Memoirs of a Scab
Part 3 - Mistake


Disclaimer: Newsies is property of Disney, and I'm not making any money off of this fanfiction. The story and the character of Rails are mine.


I stood there, waiting for the next train. I was feeling kinda bad about skipping out on my friends and all, but I made sure I didn't think about it too much. I just thought about how I was going to get out of there, come back in a few weeks, and everything would be back to normal. I thought about how smart I was to think of this plan that would keep me from having to take a side in this whole thing. Yeah, it was cowardly, I know. What can I say? Maybe I'm a coward. I don't know.
"Hey Rails! Where's the paper?" asked an old man, a regular at the train station.
"I ain't selling today, sir." I answered.
"Leaving again so soon? You just got in."
"Yeah, well…I'll be back later."
"You know where you're going this time?"
"Wherever the train takes me, I guess."
The man laughed. "See you later, kid."
"Yeah, later."
A train whistle pierced the normal chatter of the train station. I looked around. Businessmen in newly pressed suits held their tickets in one hand, and their briefcases in another. Little kids pressed their faces into their mother's skirts, a little afraid of the train. I knew my part. I walked inconspicuously out of the station. As soon as I was out of sight of the people on the platform, I jogged up one alley, down another, and emerged by a stretch of unguarded track. Like I said before, it's almost impossible to jump on a train in the middle of a station. It's crowded, and if a policeman or guard don't see you, someone else almost certainly will, and point you out to somebody in a position to get you in a whole lot of trouble. Usually it's just smarter to jump on the train when it gets just out of sight of the station. That way the police don't pull you off, but the train's not going so fast that you can't jump on it. Sometimes the bulls stake out these places, trying to catch bums and hoboes so they can go back to their boss and say 'look what a good job I've done'. Makes me kinda sick. I mean, we ain't hurting nobody. Or is it anybody? Anyway, the only people you could say we're stealing from are the railroad companies, and I'm telling you, they've got enough money. They can spare some for a guy who don't got any, but still needs to get somewhere. But no, they only spare it for the guys who've got money. They give kickbacks to the rich guys, you see. Pulitzer don't never pay when he goes on a train! To hell with this grammar stuff. The railroad's so happy to have him on board, they don't bother him with buying a ticket. Pulitzer, whose got more money than any guy I know! But me, if I try to get on the train for a stretch without paying, they have a fit. The damn railroads cheat people anyway. The way I see it, a passenger like me is just part payback for the crap they put people through. Long-short haul, kickbacks, buying up all the food silos along the railroad route…I'm getting way off track now. Anyway, the railroad companies are always trying to cheat people, and then they go and complain to the bulls about how people like me are always cheating them, so the bulls go and stake out some stretches of track to catch people that are getting free rides. I've seen it done, but I usually get away all right. This place was safe enough though. I'd used this space of track to jump the train more times than I can count. I know what you're thinking. Famous last words, right? Huh.
I squinted down the track, and I could see the train coming. Like a big, angry animal, breathing black smoke. I could see how those little kids got scared, and hid in their mother's skirts. It came closer, and I started jogging along. The train came about level with me, and I sped up. I'd done this a million times; I knew what I was doing. I didn't even have to think about it. The first few cars passed me by, and then I saw the one I wanted. Kinda beat up looking, with the paint peeling a little. I put on a little burst of speed, and then I jumped- and I was pulled back down to the ground. The train kept going, streaked right on by, and I was left behind on the ground. I had an idea of what had pulled me back, but I was afraid to look around. Like if I didn't look, it wouldn't be true. But maybe I wasn't as cowardly as I said earlier, 'cuz I looked anyway.
It was a policeman. One of those types I was talking about before that stake out a stretch of track to catch the train jumpers and haul'em into jail. Damn. Just my luck. He grabbed the collar of my shirt, and pulled me along behind him. He didn't even explain to me what I did wrong. He didn't need to. I knew, he knew, and boy was I in trouble. Well, don't let anyone say I just went along with it - no way, I fought like hell. He only dragged me a couple of feet before I dug my feet in, and ran the other way. My collar ripped, so he lost his hold, and I started off after the train. I knew that if I could get a little farther away, there was another alley, and if I ran down that alley, I could get to the city, and I knew a million twists and turns to lose the guy there. So I ran full out, but I guess I'd tired myself out with my running before, because I wasn't as fast as I wanted to be. I heard the policeman coming up behind me, and I tried to run faster, but after a while it was like running through water. It wasn't a matter of wanting to go faster - I wanted it with just about everything in me - but I just couldn't go faster. My legs were burning too, and it was kinda hard to breathe. I'm sure you've gotten to the point where you just can't run any more. Well, I was feeling like that, and I was pushing myself on, when I felt this pain in the back of my head. The policemen had hit me in the back of the head with that stick that policemen always carry. I went down like a bag of bricks. You'd think it was enough I'd stopped, but no, he kept going. He kept hitting me with that damn stick, and even though I twisted and turned as much as possible, I couldn't dodge the stick all the time, and it hurt. Eventually I hurt so bad that I couldn't move no more - any more - and that's when he stopped. He grabbed my arm, and hauled me to my feet. He dragged me along - I don't know the route he took. I couldn't concentrate on anything but how much it'd hurt. It was sort of like I was vaguely aware of him taking me somewhere, and I kinda knew that I should fight back some more, but it hurt too much. It hurt like red lights underneath my skin, and the hurt never gave me a break. It even hurt to breathe. So you'll excuse me, but it was hard enough to walk in the first place without keeping track of where I was going.
Eventually the policeman stopped pulling me along, and sort of shoved me down. I sank down in this dingy looking corner. I just sort of sat huddled there, rocking back and forth. The way that cop had beat me up - that hurt. I just can't tell you how much it hurt. I suppose there were a lot of things I could have been thinking about - about what they were going to do to me, about how this was a reaction tons bigger than my crime deserved - but it was like I really couldn't think about anything but the pain. Someone kicked me, and I felt a spasm of pain go up my body, and I moaned. I felt awful, and I musta looked it too, but that person kicked me again, and I looked up. It was Weasel, the guy in charge of selling us our papers. I sort of vaguely wondered what he was doing there - the surprise of the situation kinda broke through all the pain - when he grabbed my arm and pulled me up. He wasn't too gentle about it either. I started to scream, but I didn't never want to scream in front of Weasel, and so it ended up this kind of choking sound. I musta sounded pretty bad, because I think I heard another policeman say to the cop that had soaked me "Jesus Christ, Bob, what'd you do to him?"
I didn't have much time to be glad that someone was on my side because next thing I knew Weasel had stuck his face right in mine. I was an inch away from that guy's repulsive mug, yellowing teeth and bad breath and everything.
"You're a newsie sometimes, aren't you, boy?" he asked.
I tried to think of something smart to say. Something that Jack or Race or somebody woulda said, but I couldn't. I hurt too bad, and I was never good at saying smart aleck stuff anyway. I just sort of groaned "Yeah."
"Your little friends are on strike, you know that?"
"Yeah."
"Well why aren't you with them?"
"I dunno." I groaned.
"Officer Johnson says you were trying to jump on a train without paying. Why were you doing that?"
"I just felt like leaving." Was what I wanted to say, but I think I ended up with this moan that nobody understood.
Weasel let go of my arm, and I fell back onto the floor. I lay there, and I just hurt too much to move. I hurt real bad.
"He's broken." Weasel said. "He'll do. Bring him down to The World printing headquarters with the others. Those strikers'll get a surprise tomorrow."
If I had been thinking then, I would've figured out what Weasel had in mind. As beat up as I was, I think I still might've said something. I still might've said "Take me to jail, but there's no way I'm doing turning my back on my friends." But I wasn't thinking, see. I just knew that these two cops pulled me up to my feet again, and they hauled me into this prison car. They shoved some more kids in there with me, and then slammed the door shut. I thought I was going to jail, or the Refuge, or somewhere. I should've realized that if I was going to jail, they would've put me through a trial. Nothing real, no real justice for guys like me, but a judge has gotta be the guy to sentence me. I didn't think that though. All I knew was that the way the car rocked back and forth made me hurt even more.
None of the other kids seemed to be confused as to what was going on. At least, they didn't ask questions. They saw how hurt I was, and they just gave me my space. We was all real quiet in that car, and then it stopped. And it wasn't a smooth stop, either; it was a real jerky one. It kinda threw me into the kid in front of me. Then the cops pulled open the doors, and the other kids jumped out. I couldn't climb too good, so one of the cops pulled me out, and helped me walk. For a second I thought 'This must be what it's like to be Crutchy.'
Outside I recognized where we were - we were at The World printing presses. The cops seemed kind of nervous, and kept looking over their shoulders as they pushed us inside. Then they led us up these stairs, and down this hallway that I didn't recognize. Well, I suppose that ain't so surprising. I'd never actually been inside the building.
They kept leading us around, and I got pretty tired. I mean, I'd been soaked pretty bad, and I just wanted to lie down. I didn't even care where any more - a prison cell would've been just fine with me. Eventually we got to this big room that looked like someone had tried to make it into a lodging house real quick. There were a couple of bunk beds by the wall, and mats with blankets and pillows everywhere else. The cop left me there, and I crawled over to the nearest mat to lie down.
"Someone'll come in to get you up at four tomorrow. You all got money?" asked a cop.
A couple of guys nodded, but some others shook their heads.
"All of you that don't got money, you line up here tomorrow morning, and you'll get enough money to buy twenty five papers. And you better use it for that, too. If you don't, we'll know."
Well, I know you'll think I'm real stupid, but it was only then that I realized what was going on. I guess Weasel or Pulitzer or somebody had talked to the bulls, because they'd hauled a whole bunch of guys who'd broke the law in here. Why? Well, they knew that no real newsie would ever volunteer to be a scab. Hell, even I wouldn't have volunteered if they asked me. At least I don't think I would've. So they grabbed whatever they could get their hands on from the local jail, and they'd made us into scabs. I moaned, and rolled over. I closed my eyes to try and sleep. I hurt too much to deal with this.