RACETRACK: Born down in a dead man's tow-own, da foist kick I took was when
I hit da ground, ya end up like a dog dat's been beat too-oo mu-uch, till
ya spend half yoah life just coverin' up...BOOOOOOOORN, in da USA! I WAS!
Boooooooorn in da USA! I'm a--
RACE! Please! For the LOVE of GOD, stop singing!
RACETRACK: *innocently* But...Sapphy LIKES Springsteen!
And so do I. Honestly. I think he's the sexiest thing to come out of New Jersey since Jon Bon Jovi. But...Race...don't you think five hours is a little obsessive?
RACETRACK: Nope.
*sigh*
RACETRACK: Drivin' inta Darlin'ton county, me an' Wayne on da Fourth of July-eye...
Well, things could be worse. After all, he could be singing "The Racetrack Song" instead. (Which by the way is a really bad song. It's just him going "who's the prettiest newsie on the block? It's me! It's me!" Over, and over, and over, and over, and over...)
RACETRACK: Whose da prettiest newsie on the block? IT'S ME! IT'S ME!
*sigh*
And now, on to the fic!
*~*~*
Racetrack's Quest
*~*~*
If Mush had been hard to recognize, Crutchy wasn't difficult to make out at all. Despite his strange getup, Racetrack never could have missed him. After all, how many Elvis impersonators carried a crutch?
Racetrack had to admit, the costume was one to be proud of. Forgoing the bloated-old Elvis-in-a-black-leather-jumpsuit approach, Crutchy had instead donned a silk shirt and a pair of blue suede shoes, and greased his hair into the appropriate 'do. But the real show-stopper was his voice: Racetrack could hear him from a mile away. Crutchy was singing a familiar old ballad that stopped people in their tracks, and instead of his usual, nasally tone he sounded deep, sonorous and velvety, and so uncannily like the King himself that only the accent kept Racetrack from thinking that it wasn't really Elvis (which was odd, as Elvis wouldn't even be born for another thirty-five years. But whatever).
"Wise men say...only fools rush in...but I can't help...fallin' in love...with...youuuu..."
It was all Racetrack could do to stop himself from bawling. There was something about this song that always got to him, and hearing it sung so beautifully, on an anonymous street corner in New York, just touched him more deeply than anything else...he got a lump in his throat, and tears filled his eyes. God dammit.
"Like a river flows...surely, to da sea...darling, so it goes...some things...were meant ta be..."
Race patiently waited out the song, and when at last it ended and Crutchy turned to him with a cheerful "Hiya, Race," he simply couldn't hold it in any longer: he sat down on a stoop and began to cry his eyes out.
"Hey, are you okay?" Crutchy asked, sounding concerned.
Racetrack just wailed something incomprehensible about his allergies and wiped his nose tearfully on his sleeve.
With a sigh, Crutchy reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, delicately embroidered handkerchief. Race took it thankfully and blew his nose with a loud honking sound that could be heard all up and down the block.
"You keep dat one," said Crutchy.
"Thanks," said Racetrack, wiping the last few tears from his eyes. "So, uh, Crutchy, I got dis problem on my hands, an' I was wonderin' if you could help me out."
"Well, sure. What's goin' on?"
"Y'see, were doin' Sapphy's half-birthday tanight, an' I still gotta get her a present. An' I got no idea what ta buy foah her. I was thinkin' you might have some ideas."
"Like, what kinda gift ta buy her?"
"Exactly," said Racetrack, nodding fervently. "Anythin' helps. Really."
"Well..." Crutchy pondered this a minute, running a hand through his hair only to have considerable trouble getting it out again, due to the huge amount of grease that he had combed though. "I'll tell ya what," he said at last, wiping his hand clean on the tail of his shirt. "I don' know much about presents. But I do know one thing: as long as it comes from da heart, it don't matter what ya get her. I mean...you could give Sapphy an old sock, and she'd like it. 'Cause she loves ya. An' dat's all dat matters."
Of course, this only set Racetrack to bawling once again. Crutchy put a comforting arm around his shoulders, giving him some time to calm down. Finally, Racetrack heaved a sigh, and said apologetically, "sorry about dat. It's been a long day."
"You're tellin' me," Crutchy muttered. "But I guess you're looking for more specific advice, huh?" Race nodded. "Well, I ain't gonna be much help with dat. But why dontcha go back to da lodgin' house, an' ask Kloppah? He'll be sure ta know somethin'."
"You think he will?"
"I'd put money on it," Crutchy said assuredly. And then, just to cheer Racetrack up, he did: twenty-five cents worth. Skipping off to the lodging house, humming a happy rendition of "The Racetrack Song," Race left Crutchy to sell his papers, and work on memorizing "Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love". Things were already looking up.
RACE! Please! For the LOVE of GOD, stop singing!
RACETRACK: *innocently* But...Sapphy LIKES Springsteen!
And so do I. Honestly. I think he's the sexiest thing to come out of New Jersey since Jon Bon Jovi. But...Race...don't you think five hours is a little obsessive?
RACETRACK: Nope.
*sigh*
RACETRACK: Drivin' inta Darlin'ton county, me an' Wayne on da Fourth of July-eye...
Well, things could be worse. After all, he could be singing "The Racetrack Song" instead. (Which by the way is a really bad song. It's just him going "who's the prettiest newsie on the block? It's me! It's me!" Over, and over, and over, and over, and over...)
RACETRACK: Whose da prettiest newsie on the block? IT'S ME! IT'S ME!
*sigh*
And now, on to the fic!
*~*~*
Racetrack's Quest
*~*~*
If Mush had been hard to recognize, Crutchy wasn't difficult to make out at all. Despite his strange getup, Racetrack never could have missed him. After all, how many Elvis impersonators carried a crutch?
Racetrack had to admit, the costume was one to be proud of. Forgoing the bloated-old Elvis-in-a-black-leather-jumpsuit approach, Crutchy had instead donned a silk shirt and a pair of blue suede shoes, and greased his hair into the appropriate 'do. But the real show-stopper was his voice: Racetrack could hear him from a mile away. Crutchy was singing a familiar old ballad that stopped people in their tracks, and instead of his usual, nasally tone he sounded deep, sonorous and velvety, and so uncannily like the King himself that only the accent kept Racetrack from thinking that it wasn't really Elvis (which was odd, as Elvis wouldn't even be born for another thirty-five years. But whatever).
"Wise men say...only fools rush in...but I can't help...fallin' in love...with...youuuu..."
It was all Racetrack could do to stop himself from bawling. There was something about this song that always got to him, and hearing it sung so beautifully, on an anonymous street corner in New York, just touched him more deeply than anything else...he got a lump in his throat, and tears filled his eyes. God dammit.
"Like a river flows...surely, to da sea...darling, so it goes...some things...were meant ta be..."
Race patiently waited out the song, and when at last it ended and Crutchy turned to him with a cheerful "Hiya, Race," he simply couldn't hold it in any longer: he sat down on a stoop and began to cry his eyes out.
"Hey, are you okay?" Crutchy asked, sounding concerned.
Racetrack just wailed something incomprehensible about his allergies and wiped his nose tearfully on his sleeve.
With a sigh, Crutchy reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, delicately embroidered handkerchief. Race took it thankfully and blew his nose with a loud honking sound that could be heard all up and down the block.
"You keep dat one," said Crutchy.
"Thanks," said Racetrack, wiping the last few tears from his eyes. "So, uh, Crutchy, I got dis problem on my hands, an' I was wonderin' if you could help me out."
"Well, sure. What's goin' on?"
"Y'see, were doin' Sapphy's half-birthday tanight, an' I still gotta get her a present. An' I got no idea what ta buy foah her. I was thinkin' you might have some ideas."
"Like, what kinda gift ta buy her?"
"Exactly," said Racetrack, nodding fervently. "Anythin' helps. Really."
"Well..." Crutchy pondered this a minute, running a hand through his hair only to have considerable trouble getting it out again, due to the huge amount of grease that he had combed though. "I'll tell ya what," he said at last, wiping his hand clean on the tail of his shirt. "I don' know much about presents. But I do know one thing: as long as it comes from da heart, it don't matter what ya get her. I mean...you could give Sapphy an old sock, and she'd like it. 'Cause she loves ya. An' dat's all dat matters."
Of course, this only set Racetrack to bawling once again. Crutchy put a comforting arm around his shoulders, giving him some time to calm down. Finally, Racetrack heaved a sigh, and said apologetically, "sorry about dat. It's been a long day."
"You're tellin' me," Crutchy muttered. "But I guess you're looking for more specific advice, huh?" Race nodded. "Well, I ain't gonna be much help with dat. But why dontcha go back to da lodgin' house, an' ask Kloppah? He'll be sure ta know somethin'."
"You think he will?"
"I'd put money on it," Crutchy said assuredly. And then, just to cheer Racetrack up, he did: twenty-five cents worth. Skipping off to the lodging house, humming a happy rendition of "The Racetrack Song," Race left Crutchy to sell his papers, and work on memorizing "Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love". Things were already looking up.