply decide to cut the baby in half, so that each woman could have their share of the child. The first woman was indifferent to the decision; the second begged the king to reconsider. And it was only until then that his highness knew the second woman was the true mother.
"Alright," I said, about to apply the same method. "Since youse can't decide on anything and neither a' youse is tellin' me da truth, I'll just kill Hops. Then ya both can go and find some other bug tah keep as a pet."
Trouble seemed displeased but only shoved the grasshopper into my hands. "Fine! Go ahead, I'se don't care!"
"No!" Julian dropped down to his knees, his wide eyes tearful. "Please, Spot! Please! Don't kill 'im! I'm sorry, give 'im tah Trouble if he wants it so bad, but just don't kill 'im! Please!"
Hops was restored to Julian's possession and Trouble received a nice shiner from me. It was remarkable how this 'wisdom' was gracing me with its knowledge. It made me feel like I was worth something, and I was thankful for the elders who had taught me back at school.
The rest of my half-pints were Tumbleweed, Rain, Mute, Centerstage, and Stitch. It makes me glad to say that this quintet didn't pester me as much as the rest. They were actually quiet, good-natured kids who bothered no one. Tumbleweed had a good sense of humor and was known for his indecision in choosing any one selling spot, thus his name. Rain, who liked stormy weather, usually kept to himself or to the notes he was endlessly writing. We never quite figured out to whom those notes were addressed, but it was my guess the writing was merely a release for his mind.
Mute was born with the inability to speak. None of us were learned in medicine so we didn't know whether that meant he lacked vocal cords or a tongue, but it didn't matter for we treated him equally. He communicated with us through hand gestures, but only when the little notepads he purchased from a bookstore were out of paper. Centerstage was destined to one day be an actor. He loved the glory of attention and was always overdramatic in his conversations and monologues.
Then there was Stitch. Among the youngest group of my brood, he was the one I admired the most. He'd been a Brooklyn newsie for three years and always liked the darker areas of our territory where our borough's border lines met with those of our enemy's. He was of tough stamina, with a take-no- prisoners attitude that could have rivaled mine were we of the same age.
It was one particular night when he was meandering through the parts of Brooklyn that touch the Bronx when a pair of idiotic goons shoved Stitch into an alley, repeatedly kicked him in the stomach, and then swung a wooden bat into his face. A Bird notified me of the assault and I was there in minutes.
We took Stitch to a health clinic where a doctor who had treated me as a child had been promoted to chief physician. Out of kindness, he treated the boy free of charge, closing the wound on his face with ten stitches. From this, Stitch received his newsie name and was thereafter proud of it whenever one spoke it.
The half-pints, if anything else, taught me to not be so quick in losing my childhood. In a way, I relived it through them. I learned that in all things, the best man wasn't necessarily the strongest one, or the one with the dirtiest mouth, but more so the one with the biggest heart. And with this wisdom, I would be able to adopt new ways of leading my boys, ways that didn't involve pain and tears.
~*~*~*~*~
Next Chapter: The Troublemakers! ^_^ Leave a review! I love Reviews!
*~*~*~*~THE BROOKLYN BOYS~*~*~*~*
52 Newsies, 1 Lodging House, Countless Stories
As I've earlier mentioned, there are two things that aided me in the rising to my potential to become the fearless young man many would revere across New York. First, there was Lucas and the open opportunity to apply that primeval -elder's right to scold- ordeal in chastising him whenever it suited me. Through this, the others realized I would not be lenient in all things, especially things that would inevitably determine my boys' character as Brooklyn newsies. I'd learn at a young age that discipline was the key in raising strong individuals and I would never dismiss that fact.
But my fining ways weren't the sole basis for the altitude I was steadily gaining on the social scale. It would be the night of my sixteenth birthday when I brought to the Brooklyn lodging house a young lady I had met while peddling papers. Her name was Kristen; quite the charming dame with her contagious laughter and endearing personality. When we entered the lodge hand in hand, lost in a mindless conversation, my ears instantly picked up the lack of sound in the main room. Having been stunned by the silence, I looked up and was greeted by the startled faces of about a third of my boys.
I didn't blame them for their astonishment, though, for up until that moment I had never been much of a flirt or 'skirt-chaser'. Something in the way they conveyed their admiration towards me then filled me with a growing power that assured me nothing would ever be out of reach for the leader of Brooklyn. Once the surprise had passed, they smirked at my accomplishment and even began whistling and catcalling, only causing Kristen to blush profusely and bury her face onto my shoulder.
I nodded at my newsies and led the girl to my room upstairs, my mind still dwelling in the new territory it had claimed. It was a wondrous feeling. I had no intentions of furthering my advances on Kristen but somehow the room had been filled with a sexual tension birthed from what the others expected us to do, and reveling in my newfound respect, I didn't mind the anticipation at all.
From then on, I would make it my business to seduce any girl that crossed my way into offering me her company for the night, and behind every effort my boys would root me on with the utmost support. Once I had unleashed my charm, newsies everywhere knew me for it. I wasn't just Spot Conlon anymore, I was the infamous womanizer who could have up to three different flings in one day and have three new dolls on his arm by evening.
The female population of the state both adored and despised me. The former because they knew they could never win my heart and the latter because the ladies were more like tally marks to me, ways to flaunt my authority. I never cared for any of them, never loved them. It was all a mere game, and they were the pieces I had no problem with manipulating. I admit it wasn't as admirable as I had been blinded into believing it was now that I look back on it, but such was life, and one day I'd put it behind me out of disgust...yet also out of love.
Of course, I'm mistaken in claiming that all my boys were enthralled by my heartless manners with the women for there was a certain group of Brooky's that could care less whether I had bedded six dames, or sixty! Never mind they were too young to even begin taking notice of the opposite sex, for that's beside the point. These fifteen 'half-pints', as I like to call them, esteemed me in other ways and appreciated those qualities of my disposition I had worked so hard at hiding for years.
The youngest of them were between the ages of five and seven, their rightful names being Runt, Blue, Detail, Two-Scoops, and Chips. It always pained my heart looking upon their faces for I was constantly filled with pity for their future. These were children who should have been in school, acquiring an education that would sustain them once they were adults! They deserved to be doctors, and lawyers, and bankers, not a lowly factory worker like the one I would one day become, earning a minimal wage that would have me starving for days until my next pay.
Fate has a wry sense of humor, however, and so apparently these young ones weren't meant to value any luxuries. It is perhaps for this reason that I guarded them more closely than the others, sheltering them with a fierce protection-though only when no one was aware of it.
I can't quite choose a favorite among them, but I know the most memorable story I was ever told was given to me by Blue. Blue was tall for his age, with raven black hair and dark eyes that seemed consumed by sorrow. When first he had been brought to Brooklyn by one of the older boys, he was constantly brooding, and resulting to insensitivity I had originally thought him unwilling to face the reality of his low class standings.
Nights later, he came to me while I was star-gazing on the roof of the lodging house and plopped down beside me, freely crying. Taken aback by this humble display, I looked about me to make sure there weren't others present and then draped an arm over his shoulders.
"What'sa mattah, kid?" He didn't answer me until I had asked a second time, and rubbing his eyes with deep breaths, he told me of the father he hated. He told me how this drunkard of a man had robbed him of all things he had ever held dear in his life. He told me how the bastard had beaten Blue's mother to death, leaving him in unvarying fear for his life. The final burden was laid the night Blue escaped his father's clutches. The man had seized Blue's only companion-a mongrel puppy named after the boy-by the scruff of the neck and had held his frail body of fur down in a sink full of freezing water until the animal ceased to move and suffocated.
Then the man had turned on Blue, but the boy had tired of the mistreatment and abuse, and had made a run in hopes of being dealt a new hand of cards from life. Maybe Blue's story won't ever be an award-winning tale in your collection of records, but I understood something more clearly that night. Not all my boys were blessed enough to come from backgrounds as my own...as a matter of fact, the majority of them were results of misfortunes, strife, and unavoidable troubles, but as their leader I would somehow have to meet them on common ground.
The only way to accomplish this was merely to be there for them when they needed to rant about their hatred concerning anything from family members to the drudgeries of hawking headlines. And so aside from being a role- model of some sort, I would be a friend to them as well.
Chips and Detail were known for the way they spoke. Chips, originally from England, spoke with that rich accent that would make one wonder why he wasn't exchanging small talk about politics with the aristocrats. Detail...basically, this kid rambled on and on, the words emptying from his mouth like honeybees escaping from their hive for a day's work. Half the time, you couldn't even decipher what the hell he was talking about until you heard him repeat it three times over. More than anything, though, he found it necessary to give everyone the 'details' behind everything. He was like a newspaper loaded with stories anxious to be told.
Runt's name came from his being the shortest five-year old one might ever meet and Two-Scoops received his alias during a leisurely stroll through Central Park, before which he had purchased an ice cream cone from a parlor. Displeased by the small amount of ice cream he had been dealt, he whined at the top of his lungs until the manager was convinced to add a second scoop to the cone. God, I love that kid.
To these five young boys, I was a would-be older brother, someone who chased away the monsters under their beds when they couldn't sleep or who stayed with them until they had fallen asleep to make sure the shadows in their room were just that. Naturally, the others thought I was going soft and criticized me for my sappy behavior, which accounts for why I avoided audiences when showing others that I cared. Eventually, the time would come when Blue, Chips, Detail, Runt, and Two-Scoops would have to grow up, but seeing how they helped me embrace the empathy in me, I wouldn't be the one to shove them ahead of their time.
Then, of course, there were those who simply annoyed me to no end. Barely ten years old, these kids represented all types of New York's classic grief- stricken impoverished accounts. They also were specimens I could've sworn were specially sent to test my wisdom, considering the large number of disputes I had to settle in which they were involved.
Truth, Vampire, and Brat set me on edge the most. It all started one summer morning before the 1899 Newsboy Strike when Brat started complaining in that crabby mood of his about how Runner had dumped a bucket of water onto his face to awaken him. Tempted to laugh at the matter, I instead heard him out and assured him it would be taken care of. Before the afternoon editions were fresh off the press later that day, a rumor had been spread throughout the borough by Truth (named so because he never tells it) that I intended on exiling Brat from my territory on the grounds that he had brawled with Vampire unfairly.
This in turn led Brat to believe that Vampire had fabricated some untrue story and was now trying to force him under my wrath. Infuriated, Brat passed up the afternoon edition and confronted Vampire on the docks where the two fought like bloodthirsty avengers. Vampire was in the process of...well, sinking his teeth into Brat's hand when I had finally arrived at the scene.
As Italics before me had done, I listened to each of their defenses and sides to the story before punishing them.
"Oriole told me dis joik had plans tah kill me!" Vampire yelled. "Didn't ya see 'im just now?"
"Bullshit!" screamed Brat. "I aint the one tryin' tah be Spot's second in command!"
"What da hell is youse talkin' about!?"
I hope you're aptly noting the chain reaction that was taking place and how a single grain of falsehood can quickly evolve into radical lies. They lunged for each other yet again, and this time I only watched, wondering how I could possibly weave my way out of this scandal. That's when an idea befell me. I knew Vampire and Brat loathed each other for their differences, but would a week of being forced to sell together change that?
From the start, I knew the plan wouldn't roll smoothly. Brat's golden hair and bright eyes weren't the only things that made him up to be the complete opposite of Vampire, with his long black locks and dirt-colored irises. Any conversation with two sides of a debate was theirs for the taking and once the arguments started, they were at each other's throats.
Sometimes, when one sold better than the other, the latter would throw rocks at him from a distance, trying to scare him from his selling spot. Other days, they'd tell lies to the police forces just to see the other arrested and carried off to the Refuge. Every night, they came home with new battle marks.
A change occurred after five days. The bickering stopped, as did the fistfights. No longer was there extreme dislike...only a lack of interest. They regarded each other as if they were strangers stranded on the same island, aware of the fact that they'd have to work together in order to swim off. When their punishment was over at the end of the week, I was surprised to see them still selling together, though neither of them ever acknowledged it. A month later, they were the best of friends.
When the others saw this, they commended me on having been wise enough to foresee the outcome of my reprimand. Honestly, I hadn't foreseen anything! I'd merely relied on a chip of wisdom I had gathered from my schooling.
Another instance that allowed me to practice some of this obtained wisdom occurred when Trouble and Julian ran up to me while I was selling papers one day, Julian angrily proclaiming in between gasps of breath that Trouble had stolen his pet grasshopper. I didn't remember ever saying the boys were allowed to keep any pets in my lodging house, but I didn't press the matter.
"Trouble," I said easily, "give it back tah 'im, huh? Why ya guys always gots tah make an issue outta somethin'?"
Trouble shook his head and clasped his hands more tightly over what I presumed to be the insect in question. "It doesn't belong tah 'im! Hops is mine!"
"Ya such a liar!" Julian stepped forward to the boy, looking ready to initiate a scuffle. I groaned in exasperation, dropped my papers to the street curb, and came between them. One of them had to be lying...but who was I to choose the culprit?
"Hops is mine," Trouble went on, "stop tryin' tah take 'im from me! Youse is just jealous that I'se was the only one able tah catch a bug in the fields!" I was almost sure he was the lawful owner when he uttered those words, but then Julian spoke up.
"Yeah right! You wish youse could catch bugs as good as me! That's da reason ya took Hops from me in da foist place!"
The situation reminded me of a Bible story we had been taught at school in which two women had approached a king, each attesting to be the mother of a baby one held. Unsure who was telling the truth, the king told them that since this unending battle was getting them nowhere, he would simply decide to cut the baby in half, so that each woman could have their share of the child. The first woman was indifferent to the decision; the second begged the king to reconsider. And it was only until then that his highness knew the second woman was the true mother.
"Alright," I said, about to apply the same method. "Since youse can't decide on anything and neither a' youse is tellin' me da truth, I'll just kill Hops. Then ya both can go and find some other bug tah keep as a pet."
Trouble seemed displeased but only shoved the grasshopper into my hands. "Fine! Go ahead, I'se don't care!"
"No!" Julian dropped down to his knees, his wide eyes tearful. "Please, Spot! Please! Don't kill 'im! I'm sorry, give 'im tah Trouble if he wants it so bad, but just don't kill 'im! Please!"
Hops was restored to Julian's possession and Trouble received a nice shiner from me. It was remarkable how this 'wisdom' was gracing me with its knowledge. It made me feel like I was worth something, and I was thankful for the elders who had taught me back at school.
The rest of my half-pints were Tumbleweed, Rain, Mute, Centerstage, and Stitch. It makes me glad to say that this quintet didn't pester me as much as the rest. They were actually quiet, good-natured kids who bothered no one. Tumbleweed had a good sense of humor and was known for his indecision in choosing any one selling spot, thus his name. Rain, who liked stormy weather, usually kept to himself or to the notes he was endlessly writing. We never quite figured out to whom those notes were addressed, but it was my guess the writing was merely a release for his mind.
Mute was born with the inability to speak. None of us were learned in medicine so we didn't know whether that meant he lacked vocal cords or a tongue, but it didn't matter for we treated him equally. He communicated with us through hand gestures, but only when the little notepads he purchased from a bookstore were out of paper. Centerstage was destined to one day be an actor. He loved the glory of attention and was always overdramatic in his conversations and monologues.
Then there was Stitch. Among the youngest group of my brood, he was the one I admired the most. He'd been a Brooklyn newsie for three years and always liked the darker areas of our territory where our borough's border lines met with those of our enemy's. He was of tough stamina, with a take-no- prisoners attitude that could have rivaled mine were we of the same age.
It was one particular night when he was meandering through the parts of Brooklyn that touch the Bronx when a pair of idiotic goons shoved Stitch into an alley, repeatedly kicked him in the stomach, and then swung a wooden bat into his face. A Bird notified me of the assault and I was there in minutes.
We took Stitch to a health clinic where a doctor who had treated me as a child had been promoted to chief physician. Out of kindness, he treated the boy free of charge, closing the wound on his face with ten stitches. From this, Stitch received his newsie name and was thereafter proud of it whenever one spoke it.
The half-pints, if anything else, taught me to not be so quick in losing my childhood. In a way, I relived it through them. I learned that in all things, the best man wasn't necessarily the strongest one, or the one with the dirtiest mouth, but more so the one with the biggest heart. And with this wisdom, I would be able to adopt new ways of leading my boys, ways that didn't involve pain and tears.
~*~*~*~*~
Next Chapter: The Troublemakers! ^_^ Leave a review! I love Reviews!