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Twelve-year-old Crutchie shivered and hugged his jacket closer to himself. April was still cold in New York, and he was suddenly wishing that he lived in Santa Fe, the place Jack was always talking about. It looked nice...warm.
Shaking off the cold he thrust his hand into the air, shouting. Jack's voice rang in his head, from years ago when he had taught him how to use everything to his advantage. Don't ever say the front page. Use the stuff on page 7 or 14. Elaborate. Make it more interesting. Remember that these guys aren't very creative. It's up to us to get the word out.
It had always worked. He had sold twenty-seven papers today, and had only three left. Two in the afternoon wasn't the best time for selling, and usually by noon anything you had left you ate, but Crutchie felt he could get rid of his last ones.
He hobbled into a small crowd, using his stick expertly, then let himself sink to one side. Another thing Jack had showed him. Crips have a better chance then anybody at selling papes. Once your over nine or ten, you ain't cute no more, but you got a born excuse. Use it. Sag a little. Don't stay up straight. And look hurt.
Crutchie had objected to this at first. He didn't want anyone treating him differently, and he'd seen boys sell papes without any deformities. He found, though, that by noon they were wishing they were crips, and it did actually make life easier. Odd.
He weaved through the crowds, scouting out for weak points. Ladies and old people were the most sympathetic...there was one, with a motherly bonnet and a half-full basket, like she was doing her shopping.
"By a paper, miss?" he asked, coming up to her and sagging a little bit more. "There's been a fire at a factory, everyone knows about it."
This was news to her. It was news to Crutchie, too. He'd just made it up. She nodded, looking a little frightened. He took the money gratefully and went quickly off, feeling a little sorry for scaring the woman. Maybe her husband worked in a factory.
He sold his last two papes in the same fashion. Pocketing the change, he smiled, feeling worn out but happy. He was making money. Real money. He wandered over to the outdoor market, thinking of buying something hot.
"Hey Crutchie, you doing alright?" Jack was behind him. Crutchie smiled, nodding at him and his new apprentice, Racetrack. "Yeah, just sold my last pape."
"Want five more? We ain't ever going to sell them. Someone might as well." he handed over a small stack, and Crutchie saw that he did indeed have at least five or six papes left.
"Sure, thanks Jack." He smiled. Jack smiled back, ruffling Crutchie's hair.
"You're doing good, kid." Jack commented, his voice light. "You'll be hauling a thousand papes a week in no time."
Crutchie smiled. He hoped so. Then he'd go someplace warm. He hurried off, papes clutched tightly in his hands. Before heading back into the crowded streets, he bought a coffee.
Anything to keep warm.
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