My thirteenth chapter! I want this to be really special, so I'm going to
do two at once. Therefore, this chapter will take a pretty long time
getting finished and loaded, so I'm sorry for the delay.
***
I sit on my bunk and idly twirl my bowler around. It seems like so long ago that I got this bowler from my brother, who noticed my early attraction to the type of hat. I could never thank him enough for it at the time, I knew it had cost his life savings. I suppose he didn't want to draw attention to his moment of weakness and sacrifice for me, we were both newsies then, and he didn't want to jeopardize any positions he might uphold in later life. So after the first day or so, I just kept to my normal self-only smiling a little more.
Bowlers remind me of the first nice man we ever met. My brother doesn't remember, but he always said I was better than him at that sort of thing. Remembering. Maybe he just /wants/ to forget. He forgets all about our parents sometimes, and I've never seen him happier. But those dreadful nights are never far from my mind. Whether I'm reading the Three Musketeers or the Bible, I find comparisons to my father, comparisons to my mother, and even . . .when I'm mad at him, when I'm rebellious and angry enough . . .comparisons with my brother.
I love him, don't get me wrong. But sometimes he's too protective, too much of a liar. He lies around twenty times a day, on average. Not including when he sells papers, which is rare these days.
My brother lied about our relationship, which shamed me. He denied we were brothers at first. The newsies still don't know anything for sure . . .he told them we were cousins last I recall.
The story seems to change every once in a while, which bothers me. At the very least he could make his stories convincing.
But that's my brother for you, ever the liar, never the poker-faced boy who wins all your money. Like Race.
Were you expecting the Delanceys?
"Hey - Jake."
***
Are you ready for the next one? It's mainly narrated by one guy, but the other narrator comes in by way of asterisks.
***
You've heard about them. Spot Conlon, Jack Kelly, Kid Blink, Mush Meyers, Racetrack Higgins, Dutchy Ivanovitch, Specs Tchaikovsky, Swifty Chao, Boots McAleenan, Bumlets Rodriguez, Snoddy Buckings, Pie Eater Mallory. Jake Sullivan. Now it's our turn. We're fraternal twins, meaning we look nothing alike. Hell, one of us looks like he's twenty five and the other - yours truly - looks like eighteen. We're both seventeen, no matter our appearances.
Probably you've already got gears churning in your head, trying to figure us out. If we aren't already given away. I'm not going to tell you right out, but we aren't that hard to interpret.
My brother and I were born in a low-middle class family. Went to school for a while. Made friends, made enemies. Typical kids in any big city.
Well, we started out in Albany, for one. Not here, not NYC, the city we've grown to both love and loathe.
Our mother and father were religious types, turn the other cheek, the meek shall inherit the earth . . . all of that. They got on to my brother for pride and anger. He's the vengeful sort. I, however, try not to let my feelings aggravate my fists. Besides, mom used to lock us in our rooms for the weekend if we got in fights, only letting us out for food, bodily functions, and church. Always church. Every day, twice Wednesday, and we practically lived there Sunday.
Our friends joked about it - if they couldn't find us, they went to our church and waited until we were set free to drag us off and do something stupid and reckless.
Don't get us wrong. We love church, we really do. We still go four times a week. I'm even in training to be a priest. That's why lying through my teeth hurts, but you have to survive, right?
That's what I'm saying. Survival. No matter what they say about Jesus, Others, Self, it's not true. Most Christians I know, even the Catholics, put themselves before others. It's natural. We can't help it. We're only human.
I'm ranting. Where was I? *You were talking about our family, bro.* Oh yeah. Thanks. *No problem. Get it right, will you?*
Anyway. Our parents were nice enough, like I said. Feed us, clothed us, gave us educations. But one day they found out their money wasn't covering it. So we moved into a smaller apartment. Well . . . I say "we," but I mean to say that . . .
*They couldn't let us come. They shipped us off to New York to work for our father's friend. Jonathan was nice enough for a while. We became newsies. But one day, when a newsboy spit in his face, he went on a rampage. Made us beat up ALL of our newfound friends, none of which did it. John hadn't gotten a good enough look at his assailant to recognize me.*
Well, it was suffice to say we didn't keep a lot of our friends. Eventually, for our own protection, we started helping out our "Uncle." John Wiesel.
*Yeah, we're the Delancey brothers. Wanna make somethin' of it?*
***
I sit on my bunk and idly twirl my bowler around. It seems like so long ago that I got this bowler from my brother, who noticed my early attraction to the type of hat. I could never thank him enough for it at the time, I knew it had cost his life savings. I suppose he didn't want to draw attention to his moment of weakness and sacrifice for me, we were both newsies then, and he didn't want to jeopardize any positions he might uphold in later life. So after the first day or so, I just kept to my normal self-only smiling a little more.
Bowlers remind me of the first nice man we ever met. My brother doesn't remember, but he always said I was better than him at that sort of thing. Remembering. Maybe he just /wants/ to forget. He forgets all about our parents sometimes, and I've never seen him happier. But those dreadful nights are never far from my mind. Whether I'm reading the Three Musketeers or the Bible, I find comparisons to my father, comparisons to my mother, and even . . .when I'm mad at him, when I'm rebellious and angry enough . . .comparisons with my brother.
I love him, don't get me wrong. But sometimes he's too protective, too much of a liar. He lies around twenty times a day, on average. Not including when he sells papers, which is rare these days.
My brother lied about our relationship, which shamed me. He denied we were brothers at first. The newsies still don't know anything for sure . . .he told them we were cousins last I recall.
The story seems to change every once in a while, which bothers me. At the very least he could make his stories convincing.
But that's my brother for you, ever the liar, never the poker-faced boy who wins all your money. Like Race.
Were you expecting the Delanceys?
"Hey - Jake."
***
Are you ready for the next one? It's mainly narrated by one guy, but the other narrator comes in by way of asterisks.
***
You've heard about them. Spot Conlon, Jack Kelly, Kid Blink, Mush Meyers, Racetrack Higgins, Dutchy Ivanovitch, Specs Tchaikovsky, Swifty Chao, Boots McAleenan, Bumlets Rodriguez, Snoddy Buckings, Pie Eater Mallory. Jake Sullivan. Now it's our turn. We're fraternal twins, meaning we look nothing alike. Hell, one of us looks like he's twenty five and the other - yours truly - looks like eighteen. We're both seventeen, no matter our appearances.
Probably you've already got gears churning in your head, trying to figure us out. If we aren't already given away. I'm not going to tell you right out, but we aren't that hard to interpret.
My brother and I were born in a low-middle class family. Went to school for a while. Made friends, made enemies. Typical kids in any big city.
Well, we started out in Albany, for one. Not here, not NYC, the city we've grown to both love and loathe.
Our mother and father were religious types, turn the other cheek, the meek shall inherit the earth . . . all of that. They got on to my brother for pride and anger. He's the vengeful sort. I, however, try not to let my feelings aggravate my fists. Besides, mom used to lock us in our rooms for the weekend if we got in fights, only letting us out for food, bodily functions, and church. Always church. Every day, twice Wednesday, and we practically lived there Sunday.
Our friends joked about it - if they couldn't find us, they went to our church and waited until we were set free to drag us off and do something stupid and reckless.
Don't get us wrong. We love church, we really do. We still go four times a week. I'm even in training to be a priest. That's why lying through my teeth hurts, but you have to survive, right?
That's what I'm saying. Survival. No matter what they say about Jesus, Others, Self, it's not true. Most Christians I know, even the Catholics, put themselves before others. It's natural. We can't help it. We're only human.
I'm ranting. Where was I? *You were talking about our family, bro.* Oh yeah. Thanks. *No problem. Get it right, will you?*
Anyway. Our parents were nice enough, like I said. Feed us, clothed us, gave us educations. But one day they found out their money wasn't covering it. So we moved into a smaller apartment. Well . . . I say "we," but I mean to say that . . .
*They couldn't let us come. They shipped us off to New York to work for our father's friend. Jonathan was nice enough for a while. We became newsies. But one day, when a newsboy spit in his face, he went on a rampage. Made us beat up ALL of our newfound friends, none of which did it. John hadn't gotten a good enough look at his assailant to recognize me.*
Well, it was suffice to say we didn't keep a lot of our friends. Eventually, for our own protection, we started helping out our "Uncle." John Wiesel.
*Yeah, we're the Delancey brothers. Wanna make somethin' of it?*
