Title: A Simple Twist of Fate
Author: Amiee Amelie
A/N: I'd like to thank you for the wonderful reviews! As I haven't really written anything before, it seemed a little odd to get reviewed on my writing. So I wanted to thank you all for being so nice about it. :)
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Chapter 4: Baldy
So I started work today. I was completely clueless. It can only be described as a nightmare until Racetrack took pity on me and explained how things worked.
Nah. I lied. The entire day could be described as a nightmare, even after Racetrack took pity on me and explained how things worked.
I got up way before the rest of the newsies-was clean (finally!) and dressed by the time Kloppman had hauled the other lazy bums out of bed. Then I had to stand around until the stampede-really the only way to describe it-thundered down the stairs and out to the door to breakfast.
"Breakfast" I found, consisted of badly made coffee and buns that had the consistency of lead. But I wasn't complaining; especially as I didn't have any supper the night before. The food was distributed by some very homely nuns-one of whom looked more like a man than I do, which one of the boys was kind enough to point out.
I don't think he'll be selling today.
But people don't seemed to pity him much, as they all pointed out that "he should have known, given what happened to Racetrack" that "He deserved it" and that "he gave as good as he got."
Yeah, well, now I'll have a shiner to match Race's. Maybe it'll make me look a little more…tough. I hope it does. I can't go around knocking people down. I can't go around getting knocked down, either. It's not like it's a very pleasant experience.
But anyway, we got to-Weasel? Whysel? I couldn't really hear his name, but can only say that he was fat and ugly and he smelled bad. Not exactly a friendly combination.
Apparently he had lost his job a few months after the strike, only returning with his two minions-of-doom when Kloppman broke his leg falling down a flight of stairs.
So, to everybody's sadness, he returned with the goons-who apparently have names, but, as I have observed, not personalities. They stand there looking goonish and making vague threatening grunting noises at Cowboy, who stands at the front of the line. Cowboy seems more amused than threatened by the grunts, and would probably soak them if they got too irritating. That seems the way things work around here.
So anyway, I stood to the side, staring at this mass of humanity all trying to get into line and buy papes. I stood there, utterly confused, until Racetrack appeared at my side, chewing on a smelly cheap cigar, and laughing at my helplessness.
Which I really didn't mind all that much, as long as he wasn't calling me "princess."
He finally stopped finding my situation hilarious and explained the whole process. After the explanation, he studied me carefully.
"You need a selling partner," he said contemplatively.
"I do not," I answered hotly, expecting another "princess" comment. He seemed to catch my drift.
"Everyone has 'em," he said, striking a match on the sole of his shoe. "'Cept me. But I'm different. Hey Boots!" Boots obligingly walked over. "Show him the ropes, will ya?"
Having thus disposed of me, he meandered off to buy his papes. Boots then quickly foisted me off onto Mush, and from there I went to Skittery, Kid Blink, Snoddy, and Itey, all of whom seemed slightly distrustful of me and eager to get away.
I was finally passed off to the unsuspecting Davey-someone I had heard of, but never met. As he wasn't at the Lodging House, or breakfast, for that matter, he didn't witness me knocking down anybody, which was probably a good thing. His sister, I suddenly recalled, was the one who gave up Jack for Spot.
"Have you ever sold papes before?" he asked. I shook my head, suddenly tongue tied again. That always seemed to happen at the most inopportune times.
"Well, it's easy enough to do," he said. "How many'd you get?" Simple enough question. Maybe this time I could actually answer it.
"Twenty," sure, it was only one word, but it was a word, none the less. He looked at me critically.
"Twenty? The name of the game is volume," he snorted. "Get fifty more and come back."
As I walked back up to Whensel? Handed him two bits, and headed back to Davey, who was laughing about something with Cowboy.
"Just like you were, except…" Cowboy trailed off. "I'll leave you to it, then." He walked away, hoisting an immense amount of papes over his shoulder, and throwing a smile at me.
Davey was grinning too. I didn't see what was particularly so funny, but it wasn't like it was a huge deal, either.
So the entire day I trotted around, following Davey, who kept throwing me tips like, "improvise headlines" and "make up your own story." It sounded easy enough, right?
I was horrible at it.
I have a tendency to look extremely shifty when I lie; I turn read, and look like I'm about to bolt. Despite my schooling and expansive vocabulary, I became silent in the one trade that was designed for noise. I tried to yell-I really did. My headlines were horrible, my stories, when voiced, a disgrace. Davey, who was, I later learned, the most patient of the newsies, threw his hands in the air at the end of the day, told me where to sell back my sixty-five papes, and stalked off to his house.
I had only earned a nickel my first day.
Maybe I wasn't supposed to be a newsie, after all.
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