A/N – I know that I have other stories I should be working on, but I couldn't resist starting my Spot story already. I mean…lookit him.
Spot: puppy dog eyes
I just had to. Never fear, my other stories will be updated in a day or two. I promise. This fiction is loosely based on a song by The Adicts called 'Put Yourself In My Hands' which is a song I absolutely ADORE. If you love Punk music, especially old school Punk music you'll love The Adicts. I'll post bits of the lyrics with some of the chapters and then at the end, I'll put the whole song...
I DO NOT OWN NEWSIES OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS, OR THE STORY LINE FROM THAT MOVIE. Don't sue me I don't have any dough. I also don't own Pokey she is owned by Pokey7.
–A/N
Spot perched on a crate down by the East River, silently flipping a dime with dirty, ink-stained fingers. A cool breeze ruffled his blonde hair and he lazily stretched his legs out over the edge of the dock. The wind lapped at the surface of the river, giving the brownish water a ridged appearance. It smelled rank down there today but Spot honestly didn't know what he'd do if he didn't have this river getaway.
His newsies were all out selling; a profitable night at Sheepshead with Racetrack had given him the extra cash to afford to miss a few days of work. He was enjoying being alone until a familiar voice called out to him. He winced, and dropped his head towards his chest. Footsteps reverberated through the wooden dock until they came to a stop right behind him. A gentle hand squeezed his thin shoulder.
"Hey Misery," he said quietly knowing that when he turned around she'd be standing there with her son Joshua balanced on a slim hip, her usual smirk softened into something gentler. True enough, she stood shading the afternoon sun out of her eyes with one hand while clutching Joshua to herself with the other. She was clad in a crimson button-down shirt and surprisingly a long black skirt that hit her ankles where he could see dusty boots peeking out from under the hem.
Her auburn hair was long enough now that she tied it up in a tail that swept the middle of her back. He knew that having a child had caused her to give up some of her rough and tumble ways, but that if she were ever needed; she wouldn't hesitate to lift up her skirts and wade into a fistfight no questions asked.
Misery sat cross-legged next to him balancing Joshua on his tiny feet in the circle of her arms and legs. Joshua, a chubby, happy baby blew raspberries at Spot and held out two pudgy hands towards him. Spot although secretly flattered pretended to scoff before hefting the infant up into his leanly muscled arms. Joshua grabbed for his cap, but Spot jerked his head out of the way waving a teasing finger in Joshua's face. The baby drooled and gnawed on one of Spot's fingers with a mouth full of gums.
Misery watched them both with a fond smile lighting her skinny face. Spot tried not to look at her. It still hurt him for some reason that he had managed to fall for this abrasive girl much harder than he would ever care to admit, or that she had for him in return. He knew she loved him; she loved him with most of her heart. But the part that he wanted, or thought he still wanted a one Racetrack Higgins owned.
"So where's Race anyway?" Racetrack had accepted a job at Sheepshead as a bookie. He wasn't dealing with respectable people, but the job paid much more than a newsie could ever dream of making and with a baby and a brand new fiancé thrown into the mix; he was becoming or at least trying to become more responsible, in his own Racetrack way. Misery smirked and struck a match on the dock, lighting a tightly rolled cigarette.
"Where else, at Sheepshead. Jack and Davey are actually with him, he's having a ball. I told him I was going to finish the laundry and take Joshua to see his Uncle Spot." Spot saw a shadow cross Misery's pretty face and raised a sardonic eyebrow.
"Somethin' tells me you don't like being a housewife." Misery sighed and with her exhale of breath a wisp of bluish smoke escaped her lips. Spot gently bounced Joshua on one of his knees and unsuccessfully tried to light a cigarette of his own. Misery lit him one and he winked at her in thanks.
"I'm used to doing the housework from when I lived with my…brothers. But it's so BORING. I love Race to death, but once Joshua gets old enough I think I want a job." Spot snorted, and seeing the flash of anger in Misery's hazel eyes, he held up hands quickly.
"It'll be awhile before Josh is of school age Mis, you're going to have some time to sit around and twiddle your thumbs." Misery gloomily took a drag off of her cigarette and tapped her fingers on her knee. Then she brightened up considerably.
"Maybe I could write, you know stories. I can do that at home." Spot raised another eyebrow at her.
"You mean like a reporter? There ain't too many women who do that Mis." She waved a hand in response.
"No I mean like write stories, for children…err or something like that." Spot studied her for a second before handing Joshua over and standing up. Brushing off the seat of his pants he stuck his cane through a belt loop and made sure his slingshot was still in his back pocket. Holding out a hand to Misery he helped her get up.
"That's a good idea Mis. But first things first," Misery gave him a quizzical glance to which he pointed at Joshua's saggy drawers.
"The little stinker needs a diaper change." She grinned evilly and held him back out to Spot.
"You sure you don't want to learn? You might need to know how to take care of kids someday." Spot backed away, his cigarette pointed up towards the sky in his right hand. Misery burst into giggles at the alarmed expression on his narrow face.
"Spot I was only joke…"
"I am SO outta here. Tell Race we're having a poker night tonight, ah Hell tell him to tell Jack and the rest of the boys too." Misery nodded even though Jack was no longer the leader of the Manhattan boys. He was their new house manager. Kloppman had retired to live in upstate New York with his daughter and her family. Mush and Kid Blink ran the lodging house, often times playing good cop bad cop. Pistol was the leader of the girls, now that Bourbon had come to Brooklyn to be with Riddle.
Spot watched Misery leave, the sun catching the ring on her hand as she waved good-bye. He felt a tightness in his chest and silently berated himself. He had to get over her; he couldn't beat himself up every time she came to visit. Shaking his head he adjusted his cap and made his way back to the lodging house.
It was a warm spring day and he intended to savor it, but once he reached the lodging house he ducked into the washroom. Pumping some water he splashed it over his face and scrubbed wet hands through his dirty blonde hair. It was shorter, he grinned recalling how Pistol, Riddle, Misery, and Racetrack had all sat on him while Pistol did her monthly haircutting event, including Brooklyn this time as well.
The face that stared back at him in the cracked mirror was lean, but had the angular cheekbones of an almost grown man. His blonde hair was parted down the middle, although it was rather messed up at the moment. Blue, blue eyes considered himself appraisingly and he wasn't disappointed with what he saw. He had grown an inch or two, and while still somewhat short for a guy his age, his once skinny body had filled out with definition. Living on the streets made for skinny builds but most of the Brooklyn boys were large height and body wise.
He fingered the key around his neck that he always wore on a black cord. It was an ordinary looking key, but to him it was special. It was the key to his grandparent's old apartment, the one he had snitched when she had passed away before the cops took him to an orphanage. He smiled fondly remembering the pudgy old lady who had always smelled like talcum powder and gave the best hugs ever.
Leaving the washroom he made his way down the hallway until he came to his bedroom. Kicking the door open with a booted foot he smiled when he heard the resounding smack of the doorknob hit the opposite wall. That was hole number five hundred he mused to himself as he flopped down onto his cot amongst his messy sheets. Loon's makeshift cot had finally been moved out of his room. The kid had gotten over his beating by the Finnegan brothers, now serving life without parole in Sing Sing.
A breeze came through his slightly
open window and washed over his face. He closed his eyes and instead of getting
up to enjoy the afternoon he drifted off into a deep sleep.