Author's Notes: I listened to "First Love"--Piano Version, by Hikaru Utada
the entire time I was writing this...er, hopefully it won't be exceedingly
sappy or anything. About Jack's studio: there's a front room where
customers have their pictures taken, a back room where Jack lives, and the
"dark room", which is where the Daguerreotypes are developed. Hopefully,
that'll prevent any confusion and etc. To my reviewers: thanks a bunch.
You guys rock my boat...I mean, glad you like it.
--Puzzled - Chapter Two--
"You've been acting funny, lately," David says suddenly. His hands are ink-stained, propping up his chin. Les wishes he could have hands like David's, which are big and square, powerful, though it's absurd to think that David would ever use those hands for anything other than holding a pen.
"Funny?" Casually turns the page of his Math book so David won't notice the plot outline he has doodled on the side of what should be a page full of calculations. The image of the West is stuck in his mind, and it's something to do with cowboys and freedom and riding off into the sunset. "Funny, like, humorous funny?"
"No," David frowns and stares pointedly at the pile of books open before his younger brother. Les is actually finished with every subject except Math, which he despises with a fiery passion. "Why didn't you finish that this afternoon?"
"Well--" Les stalls, fingering the frayed corner of one of the books. He can't lie and say he stayed after school, because David will check with Jack, and then he really will be up the creak without a paddle. "Well, it's a lot to do. I'm not so good with numbers."
"Uh huh." Knows Les is skipping around something, but can't figure out what it is, let alone prove it. "Seems like your head is always in the clouds, is what I meant by 'funny'."
"Oh, yeah? Let me just tell you--I am the picture of practicality. I really am." Crosses his arms and wonders if that sounded childish. Yes, it must have, he decides a moment later when David smiles in that way he has, that way that makes you feel like the dumbest person on earth. "Shouldn't you be doing...whatever it is you've been doing for the past hour?" Without waiting for a reply, Les slips into the shelter of his and David's bedroom. The lights of the city stream in through the curtains his mother so painstakingly sewed years before, strange patterns on the floor, like a secret language. Pushes the curtains aside and opens the window, breathing in the muggy late spring air. Somewhere in New York, at this very moment, Jack is dreaming away the night. Maybe he's fallen asleep at his desk, or maybe he made it to the small cot in the back of the studio.
Slams the window shut without thinking, chills going up and down his spine despite the heat. He really just wants this to be easy. The only way for that to happen is for him to forget about Jack Kelly and fool around with some girl--any girl. But. But what's easy isn't something he can live with. He sinks onto the sagging bed, wearily unbuttoning his shirt, the fabric rustling as he pulls it off.
So what is he? Some kind of freak? Some kid hung up on a childhood crush?
He doesn't remember closing his eyes, but suddenly sunlight is prying them open, and a second later his mother enters the room, whisps of graying hair falling out of her simple bun. He can't think of a time when she wasn't clothed for a hard day's work--cleaning and knitting and making little knick-knacks to sell. He's never seen her in a night-gown, in anything less than an austere dress and apron. "Up, sunshine," she smiles affectionately, placing a clean set of clothes at the foot of the bed. Les notices that David is long gone, his bed made up perfectly--time for school, then.
In the kitchen, Sarah places before him two pieces of bread with preserves smeared on them like clumpy paint, and a glass of slightly warm milk. He thanks her and she murmurs something back that he doesn't catch. She, like his mother, has been up for hours and she sits across from him now, yards of fabric falling out of her thin lap. Makes small talk and laughs at his occasional jokes, though he suspects she doesn't have much of a sense of humor, herself. It occurs to him that the only reason she is here now, at the age of twenty-three, is because she is waiting for Jack, and guilt slides into his belly like poison.
The day passes slowly, time going up-hill on cement feet. He's given extra homework as punishment for not completing last night's assignment, but he's not the only one, he's relieved to see. Released at noon for lunch, Les spends the hour arguing with the boys about something he wholly forgets by one o' clock, and regretting that the studio is too far from the school for him to visit and hope to return on time.
Freedom, at last, breaking into what is left of the day; a boy asks him if he wants to go to City Hall with a few friends and shoot some craps or something--"No," Les says, ruefully, "I got some stuff to do back home. You fellas understand, doncha?" They do, and they give him a large dose of boyish sympathy before bounding off.
Then it's just Les and the city, people breezing by him like gods on a mission. Stops to chew the fat with a newsie who slaps his back and sells him a paper he won't get around to reading--and then he's nearly racing down 14th Street.
The studio is dark, and for a frenzied moment, the irrational fear that Jack really has decided to hop on a train to Santa Fe overcomes him and he shouts, "Jack! Hey, JACK!"
"Chill, I'm in the back," the muffled voice turns his legs to water, and he stumbles into the back room (almost painfully plain with nothing but the cot Jack sleeps on and a few books on a rickety table) where Jack bends over a collection of Daguerreotype plates. The door to the dark room is open, and Jack asks him to close it.
"Been really messin' with this new technique. Think I may nearly..." His words digress into unintelligible mumbles.
Embarrassed, Les stutters an explanation which he isn't entirely sure Jack hears. He sits on the edge of the cot and observes as Jack takes one of the plates into the dark room, then returns a second later. For the sake of at least looking productive, Les pulls out a schoolbook (he notices with a groan that it is his Math book) and a pen and lays both on his lap. Comfortable silence takes over, and Les scratches down half thought out answers.
"So, Les," Jack says at length. "Where you workin' these days?"
"Nowhere." Les twirls his pen in the air and misses it. "My folks want me to complete my schooling, first. Now that David's in with the Sun, we're not so pinched. When he gets his own place...I guess that'll be different, but that probably won't be for a while. David's got those...those things." Snaps his fingers, trying to bring up the right word.
"Obligations?" Jack ventures.
"Yeah, those."
"Hey." Jack gives him a look that makes his face heat up. "Look, wouldja let me take ya picture?"
Les is startled. He's never had his picture taken, but he's entertained a ridiculous number of fantasies that involve Jack, Daguerreotypes, and a scant amount of clothing.
"Today's a slow day, an' all," Jack is saying, "An' I really wanna test this out, but these plates ain't turned out right. You won't hafta sit for too long, an'--"
"Y-yeah, sure. Sure, you can. You can do whatever you want, Jack." Anything in the world you want to do, he adds mentally. Anything at all. Even--whoa. Shakes his head to clear it, and forces a bright smile.
"Great! Just go into the front an' make yourself comfor'ble--you know, lots 'a people think they gotta be all stiff an' formal, but I personally like a picture 'a someone smilin' more than anythin' else. An' you got a great smile."
"Really?" As Les seats himself in the same chair hundreds of customers have occupied, Jack ties back the window curtains--much more ragged than the ones in Les's bedroom--letting daylight fill the room, golden and wonderfully hot.
"Yeah, really." Behind on the camera now, staring at Les and forcing his eyes out of focus to see the boy only in terms of light and shadow, Jack strides over and tilts Les's chin up and to the right. "There. Okay, now, you know the routine, chum. Don't move or I'll soak ya."
Les stares at the blank eye of the camera and freezes up. Like looking into oblivion or hell or whatever. Jack's voice, coaxing: "Smile, Les, c'mon."
He thinks I have a great smile, Les thinks, and then he beams, tingling all over with something he can only identify as a vague sense of happiness but what is closer to euphoria.
An hour later he's walking home, humming under his breath and stopping sporadically to stare at his own cheerful face, caught in some unburstable bubble in time. "Here, keep this one. For bein' so coop'rative. Give it to ya mama or somethin'," Jack said as Les prepared to leave the studio, but Les thinks he'll keep this. He doesn't ever want to forget this day, will die before he lets even one detail slip away.
David gives him a probing look when Les bounds into the tenement and kisses his mother on the cheek, happily helping Sarah with the dishes, but the boy couldn't care less.
--Puzzled - Chapter Two--
"You've been acting funny, lately," David says suddenly. His hands are ink-stained, propping up his chin. Les wishes he could have hands like David's, which are big and square, powerful, though it's absurd to think that David would ever use those hands for anything other than holding a pen.
"Funny?" Casually turns the page of his Math book so David won't notice the plot outline he has doodled on the side of what should be a page full of calculations. The image of the West is stuck in his mind, and it's something to do with cowboys and freedom and riding off into the sunset. "Funny, like, humorous funny?"
"No," David frowns and stares pointedly at the pile of books open before his younger brother. Les is actually finished with every subject except Math, which he despises with a fiery passion. "Why didn't you finish that this afternoon?"
"Well--" Les stalls, fingering the frayed corner of one of the books. He can't lie and say he stayed after school, because David will check with Jack, and then he really will be up the creak without a paddle. "Well, it's a lot to do. I'm not so good with numbers."
"Uh huh." Knows Les is skipping around something, but can't figure out what it is, let alone prove it. "Seems like your head is always in the clouds, is what I meant by 'funny'."
"Oh, yeah? Let me just tell you--I am the picture of practicality. I really am." Crosses his arms and wonders if that sounded childish. Yes, it must have, he decides a moment later when David smiles in that way he has, that way that makes you feel like the dumbest person on earth. "Shouldn't you be doing...whatever it is you've been doing for the past hour?" Without waiting for a reply, Les slips into the shelter of his and David's bedroom. The lights of the city stream in through the curtains his mother so painstakingly sewed years before, strange patterns on the floor, like a secret language. Pushes the curtains aside and opens the window, breathing in the muggy late spring air. Somewhere in New York, at this very moment, Jack is dreaming away the night. Maybe he's fallen asleep at his desk, or maybe he made it to the small cot in the back of the studio.
Slams the window shut without thinking, chills going up and down his spine despite the heat. He really just wants this to be easy. The only way for that to happen is for him to forget about Jack Kelly and fool around with some girl--any girl. But. But what's easy isn't something he can live with. He sinks onto the sagging bed, wearily unbuttoning his shirt, the fabric rustling as he pulls it off.
So what is he? Some kind of freak? Some kid hung up on a childhood crush?
He doesn't remember closing his eyes, but suddenly sunlight is prying them open, and a second later his mother enters the room, whisps of graying hair falling out of her simple bun. He can't think of a time when she wasn't clothed for a hard day's work--cleaning and knitting and making little knick-knacks to sell. He's never seen her in a night-gown, in anything less than an austere dress and apron. "Up, sunshine," she smiles affectionately, placing a clean set of clothes at the foot of the bed. Les notices that David is long gone, his bed made up perfectly--time for school, then.
In the kitchen, Sarah places before him two pieces of bread with preserves smeared on them like clumpy paint, and a glass of slightly warm milk. He thanks her and she murmurs something back that he doesn't catch. She, like his mother, has been up for hours and she sits across from him now, yards of fabric falling out of her thin lap. Makes small talk and laughs at his occasional jokes, though he suspects she doesn't have much of a sense of humor, herself. It occurs to him that the only reason she is here now, at the age of twenty-three, is because she is waiting for Jack, and guilt slides into his belly like poison.
The day passes slowly, time going up-hill on cement feet. He's given extra homework as punishment for not completing last night's assignment, but he's not the only one, he's relieved to see. Released at noon for lunch, Les spends the hour arguing with the boys about something he wholly forgets by one o' clock, and regretting that the studio is too far from the school for him to visit and hope to return on time.
Freedom, at last, breaking into what is left of the day; a boy asks him if he wants to go to City Hall with a few friends and shoot some craps or something--"No," Les says, ruefully, "I got some stuff to do back home. You fellas understand, doncha?" They do, and they give him a large dose of boyish sympathy before bounding off.
Then it's just Les and the city, people breezing by him like gods on a mission. Stops to chew the fat with a newsie who slaps his back and sells him a paper he won't get around to reading--and then he's nearly racing down 14th Street.
The studio is dark, and for a frenzied moment, the irrational fear that Jack really has decided to hop on a train to Santa Fe overcomes him and he shouts, "Jack! Hey, JACK!"
"Chill, I'm in the back," the muffled voice turns his legs to water, and he stumbles into the back room (almost painfully plain with nothing but the cot Jack sleeps on and a few books on a rickety table) where Jack bends over a collection of Daguerreotype plates. The door to the dark room is open, and Jack asks him to close it.
"Been really messin' with this new technique. Think I may nearly..." His words digress into unintelligible mumbles.
Embarrassed, Les stutters an explanation which he isn't entirely sure Jack hears. He sits on the edge of the cot and observes as Jack takes one of the plates into the dark room, then returns a second later. For the sake of at least looking productive, Les pulls out a schoolbook (he notices with a groan that it is his Math book) and a pen and lays both on his lap. Comfortable silence takes over, and Les scratches down half thought out answers.
"So, Les," Jack says at length. "Where you workin' these days?"
"Nowhere." Les twirls his pen in the air and misses it. "My folks want me to complete my schooling, first. Now that David's in with the Sun, we're not so pinched. When he gets his own place...I guess that'll be different, but that probably won't be for a while. David's got those...those things." Snaps his fingers, trying to bring up the right word.
"Obligations?" Jack ventures.
"Yeah, those."
"Hey." Jack gives him a look that makes his face heat up. "Look, wouldja let me take ya picture?"
Les is startled. He's never had his picture taken, but he's entertained a ridiculous number of fantasies that involve Jack, Daguerreotypes, and a scant amount of clothing.
"Today's a slow day, an' all," Jack is saying, "An' I really wanna test this out, but these plates ain't turned out right. You won't hafta sit for too long, an'--"
"Y-yeah, sure. Sure, you can. You can do whatever you want, Jack." Anything in the world you want to do, he adds mentally. Anything at all. Even--whoa. Shakes his head to clear it, and forces a bright smile.
"Great! Just go into the front an' make yourself comfor'ble--you know, lots 'a people think they gotta be all stiff an' formal, but I personally like a picture 'a someone smilin' more than anythin' else. An' you got a great smile."
"Really?" As Les seats himself in the same chair hundreds of customers have occupied, Jack ties back the window curtains--much more ragged than the ones in Les's bedroom--letting daylight fill the room, golden and wonderfully hot.
"Yeah, really." Behind on the camera now, staring at Les and forcing his eyes out of focus to see the boy only in terms of light and shadow, Jack strides over and tilts Les's chin up and to the right. "There. Okay, now, you know the routine, chum. Don't move or I'll soak ya."
Les stares at the blank eye of the camera and freezes up. Like looking into oblivion or hell or whatever. Jack's voice, coaxing: "Smile, Les, c'mon."
He thinks I have a great smile, Les thinks, and then he beams, tingling all over with something he can only identify as a vague sense of happiness but what is closer to euphoria.
An hour later he's walking home, humming under his breath and stopping sporadically to stare at his own cheerful face, caught in some unburstable bubble in time. "Here, keep this one. For bein' so coop'rative. Give it to ya mama or somethin'," Jack said as Les prepared to leave the studio, but Les thinks he'll keep this. He doesn't ever want to forget this day, will die before he lets even one detail slip away.
David gives him a probing look when Les bounds into the tenement and kisses his mother on the cheek, happily helping Sarah with the dishes, but the boy couldn't care less.