Author's Note: Last week I went on a beginning-of-summer road trip to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland, and had a wonderful time. Dalton, my annoying yet semi-cute repressed preppie muse, was glad to go too because he was tired of living in my closet and never being allowed outside, and also he said it would give me a lot of time to work on fic. Which it did. By hand. In PENCIL. (sob)
Anyway, this is the first chapter that I've had to write out ENTIRELY before typing up, and yes, it was hard, and scary, and my hand did cramp up, but I lived, although I am typing this with my nose (Dalton agreed to type up the rest of the fic, so the formatting might be slightly off). I did this mostly while driving through Southern Oregon, listening to the RENT soundtrack and periodically looking out the window and shouting, "LOOK! COWS!" at the top of my lungs (there are many, many cows in the state of Oregon—you'd never guess how many times my traveling companions tried to ditch me. Actually, I'll just tell you—seventeen). But even with all the pencil-related trauma it was one of the most peaceful fic-writing experiences I've ever had, mostly since Dalton was too carsick to comment and spent most of the ride with his head hanging out the window.
DALTON: (glares)
So, in short: road trips—good. Motion sick muses when there is no Dramamine to be had—bad. (See? It even rhymes.)
…And now, on with the fic!
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Chinese Lantern
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Chapter Six—
The Manly Thing to Do
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"Do, or do not…there is no try."
--Yoda
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Caroline Maddox Brown had been blessed at birth with straight teeth, strong bones, and an overactive imagination to rival that of Chuck Barris. Her one great wish in life was to have an adventure, and when there was no drama to be had, she simply invented it herself—her escapades had had, until then, no villains, leading men, rival archaeologists, dragons, vengeful fairy godmothers, or even coherent storylines, but she still made a serious effort whenever she could, her only policy being that she would never make the same mistake twice (and it was true: she always found some way to make new ones). When she went missing that night in Chinatown, it was nothing, really, to write home about: her friends had been dealing with her disappearances almost as long as they had known her.
"Just another one of Maddie's escape attempts," was Max's pronouncement. "We'll probably be seeing her tomorrow on Broadway."
"Not if I get there first," Ram murmured.
It was past midnight, and Ram, Max, and Ginnie were all lying around in the hotel room, having vodka & Nyquil, because there was nothing else to be had, and hard alcohol mixed with cough syrup had a charming effect on the nerves that had even slowed Ram down enough to make him stop jumping up and down on the bed with Ginnie's shoes on his ears, singing "Poisoning Pigeons in the Park" and doing the can-can.
"I feel woozy," he remarked, seven seconds later, not sounding unlike Charlie Brown.
"Be careful, Kemosabe. This stuff might kill ya."
Ginnie raised her glass. "A toast to Maddie, wherever she is right now."
They all downed their shots, and Ram lay back on the floor, his headphones half-on as he watched the episode of Law & Order that was muted on the TV. Somehow, combined with the Little Shop of Horrors soundtrack, it seemed so much better than the original. Currently, Briscoe and Logan were in the interrogation room, singing "Suddenly Seymour".
Logan grabbed the perp forcefully by the arm, his eyebrows furrowed angrily. "Suddenly Seymour is standing besi-ide you…" he crooned. "You don't need no makeup—don't have to preteeeend..." He slammed him up against the wall, grabbing him by the neck. "Suddenly Seymour is here to provide you, with sweet understa-a-anding…Seymour's your friend…"
Briscoe stepped in, pulling Mike's arm away, spitting nails as he spoke with an oddly high voice. "Nobody ever treated me kindly…Daddy left early, and Mama was poor. I meet a man and I follow him blindly…he'd snap his fingers, and I would say, 'sure'."
"Guys," Ram said suddenly, pulling his headphones off, "I think something's wrong with Maddox."
To which Max rebutted, rather rudely, that nothing had ever gone wrong the eight thousand times this had happened before.
But he just had a feeling, Ram explained. At which point Max said that the last time Ram had had a feeling, they had tried making frozen pizza in the toaster, and the grease had fried the wires, and the entire kitchen had shorted out, and it had cost them two thousand dollars to rewire the house and they had had to wash dishes in the bathtub for six months.
"But it's in the best friend's rights," Ram said, raising his eyebrows in a quizzical, McCoyish manner. And no one could argue with that.
After a while, they came up with a compromise: they would wait until morning, and if Maddox hadn't gotten back by then, they would go out looking for her. And then, after coming to this conclusion, they all did the noblest thing possible: keeled over, and fell fast asleep.
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Back in 1900 New York, Jack had slightly less trouble rounding up a search team, possibly because sedative-laced cough syrup had not yet been made widely available to the general public. Although, in truth, Jack didn't need a whole lot of help figuring out what kind of business Spot had been into—they had been close, once, a long time ago, and he knew which people to ask, and where to go. It was only after a few spare hours of detective work that he traced it to a certain address in Chinatown, and a reasonable doubt as to why Spot had been spending so much time there as of late. In truth, it was something that he had been suspecting for a long time.
He set out bright and early on a Sunday morning, the address in his pocket, looking to see what he could unearth. Racetrack was the first person to catch on—he saw Jack watching steadfastly away from the lodging house one day, face bowed down against the wind, and immediately spotted his opportunity.
"Heya, Cowboy," he said, chipper as a chipmunk as he bounded up and slung an arm around his shoulders.
"Oh, um…hi, Race. Why aren't ya sellin' today?"
Racetrack's eyes opened so wide that Jack knew he had to be faking it. "Jack. It's Sunday."
"So? Why can't ya sell on Sunday?"
He clutched at his heart, aghast. "Because of God!"
Jack rolled his eyes. "Race, when was the last time you were actually in church, without bein' forced to go?"
He looked up at the sky, as if pondering an imaginary number. "Approximately…nevah. But you were raised Catholic, right Jack?"
Jack nodded, not quite sure what race was getting at, but still certain that he was about to have the rug pulled out from under his feet.
"So, you sellin' today…wouldn't that be a sin?"
"I'm not," Jack muttered.
"Oh? What are ya doin' then?"
"I'm…goin' ta look for Spot in Chinatown," Jack said, sort of. To Racetrack, however, it sounded more like "I'm mumble humble mumble Spot mumble mumble."
"What was that?"
"I'm lookin' for mumble mumble Chinatown mumble…(cough)."
"WHAT?"
"I SAID I'M LOOKIN' FOR SPOT IN CHINATOWN TODAY!" Jack shouted at the top of his lungs, only to instantly regret it.
Gathered in the sidewalk in front of him, called instantly to attention, was every newsie from the Duane Street lodging house: Dutchy, Crutchy, Swifty, Specs, Snitch, Skittery, Blink, Mush, Snipeshooter…everyone. Even the kids. Even David was there—that he would have almost liked, maybe, if it was just David—but everyone else was there, and Les too. And Santa Claus, and the Easter Bunny, probably, too. Jack covered his face with his hands. This was getting to be a little too much.
"So," he said, addressing the crowd. "As of mumble mumble, Spot's humble mumble mumble mumble, an' we're mumble mumble humble mumble Chinatown."
"What he means to say," Racetrack spoke up, "is that Spot's been in some shifty business in opium dens lately, an' we're goin' ta look for him in Chinatown."
Jack looked at him with one eye. "You could hear me dat whole time?"
Racetrack grinned. "Of coise."
Some general murmuring went up through the crowd at this pronouncement. Les tugged at his brother's sleeve. "Davey, what's opium?"
"…I'll tell you when you're older."
"Oh." Les closed his eyes for a few seconds, and then pulled on David's arm again. "Davey! I'm older now."
"OKAY!" Racetrack yelled. "Everybody walk dis way. Whoever comes along, gets free noodles." Needless to say, that put them all in motion pretty quickly.
Jack laughed, looking at Racetrack. "Where are you gonna get that kinda money, Race?"
Racetrack paused. "…Did I say 'noodles'? I meant 'noodle'."
"Well," Jack grinned. "It's probably illegal on Sundays anyhow…'cause of God, right?"
"Kermit, ya read my mind."
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Ram woke up the next morning at dawn, sprawled on the floor and fiercely hung over, roused by the sound of McCoy's "DID YOU IN FACT?" on TV. He shook Max and Ginnie awake, roughly bringing them into the waking world. "C'mon. We've got a life to save."
"Mmph…that can wait…" Max muttered, burrowing deeper into his pillow.
"Max, get up right now, or I'll sing 'Over the Moon'. And you'll be my cowbell."
Harsh but fair was Ginnie's verdict. At any rate, it got him up pretty quickly.
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No one seemed to be at the opium den when Jack and the rest of the newsies got there. They passed by an open door where a dark-haired woman sat, poring over an old text with a black cat curled around her, but they paid her no notice, just crept upstairs as inconspicuously as a herd of elephants. Hearing them go by, the woman looked up, and smiled the faintest of smiles.
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Ram retraced their steps, and brought them all back to the store in Chinatown where they had been the night before—it was barely dawn, and no one from their group was even awake yet. The place was empty, still locked up for the night; they slipped in through a basement window, one by one, and made their way up the stairs.
On both sides, what had once been the tiniest bit of wearing-through, a loose thread, was now a gaping fissure—hanging suspended by nothing, and blowing in the slightest breeze like cobwebs: loose, glistering threads of gold, stained, just a little, by blood.
Sitting downstairs as she read, Priscilla didn't see a thing when the newsboys disappeared. But she didn't need to: she could feel it. Five floors up fire spread within them and brought them to another place, and the fire spread within her too—the pathway had opened. She was free to cross over; what she had waited on for so long was finally, finally here.
The time has come.
[TBC…]
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Shout-Outs!
Ershey: See, I'm in this dilemma here…I could go with the intelligence thing…or rapping newsies. Be smart…rapping newsies…be smart…rapping newsies…(bits her lip)
By Jove, I've got it! Newsies, who sing "School House Rock"!
KID BLINK: I'm jus' a bill…yes, I'm only a bill, sittin' heah on capital hill…
(evil grin)
Sapphy: Heehee. (draws a mustache on Spot's face) …'Cause God knows, he'd have some trouble growing one himself. Now…black sharpie, or hot pink? …This could take hours…
Soaker: Okay, okay, ten points. But only if he uses the pale-pink Kleenex. (grins)
And yes, Spot MUST learn to accentuate those lovely baby blues…er…grays…oh…whatever. Glitter, anyone?
Buttons: (swings down on her vine, Tarzan-style, to rescue Buttons from the horror that is school) I'LL SAVE YOU!
DALTON: WATCH OUT FOR THAT TREE!
(smashes into a tree) Sheesh…guy can't even keep his movies straight, and he thinks I have problems? Shyah!
Nani: Spot would make a pretty girl, what with all that luxurious sandy hair…in the shower…in an Herbal Essences commercial…lathering…
DALTON: Is it good for the keyboard, to drool on it like that?
Shooter: Spotta! (grins) Oh, you are a genius…even better than Spottine, or…hold the phone. SPOTTERELLA!
SPOT: (stares)
Just…read this…
SPOT: (picks up a piece of paper) Oh! Will da liddle boidies help me ta get dressed in time foah da ball…or shall I nevah meet my Prince Charmin'?
Meep.
Coin: (grins) Well, god knows I spend a good amount of time throwing shoes at naked guys…(muses) banana cream pies are good too. Actually, I read the other day that professional throwing-shoes at-naked-guys is one of the hottest sports out there today…wanna chip in on a franchise?
Klover: AWESOME new pen name, If I might say…although it still brings back memories of Titanic…
DALTON: Not that you…cried at that, or anything.
OF COURSE NOT! (honk)
Ccatt: Hm, I'm still kinda wavering between Naked!Spot and Spot dressed in full Frank-n-Furter regalia…
SPOT: (sings) I'm not much of a man by da light of the day…but by night, I'm one hell of a lovah…
Meep.
Splashey: "You like pain? …Try wearing a corset!"
DALTON:L Can you go for, maybe, an entire day, without quoting from Pirates of the Caribbean?
…Would you pay me to?
Strawberri Shake: AAH! Snoggage! (pelts Strawberri Shake with overripe mangoes)
DALTON: …Who are you, Pauly shore?
(grins)
m-e lee12: Nifty! Love that word. In fact, anything ending in 'ifty…Nifty, mifty, lifty, tifty…
DALTON: 'Tifty'—this is a word?
(shrugs)
Uninvisible: See, the bad thing for me, about the Olsen twins, is that they've forced me to lose all respect for Eugene Levy, after he was in a movie with them. And this is bad, because he was going to be my adopted father…so now I have to move in with, I don't know, Patrick Swayze? (shudders) Now that would be pretty grim…
DALTON: (clings)
Sparks: Probably the sad thing is that Spot can play dress-up better than I can…I dunno tall girls can't pull off those flippy miniskirts…and you know, you can only watch Newsies so many times before you start to picture him in a tutu…
DALTON: (stares)
…Or maybe that's just me…(grins)
Silver Petra: RollerSkating!Spot! Ah, you are my hero. Now, if we can put him in hop pants and have him dancing to "Superfreak"…then I think we might be onto something…(grins)
NadaZimri: I've got this whole thing figured out…we sell each house complete with newsie…that way, both of us can start an organization to pay fanfic writers like us, and I can feed my bacon/cough syrup addiction. The pbasic Ponzi scheme never looked better…(grins)
Moonlights Sundance: Heehee. Come on, is there anyone out there who doesn't want Alec Guinness to be their adoptive father?
(everyone raises their hands)
(sigh)
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Next Up: Chapter Seven, In Which Alliances Are Made, More Original Characters Are Introduced Along With The Definitive Explanation On Why Oatmeal Is Bad, Including References To The Work Of Noam Chomsky (Some Of Which May Be Fabricated, But Oh Well, You Get What You Pay For, And Living In America In End Of The Millennium, You're What You Own…Now Somebody Stop Me, Please, Before I Start Singing)