DISCLAIMER: Needless to say, I don't own any of the newsies, nor do I own Randy Peterson unfortunately. Smirks.
Will She Ever Forget Me?
The ammunition of rain falling upon the Brooklyn lodging house this night as I gaze through the gargantuan yet dissipating clouds of smog rising heavenward is nothing in volume compared to the steady palpitations of my broken heart. It comes as a dark and rejuvenating force, cleansing the sinkhole known as New York of its filth and decadence. But I…I haven't a means by which I might rid myself of my ridiculous obsession with romance, and its flimsy ideology. I could down decanters of amber gin like the others do, and drown my shaky mind into the rivers of self-inflicted depression. I could take a swig of the cylindrical drifts of grey smoke that ooze their way through cigarettes like some diseased cancer slowly surging through the bloodstreams of its victims. Or perhaps I could even go to that bizarre extremity known as self-slaughter and end the pain with an indulgence in excessive medication.
Many times they tell me to simply forget about her, as if the mere execution of such an act was nothing more than changing vests for the day. Forget about her, indeed! Were I to commit such a folly, how then would I be able to remember her elegant smile, which always wordlessly said in the most beautiful of tongues that she loved me dearly? How would I recall the intensity of her glacier blue eyes, or the astounding silken texture of her golden locks? In shelving my past, would I ever be able to extract those long buried tales we always shared with one another into the wee hours of the night, as we sat on the fire escape in each other's arms and laughed time and hardships away with the potency of our adoration? Would I be able to recite verbatim the many jokes we concocted, the exact dialogue of our playful altercations, and the way the words "I love you" would roll from her tongue and on the wings of angels proceed to woo me until I was forever enslaved to the beauty of her sheer existence.
They told me I was slowly killing myself like this, waiting for her return from Irving Hall where she nightly would rehearse until, spent like a horse, she'd be released from her showcase duties and would be bid permission to retire homebound. "She's no longer of your concern," they reiterated into my sore ears again and again. "Waiting up for her like this is no longer your obligation."
But I couldn't help it, for every moment during which she was not in my presence, my mind would race into expeditious musings and wonder upon the happenings of her day and those whom she had met. I would think to myself…has she found love in the arms of another? Is she happier with him? Do they share a larger abundance of memories? Does she rejoice in my absence? Does she…ever think of me?
Thunder roars in the distance and I'm wrenched from this deliberation before I fall deeper into the abyss of my wounded soul. How foolish was I, to think she'd forever wait for me behind the veils of our secrecy until I was ready to renew our vows to each other. How imprudent, to not realize how the others flocked around her as if she were their goddess, waiting ever so anxiously for the day on which she and I would end it. A long tenure the four months had been, but they had gotten their wish in all their manic greediness, and their lust-driven talons opened and closed most desirously when they knew the relationship was officially…over.
I recline onto the mildew-stained windowsill where I every night take up vigilance and await her safe homecoming to the borough where we both grew up, and every night one more shard of love precipitates into maddened jealousy as I watch her perambulate hand in hand with the very bane of my love: Spot Conlon. That foul miscreant who rises in me such indignation, who beds half-cent whores thrice daily and endures the night as a monstrous apparition of his sins while he chugs down cheap vodka and relays to his mindless lackeys the victories he's acquired as of late. He fills in me the largest quantity of sheer abhorrence, and my only assurance after all the pain and scorn is my knowing she'd never succumb to his lust.
She's a determined spitfire, with a level head and a wit which could make the supposedly knowledgeable aristocracy gasp in embarrassment. I trust her. And I trust her chastity as well, for she's as noble a well-raised young woman as any, even if her childhood was played out on the streets of this rotten and defile city. But seeing her with the mass of wasted flesh known as 'his high and mighty' and seeing their flirtatious interaction with one another drives me to the boundaries of my incapable mentality.
Could I memorize the melody of her laughter, how the sweet sound would escape her lips and warm my heart in all its sincerity? Would I be able to recall the motions of her hands as she would stroke my black locks from my face and then kiss the skin of my cheekbones until they were drenched in the lilac scent of her wonderfulness? Would I, years from now, remember the feel of her body against my own as we lay in bed side by side and shared our innermost dreams?
"Forget about her," they tell me.
They're dallying down the cobblestone pathway which leads to the docks. Spot appears to be terribly drunk, his hand draped around her shoulders and his laughter a most loud and boisterous sound, like an obnoxious pig squealing to be spared from the butcher's table. She, on the other hand, doesn't appear to be in the least amused. If anything, I can almost sense her want to cast him into the East River and be done with it…or perhaps such was my wish on her behalf.
They exchange words for a few moments just outside the lodging house, and I, with my ear pressed up against the dirt-smeared windows, attempt to capture every last word. Simultaneously, I wish to hear nothing of their dialogue just as well. All I can catch is laughter, and thus I rely on reading their body language which doesn't spell too good a response for Spot, for every time he tries to touch her face she backs away angrily and at last shakes her head and storms away inside. I am, of course, elated.
I rush down the stairs, meanwhile combing back stray strands of hair and smacking the dust off my vest, and meet her midway down my descending of the flight. We stop abruptly and make a move as to let the other pass, but only succeed in blocking each other once more, so we attempt yet again and naturally choose the same direction a second time! Finally we simply cease in our steps, glance at each other, clear our throats, and begin speaking at the same time.
"Randy, I can't go on like…"
"Josef, you can't keep doing…"
Realizing our statements are inevitably bound to be contrary, we end the spewing of hurtful words and return to the infantile game of just gazing in each other's eyes. Her electric blue irises, I remember, always were able to fill me with such hope. Hope. We always had it…we never forsook it, and it never forsook us. Or so I had thought.
"He's wrong for you," I blurted out, no longer able to restrain myself. Wasn't he, though! Wasn't I supposed to be the one she ended up with! Why him!? Why in God's name and of all people did it have to be the very one I loathed? Why!
She shakes her head angrily, annoyed no doubt by my astounding levels of immaturity and tries to pass by me but I block her. She looks upon me with hatred, then, and my heart stops as if she's lodged a spear through my lungs. "You can't keep doing this, Josef. It's not fair. You can't expect me to wait around like this…to loaf about like an object until you feel secure enough to put it pass yourself to ask me again. You said you'd be happy for me, and that you wanted me to be happy in return. I waited for you, Josef. For as long as I could bear…but you'll never take me back again, will you?"
I part my lips to answer her, to contradict such words! Of course I will, I had every intention to…but fear…I was…perhaps she was right. No, she couldn't be! I did want her back, and I did intend on asking her. Fear, however, makes us all into cowards, and fear had done as much to me. Fear for the relationship, for how it might really end someday, for getting hurt continuously because of my own insecurities.
When she receives no answer from me, she sighs and nudges me out of her way, as to make the last journey to her bed where she might obtain further energy for another day of fighting the system. "Please try to be happy for me, Josef." Her facial expressions are plastered into the utmost sadness, but her beauty never fades. She is as gorgeous as the day I first met her, and as spell-binding.
"Randy, wait." Now is the moment, I feel the urge rising within me. I will ask her to be mine, I will request her hand in a relationship where we can be in love with each other again. I already see the future events come to life before my eyes. She will accept with a smirk and kiss me hard against the splintered interior of the lodging house, and we will be Josef and Randy again. And nothing will ever be able to tear us apart.
She turns to me, and a glint of that ever so precious hope flushes into her wondrous eyes. My heart skips a beat and the aftermath pounds within my chest. Now is the moment, now is the moment. But fear makes cowards of us all, and I have failed her again.
"Nevermind," I mutter, downcast and crestfallen. And I turn from her, soon to wallow in my idiocy. I hear her say goodnight behind me, but the tears are already cascading down my face and I haven't the courage to let her see my pain.
It would not be a good night at all, and every night thereafter would I sit at my confounded windowsill and watch her carry on with her life as I feverishly clutched the past I was too afraid to resurrect.
Will she ever forget me?