author's notes: this was written months ago, but never finished. finally, i got off my lazy butt and wrote an ending. enjoy.
Puzzled - Chapter Three
The summer of 1904 is sweltering, and the newsies bake under the heat of the relentless sun. Those unfortunate enough not to own a pair of boots soon limp around on feet blistered by the cobblestoned streets.
Les is Boots' selling partner, and the two boys spend the long days trekking up and down the city, ducking into the comparative coolness of shops and delis. Usually, both sell out of the morning edition in time for the afternoon, and they eat their lunch on the run.
When he has the time, Les tries to decide which he dislikes more, working within the confining walls of the school, or breaking himself out on the streets. The Manhattan newsies are an amusing bunch, even without some of the older boys (Racetrack Higgins and Kid Blink and especially Jack), and as long as he makes a reasonably decent profit, Les agrees with Boots when he says that this is the best of all possible jobs a boy can get.
"You can bet," Boots, who is nearly old enough to start looking for a "grown-up" job, tells Les with a knowing look in his eyes, "you can bet that jobs was funner before factories an' the like. Used to, a fella could spend the day fishin' an' lookin' after sheeps an' when he got home, he won't dyin' on his feet."
And Les nods like he knows what Boots is talking about. He doesn't want to admit that he's never seen real sheep, only white ovals of fluff in romantic paintings of the countryside.
Selling keeps him busy, and his and Boots' route doesn't include 14th Street. Les only sees Jack on Sunday mornings, his brown hair slicked back and shirt tucked in--Sarah loves him like this, and her voice is hushed when she speaks to him--whispering prayers to her god.
"Carryin' the banner, eh, Les?" Jack comments, a shadow behind his guarded smile. And Les shrugs numbly, murmurs something about classes ending for the year and how even the little bit of money he makes helps "in the Long Run", as his father says. His father who he rarely sees except at night, after his shift at the factory is finally over.
His mother scolds them for discussing work--this is the only day they are all together, can't they just enjoy it without work, work, work? All she ever hears about is work. Les wants to point out that all she ever does is work, too. But she's been against Les's selling papers from the very beginning--reflections of life in rural Poland, where kids helped on the farm, in the fresh air of the country and far from the smoky skies and roaring crowds of New York--and Les thinks it wise to stay on her good side and not say anything.
David is away more and more often. The Sun keeps him on his feet with stories that David admits are pretty bogus--but nothing like the tales that the World and Journal spin out. "Stay with it," his father says proudly, "You'll get a better position eventually." And David smiles and quotes his father's words back at him: "In America..." In America, a man can do anything simply by working hard enough. Believing strongly enough. Perservering long enough.
Les watches the dark circles under David's eyes become still darker, and the creases on his brow deepen. One night, as they sit (together and yet alone) at the kitchen table, David straining his eyes over a sheet of paper covered in writing, Les chewing on a piece of bread and meat his mother saved him from dinner, Les asks him what it is all for. "I mean," he quells under his brother's peircing gaze, "I mean to say...oh, what's the point of working at all, Davey? It's as if for every hour of rest, there's a day of hard labor, in the office or on the docks, wherever. When do we get a break?"
David stands and leaves the room without saying anything.
The next day, Les pauses on his way to the World distribution center. The bookstore has two faces, like everything else. Through the glass doors are historical books, famous books, books written by world-renowned playwrights and philosophers. And in a crate outside, stacks of penny-novels with pictures of cowboys and Indians and damsels in distress on the covers. Les buys one of these and sticks it in his pocket, a reassuring weight as he runs to meet Boots.
In the relative privacy of his and David's room, he pulls the book out and examines it. Messy, bright colors and the arrogant face of a hero, a cowboy, glare back at him. Ropes and horses and wide open spaces--Jack would love this. Places the book on the bedside table and gets on his knees, the hard wood of the floor scraping his skin through his trousers. Holding up the mattress, grabbing for the half-finished scripts, pulling them into his lap.
Maybe his father is right. Maybe if a man can dream of something and go for it with all of himself, he can make it in this crazy city.
Summer drifts lazily into autumn, and Les writes constantly, feverishly, in a miniature notebook Jack gives him for his birthday--memories of ice-cream and Jack the impromptu Genie. The characters slowly gain voices and souls, dancing into a semi-reality that Les becomes enraptured with. Dialogue and stage commands drift in and out of mind even after school commences and he says goodbye to Boots and selling papers.
"You're really into it, ain't ya?" Perched on his work-desk, Jack watches Les scribbling away, back against the western wall of the studio.
Les stares at him, eyes glazed in thought. The puzzling way Jack has of making his heart beat at twice its normal rate. The book on the bedside table, which he hasn't read yet. And the notebook open across his midsection. "Yeah," he responds, laughing softly, "I am. I really am."
He skips classes the next morning and makes his way to Irving Hall, whistling a tuneless song as he enters through the back and calls, "Medda!"
She's older, now, and he knows she has to smear her pale face with cosmetics to create the illusion of rosy cheeks and pink lips. Her hair is still dyed that brilliant red, though, and her voice cracks open the silence. Down the stairs, clad in a blindingly pale green dress, she enfolds him in a perfumed hug.
"It's been forever, kid," she kisses his cheek and he blushes. "You were here last...what, half a year ago? All of you boys, you forget old friends as soon as another pretty face shows up..." Grabs his elbow and leads him into an ajoining room, where she ushers him to sit in a faux-velvet cushioned chair and offers him a plate of sweets from which he selects a handful of licorice whips.
"Business is great," she says enthusiastically when he asks. "I get...why, I get nearly a full house every night. Mostly men, but some ladies, too, and you know, not all of them're from this end of the city. The next show is a few hours from now, no, don't worry about rushing yourself. How's Kelly, huh?"
"He's fine. Got a commission from the mayor himself. Hey, Medda..." He twists his hands, nervous. Sure, he's thought about this, but thinking and doing are two entirely different things. "I got a favor to ask of you."
"Go on, then," she smiles. "If I can help, you know I will."
Later, shuffling away from Irving Hall, his mind all in a jumble. She's probably in there now, reading through the finished scripts and laughing at his foolishness. Goes into a really seedy looking restaurant, buys himself a beer (the owner doesn't even look twice at his youthful face) and suspiciously green soup which he inhales in two minutes flat, anyway.
Then somehow he's outside the studio, hand positioned over the brass door-handle. Pulls softly, and there's Jack, his Jack, counting out money, shuffling papers, and muttering about how he'd do anything for a personal secretary. But Les can't make himself go in, doesn't want to confront that puzzle today, so he wanders aimlessly, stopping here and there as his fancy commands--watches a fight between a shop-keeper and a customer, helps an Italian woman catch a renegade chicken.
That night, he sleeps with the Western penny-novel under his pillow, despite the initial discomfort--he can imagine that it's Jack he's laying next to if something that reminds him so strongly of Jack is near. He can imagine Jack laughing like his whole life is sunlight and joy--Jack reaching out for him and touching him and, and kissing him--
Morning comes too soon. Dreams fade into gray, and he's left with a terrible sense of emptiness and anger at the world in general. What's the point? When does all the work and all the pain begin to pay off? He slips the smiling face of the cowboy enblazoned on the two-dimensional cover of the book into his pocket, and tries to forget about it.
He can't. He mouths off at everyone he comes across, making Sarah weep bitterly and David slap him, shocked by his little brother's behavior--"Well, I'm sorry if I'm not who you want me to be--so GODDAMN SORRY!" Runs from the house and just dares anyone to come after him. Ten minutes later, trudging to 14th, he's all the more angry that no one did.
Surprised look on Jack's face when Les comes sweeping in, rage boiling around the younger boy like a cloud. Les plops down on the floor, buries his face in his knees, and breaks into shameful, hot tears. He yells and screams and curses and slams his fists on the hard wood floor, the stinging pain a reminder of all the little bad things that never seem to go away, but add up so quickly, like bricks on a wall, or sand in an hourglass.
"Hey, kid, hey," Jack mutters very near him, and Les gives a start--Jack is kneeling next to him, one hand resting on his shoulder and the other stroking his hair almost unconsciously, like it's something natural and good.
"Jack," the name whispered hoarsely and it holds so much meaning that Les wants Jack to understand and yet he's afraid that if Jack ever catches on, it'll tear them both apart, somehow. "Jack, I--" Jack, I want to stay here forever. "I--can I have some water?"
Jack nods and is gone, only to return with a tin-cup (a remnant of his days as a newsie, no doubt) that he presses into Les' shaking hands. No questions asked. Jack doesn't probe, doesn't demand anything, and Les is grateful. After draining the water, Les says quietly, "I'm sorry."
"No problem, Les. I gotten so used to ya hangin' 'round here, on the days ya don't come I..." Jack coughs and doesn't say anything more. It's all the things we leave unsaid, Les thinks a little dazedly. All those things, they make up who we are and why we do the things we do.
"Thanks, Jack," Les says, more gently than he means to.
Jack grins brightly, pats Les' shoulder, and returns to his work.