"Jack Kelly
and
Josephine March
in
The Story of New York City Redemption"
Author's Note: Someone once discussed with me the theory of infinite possibilities: where with every choice you make, you leave behind the possibility of a different fate. For example, if Sleeping Beauty hadn't pricked her finger on the spinning wheel, there could be several different Sleeping Beauties – one that ran away into the woods, one who became a seamstress, and a third that, I don't know, became a transvestite. This is the framework of the story that I have created. Little Women Purists, beware. In this story, I digress upon the question: What if Josephine March hadn't gone to New York City like she did in the book? What if she had never met Frederich Bhaer? If you believe in true love, you would think that in any fate, Jo and Mr. Bhaer would fall in love, and marry. However, realistically speaking, based upon the theory of infinite possibilities, this would not necessarily be the case. My story begins after Laurie and Amy's wedding. All of the characters are of the same fate they receive in the book, except for Jo. Instead of journeying to New York and meeting Mr. Bhaer, she visits Boston, where she becomes a teacher. As for the newsies, the story begins years after the strike. Saying any more would ruin it. I've reconfigured the ages and time periods of the characters for the sake of fiction. Enjoy!
"I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand
singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands, The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or
at noon intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of
the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else, The day what belongs to the day--at night the party of young fellows,
robust, friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs."
"I Hear America Singing" Walt Whitman
"A noiseless patient spider, I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated, Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding, It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself, Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you O my soul where you stand, Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space, Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them, Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold, Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul."
"A Noiseless Patient Spider" Walt Whitman
The clock in the room Jo was in was now off by three hours. She would look at it and wonder why it said the time was 8:34 if it was still light outside. The clock always got her. Hours ago, she stood on the sidewalk, hands on her hips, overwhelmed by it all, her warm, persistent eyes piercing the sights before her. She was still dressed in her finest- a long, burgundy dress, open two buttons at the neck, with a white scarf and a thin brown muslin wrap- and dragging her stuff with her. Her large hands pushed the hair from her eyes, the tips of her fingers were slightly callused from writing, and her nail biting (one of her many bad habits) had taken its toll. Her features were more specific with age...but she was still cheerful, intense, melodramatic, imaginative Jo, the too-tall girl from Concord, New Hampshire, with armloads of emotional baggage, and an inquisitive eye.
Voices sounded like they came from somewhere far away. She heard the words, but they weren't registering. She awoke in that sluggish state halfway between sleep and consciousness. She shoved the covers off of her, and tentatively peeked out of the door. Her eyes followed the path out of the door down a long hallway, of which there were many others doors and far more voices that echoed. At the end of the hallway, the path veered down into a spiral staircase, which led down, down, down, to somewhere Jo couldn't see. She frantically turned and shut the door as quietly as she could, as she leaned against it.
"Morning sunshine," a voice greeted her from behind. Jo jumped. It was a man, already suited up in his daywear, a cigar in his left hand, and a small, worn, wooden stick in his other.
"Oh! Oh...I...I was just..." she began. Her eyes were as wide as a deer's, and her hair was still frazzled from the night's sleep and lack of care.
"Hmm?" he asked. His gray eyes were amused, and he smirked.
"Oh...well...I was just leaving. Thank you, I think," she said hurriedly, then began skipping down the stairs to where she could almost see the foyer in view.
"Wait a minute," he said, following her. She turned around. "Have a nice sleep?"
"It was decent, thanks," she replied. "How much do I owe you?"
He waved away her question with his hand, the hand that held the cigar. "It's on the house. You can stay here as long as you like, you know. We've got plenty of room," he said. He stepped forward with his athletic, 6'1", lanky and fair-skinned frame. She noticed a cloud of hazel-colored freckles cluttered around his steel gray eyes. "So, what brings you to New York?"
And thus she met the infamous Spot Conlon.
The foyer to the refurbished Newsboys Lodging House (re-done in 1905) was clean and wood-paneled, consisting of a short staircase and an entrance straight ahead to what she assumed was the mess hall and kitchen. To the right were the waiting rooms, furnished simply with wooden chairs, tables, an ashtray, a somewhat decrepit-looking piano, and a half-empty China display.
"Welcome," Spot said, looking back and cracking a grin.
Two men thundered down the first set of stairs into the foyer, skipping the last step to jump off. When they saw Spot they greeted him with swift spitshakes, which Jo thought was altogether gross and fantastic at the same time. The first, Pie Eater, she assumed, was shorter than Spot himself, but not stout in the least. He had smart, ready eyes and a wide mouth and nose. Between his teeth was a thin reed of grass, which he chewed on casually. Atop his short, brown curls was a hat that she recognized on several newsboys in the streets.
"Hey there. Pie Eater" he said levelly, introducing himself, the corner of his mouth twisting into a crooked smile.
"Jo March," she said, regaining lost composure.
The other young man that had come down the stairs had warm, chocolate brown eyes, which he fixed on Jo.
"Hey, nice to meet ya. Boots. How's it rolling?" he said, his eyes serious yet kind.
"Stay as long as you need, we have plenty of room," Pie Eater said, tugging the grass reed out of his mouth.
"Well, I don't want to burden anyone," she said.
"New company? It's never a burden," Pie Eater said.
"So, are all of you newsboys?" she asked. There were a lot of them. Boys, ages five through twenty-five surrounded them, scampering up and down the stairs, as the foyer became crowded.
"Most of us," Pie Eater said. "Some people just need a place to stay. A lot of the older ones are retired newsies, though. They stay here because they've been here so long, but a lot of the times, they have other living options," he explained. "Spot, Boots, and I still sell papes, but we have other jobs, too."
"Factory workers, I presume?" Jo asked, her mood softening.
"Boots and I do factory labor. Pie Eater here, the lucky ass, works in the newspaper room. He does odd jobs, like carting the packages of newspapers to the public distribution apparatus, the newsies, or getting more paper," Spot answered. Jo's eyes glazed with interest.
"Do any of you work on the inside? Investigative stories, journalism, gathering research?" she asked.
"A reporter, Miss March?" Spot asked. Jo's lips twisted into a smile she couldn't conceal.
"A writer, actually," she admitted. "I told a close friend of mine, that if I weren't one- a writer, that is- that I'd come here, to New York, and pursue the stage. Rent isn't bad, but I suppose I'll need to be able to cough up something soon," Jo said. "So, just reviewing my options," she said.
"Someone smart like you will have no problem. They'll definitely want you on the paper," Pie Eater said.
"Sarah and David work for the New York World. They're editors, I think, and they supervise Pulitzer. They've worked there for about a year and a half, two years, so far-"Boots said, just as someone scrambled down the landing.
"Here, we'll get you a room, and then we'll give you the grand tour," he said, face amiable.
"The room I woke up in was fine," Jo answered.
"You sure?" Pie Eater asked.
"I am," Jo said.
"All right. Welcome to the House, Jo," Boots said.
and
Josephine March
in
The Story of New York City Redemption"
Author's Note: Someone once discussed with me the theory of infinite possibilities: where with every choice you make, you leave behind the possibility of a different fate. For example, if Sleeping Beauty hadn't pricked her finger on the spinning wheel, there could be several different Sleeping Beauties – one that ran away into the woods, one who became a seamstress, and a third that, I don't know, became a transvestite. This is the framework of the story that I have created. Little Women Purists, beware. In this story, I digress upon the question: What if Josephine March hadn't gone to New York City like she did in the book? What if she had never met Frederich Bhaer? If you believe in true love, you would think that in any fate, Jo and Mr. Bhaer would fall in love, and marry. However, realistically speaking, based upon the theory of infinite possibilities, this would not necessarily be the case. My story begins after Laurie and Amy's wedding. All of the characters are of the same fate they receive in the book, except for Jo. Instead of journeying to New York and meeting Mr. Bhaer, she visits Boston, where she becomes a teacher. As for the newsies, the story begins years after the strike. Saying any more would ruin it. I've reconfigured the ages and time periods of the characters for the sake of fiction. Enjoy!
"I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand
singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands, The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or
at noon intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of
the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else, The day what belongs to the day--at night the party of young fellows,
robust, friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs."
"I Hear America Singing" Walt Whitman
"A noiseless patient spider, I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated, Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding, It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself, Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you O my soul where you stand, Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space, Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them, Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold, Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul."
"A Noiseless Patient Spider" Walt Whitman
The clock in the room Jo was in was now off by three hours. She would look at it and wonder why it said the time was 8:34 if it was still light outside. The clock always got her. Hours ago, she stood on the sidewalk, hands on her hips, overwhelmed by it all, her warm, persistent eyes piercing the sights before her. She was still dressed in her finest- a long, burgundy dress, open two buttons at the neck, with a white scarf and a thin brown muslin wrap- and dragging her stuff with her. Her large hands pushed the hair from her eyes, the tips of her fingers were slightly callused from writing, and her nail biting (one of her many bad habits) had taken its toll. Her features were more specific with age...but she was still cheerful, intense, melodramatic, imaginative Jo, the too-tall girl from Concord, New Hampshire, with armloads of emotional baggage, and an inquisitive eye.
Voices sounded like they came from somewhere far away. She heard the words, but they weren't registering. She awoke in that sluggish state halfway between sleep and consciousness. She shoved the covers off of her, and tentatively peeked out of the door. Her eyes followed the path out of the door down a long hallway, of which there were many others doors and far more voices that echoed. At the end of the hallway, the path veered down into a spiral staircase, which led down, down, down, to somewhere Jo couldn't see. She frantically turned and shut the door as quietly as she could, as she leaned against it.
"Morning sunshine," a voice greeted her from behind. Jo jumped. It was a man, already suited up in his daywear, a cigar in his left hand, and a small, worn, wooden stick in his other.
"Oh! Oh...I...I was just..." she began. Her eyes were as wide as a deer's, and her hair was still frazzled from the night's sleep and lack of care.
"Hmm?" he asked. His gray eyes were amused, and he smirked.
"Oh...well...I was just leaving. Thank you, I think," she said hurriedly, then began skipping down the stairs to where she could almost see the foyer in view.
"Wait a minute," he said, following her. She turned around. "Have a nice sleep?"
"It was decent, thanks," she replied. "How much do I owe you?"
He waved away her question with his hand, the hand that held the cigar. "It's on the house. You can stay here as long as you like, you know. We've got plenty of room," he said. He stepped forward with his athletic, 6'1", lanky and fair-skinned frame. She noticed a cloud of hazel-colored freckles cluttered around his steel gray eyes. "So, what brings you to New York?"
And thus she met the infamous Spot Conlon.
The foyer to the refurbished Newsboys Lodging House (re-done in 1905) was clean and wood-paneled, consisting of a short staircase and an entrance straight ahead to what she assumed was the mess hall and kitchen. To the right were the waiting rooms, furnished simply with wooden chairs, tables, an ashtray, a somewhat decrepit-looking piano, and a half-empty China display.
"Welcome," Spot said, looking back and cracking a grin.
Two men thundered down the first set of stairs into the foyer, skipping the last step to jump off. When they saw Spot they greeted him with swift spitshakes, which Jo thought was altogether gross and fantastic at the same time. The first, Pie Eater, she assumed, was shorter than Spot himself, but not stout in the least. He had smart, ready eyes and a wide mouth and nose. Between his teeth was a thin reed of grass, which he chewed on casually. Atop his short, brown curls was a hat that she recognized on several newsboys in the streets.
"Hey there. Pie Eater" he said levelly, introducing himself, the corner of his mouth twisting into a crooked smile.
"Jo March," she said, regaining lost composure.
The other young man that had come down the stairs had warm, chocolate brown eyes, which he fixed on Jo.
"Hey, nice to meet ya. Boots. How's it rolling?" he said, his eyes serious yet kind.
"Stay as long as you need, we have plenty of room," Pie Eater said, tugging the grass reed out of his mouth.
"Well, I don't want to burden anyone," she said.
"New company? It's never a burden," Pie Eater said.
"So, are all of you newsboys?" she asked. There were a lot of them. Boys, ages five through twenty-five surrounded them, scampering up and down the stairs, as the foyer became crowded.
"Most of us," Pie Eater said. "Some people just need a place to stay. A lot of the older ones are retired newsies, though. They stay here because they've been here so long, but a lot of the times, they have other living options," he explained. "Spot, Boots, and I still sell papes, but we have other jobs, too."
"Factory workers, I presume?" Jo asked, her mood softening.
"Boots and I do factory labor. Pie Eater here, the lucky ass, works in the newspaper room. He does odd jobs, like carting the packages of newspapers to the public distribution apparatus, the newsies, or getting more paper," Spot answered. Jo's eyes glazed with interest.
"Do any of you work on the inside? Investigative stories, journalism, gathering research?" she asked.
"A reporter, Miss March?" Spot asked. Jo's lips twisted into a smile she couldn't conceal.
"A writer, actually," she admitted. "I told a close friend of mine, that if I weren't one- a writer, that is- that I'd come here, to New York, and pursue the stage. Rent isn't bad, but I suppose I'll need to be able to cough up something soon," Jo said. "So, just reviewing my options," she said.
"Someone smart like you will have no problem. They'll definitely want you on the paper," Pie Eater said.
"Sarah and David work for the New York World. They're editors, I think, and they supervise Pulitzer. They've worked there for about a year and a half, two years, so far-"Boots said, just as someone scrambled down the landing.
"Here, we'll get you a room, and then we'll give you the grand tour," he said, face amiable.
"The room I woke up in was fine," Jo answered.
"You sure?" Pie Eater asked.
"I am," Jo said.
"All right. Welcome to the House, Jo," Boots said.