Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.
Bumlets wakes to weak morning sunlight streaming into the room under the blind. He stretches and scratches his back. Bumlets looks around.
He lives in a cramped one room apartment, whose furniture consists of a single table, four beat up chairs which once belonged to Tibby's, a tarnished stove, a wooden chest, a bed and a cradle. Bumlets's son, Matthew, sleeps peacefully inside.
Bumlets glances at the clock hanging just to the right of the only window on the east side of the apartment. It's five thirty. He has another hour before he must leave to arrive at work (Bumlets is an editor for a growing new paper) on time at seven.
"Good," he thinks, and smiles to himself. He rolls over to face the other side of the bed, where Emily sleeps.
Bumlets smiles again. He is lucky to have found someone so perfect for him. They've been married a year.
Her dark, blue-black curls are spread out in a fan on her off-white pillow. Bumlets picks one up and twists it gently around a brown finger. He sighs contentedly and scoots closer to her, cradling her small, slim body in his. She fits into him perfectly, and he puts an arm around her waist. Somehow, only an hour with her doesn't seem like enough, even if she will be asleep for most of the time.
He pulls her a bit closer and nuzzles her neck. He is so very lucky. He smiles for a third time and allows himself to slip into his memory.
It's a Saturday night. Bumlets is at Irving Hall with a mixture of Manhattan and Brooklyn newsies, waiting for the show. Saturday night always is the best show to see. Bumlets is, as usual, without a date. He's too shy to ask anyone.
He and David Jacobs sit at a small circular table at the back of the hall. They both squint in the bright lights, so different from the cool dark night just outside the double doors.
Bumlets searches the hall with his eyes. He has nothing better to do.
Jack has Sarah Jacobs on his arm. Racetrack is plucking his Havana cigar out of the mouth of a ditzy blonde, who shrieks in outrage. Blink is making out like there is no tomorrow with a pale girl in a flame red dress. Mush appears to be hiding from his date, and that pessimistic red head is with Skittery again. Spot, uncharacteristically, seems to have brought one date, not five. And it isn't even Blood, one of the usuals. But David . . .
David is in a slump. He orders himself a drink. Bumlets questions whether David has ever had a drop of alcohol in his life. Bumlets decides David hasn't.
"I don't think I'll ever understand them," David says sharply, setting down his drink. Bumlets is startled, but only raises a single black eyebrow in response.
"Women," David continues, "that's what I'll never understand. Or, more specifically, Allie." He takes a large sip of the amber liquid in his cup. "I mean, I didn't even do anything this time. She looked mad when she opened he door. Later I asked what was wrong and," he takes another swig, "she screamed at me and told me to get the fuck out of her face. I don't get it." Bumlets sighs.
"I am not the person to go to for female problems," Bumlets says, his voice smooth and velvety. It is the first time he has said anything outside of selling all day. David ignores him.
"See, I know I'm not real beautiful of anything, but my personality isn't too bad. I mean, I'm a nice guy, aren't I?" Bumlets nods. David stares into the swirling alcohol in front of him.
"You should talk more Bumlets. You have a fantastic voice. You'd get loads of girls that way." Bumlets shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He likes the topic of David's problems much more than his own. "Maybe if you smiled more. You have a nice smile, too. You – you haven't seen Allie lately, have you?" Back to David's problems. Bumlets nods. He saw her yesterday while he was selling.
"Maybe you're why she suddenly hates me," David continues, turning to glare at Bumlets. Bumlets shakes his head furiously. This conversation isn't making any sense. "Naw, it couldn't be you. Bum – you don't think –" David's voice cracks, "that Allie would prefer someone like you over me?"
"No." Bumlets says it quickly. He's only met her once, and he knows there's no way.
"Thanks." David is silent for a few minutes. Then, "The show's starting," he says unnecessarily as the curtains pull open. Medda appears to be late.
Spot, who has not yet found a seat, takes a hold of his date's hand, and turns. He searches for a seat. He spots Bumlets and David sitting by themselves, and gives his date's hand a gentle tug. She turns, and Bumlets gasps.
Her dark curls frame her olive skinned, heart shaped face, and just reaches her shoulders, clothed in deep blue. Her eyes are a sparkling black. A scar runs through her right eyebrow. She is, if imaginable, shorter than Spot. Bumlets understands why Spot doesn't want any other dates besides her; Bumlets thinks she's beautiful enough for them all.
The couple arrives at Bumlets's table just as Medda sprints on stage, out of breath and looking quite flustered.
"Do you mind?" Spot whispers. Bumlets shakes his head no, he doesn't mind, but Spot is already seating his date on Bumlets's right. Bumlets goes red at her closeness.
"Em, this is David and Bumlets." David glares at his drink. Bumlets, of course, doesn't say anything, but he does smile weakly at her. Bumlets is rewarded with a brilliant smile in return. Spot is still speaking. "Davie, Bum, this is Emily."
Bumlets, of course doesn't say anything.
Neither does Emily.
Blood is on Spot's arm the next week. Emily is also there, but has no date. She sits with Bumlets. When David asks why she isn't with Spot, she merely shrugs. She tells Bumlets later that he dumped her because she wouldn't sleep with him.
She continues to come to the Saturday night shows for the next two months, and it takes that long for Bumlets to ask her to go with him. She accepts immediately.
It's been three months, and both black haired people are talking much more frequently, and not just among themselves.
They are standing under a street lamp, just in the middle of the pool of light. They are alone. Bumlets, always one for being a bit of a gentleman, asks if he can kiss her. When she doesn't say yes immediately, he opens his mouth to apologize, but she silences him with a very non verbal answer.
They are married a year later in a small church just outside of Manhattan. They are the only ones present, besides the minister, and their witness, Racetrack.
A clock chimes in the distance. Bumlets is brought back out of memory. It is six o'clock. Bumlets better get up. He gives a little groan, and rolls out of bed. Emily rolls over on her side and opens her eyes. She smiles at Bumlets closes them again, and pretends to be asleep.
Bumlets pulls on a pair of pants, and rummages through the trunk for a clean shirt. He resurfaces with a dark blue one. He buttons it slowly.
Matthew gives his first soft cry of the day, and Emily suddenly stops pretending to be asleep. She swings her feet out of the bed and picks him up, cradling him in her arms. Matthew is 5 months old now.
When Bumlets first told Racetrack that Emily was pregnant, Racetrack joked that it must be someone else's, because he hadn't thought Bumlets was "capable of doing something like that". But when Matthew was born, it was clearly evident that Matthew was Bumlets's child; he resembles him in every way.
Bumlets grabs an apple on his way out, and makes it a point to kiss Emily goodbye.
It is a sunny July thirteenth, and the warm wind blows through his hair. The usual hustle and bustle of New York City is just hustly and bustly as usual. A man on the corner of 22 and 44 calls out to passersby, selling pies. Bumlets waves to him. He's known Pie Eater for a long time.
His office building, however, is quite drab compared to the outside world. It's rather depressing. He climbs one flight of stairs, turns to the right, and opens the third door cautiously.
A paper airplane promptly bounces off his head. Tom, who shares the small office with Bumlets, is sitting in his chair, his feet propped up on the poor excuse for a table.
"Morning, Taylor," he says, grinning. Bumlets nods. He hates that name. The minister who married him and Emily wanted a last name on the marriage license. Bumlets doesn't have a real last name. As far as he knows, Bumlets is his real first name.
"Bumlets," he mutters, pulling a note from his boss towards him.
"Denton says he wants to see you at the end of the day," Tom says lazily, gesturing to the paper. Bumlets goes white. What if he loses his job?
"Did he say why?" Tom shrugs.
Bumlets can't concentrate for the whole rest of the day. At five thirty, Bumlets drags himself up to the top floor, and knocks on Denton's door. Mr. Denton retired from The Sun two years ago to make his own paper, The Torch.
"Come on in," a friendly voice says from behind the mahogany door. Bumlets pushes it open. Denton raises his head and smiles. "Have a seat, Bumlets."
Bumlets leaves the office twenty minutes later with a large, goofy smile plastered to his face. He nearly flies down the stairs and out the door. He jogs the first three blocks home before breaking into a flat out sprint. He can't wait to tell Emily he's been promoted.
"You'll earn fifty percent more than what you used to," Mr. Denton had told him. "That's one dollar and fifty cents a week, Mr. Taylor!"
He rounds the corner of 22 and 44, and forces himself into a walk as he passes the final stretch to home. He walks into the tenement building and up the five flights of stairs to his apartment on the sixth floor. He waves merrily to Mrs. Meyers as he passes her door. He can see Mush around her sitting at the kitchen table, bent over a newspaper.
Seven doors left to go down the hall before he reaches home. His apartment is the last one on the left.
He stops dead in front of his apartment. The door is wide open. Emily isn't there.
Author's Note: Okay, you review, I'll write more. This is the first time I've used present tense in a chapter story, so bear with me. Sorry about the elongified Bumlets/Emily history, but you have to see that develop and how important they are to each other. Hopefully, the story will get a lot more interesting in chapters to come! Review, my pretties!