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When I think of Joseph Pulitzer now, the first thing that comes to my mind is the smell of cigars. Well-rolled cigars, tight as a blanketed newborn baby, made with the finest tobacco available, which, naturally, must have come from Cuba. It was a comforting smell, the smell my father had come home with every day for the past three years. I breathed in the scent as deeply as I could without arousing the suspicion of the man next to me.
He grumbled impatiently as he got into the carriage, despite receiving a warm welcome from his sickeningly loyal valet. I couldn't help but picture the same scene happening every day, in exactly the same way. Couldn't he at least say thank you, just to liven things up a bit?
His body pressed down on the seat and I froze. I worried that some part of me would squeak against the immaculately polished leather and give me away. As I was still facing forward, I couldn't turn to see if he had noticed me, and I wasn't about to risk the whole plan just to check. I used whatever faculties I could to get an idea of what kind of a man he was. His weight moved the seat just enough so that I knew he wasn't frail, but that he wasn't a complete bull either. The smell of cigars told me he was a serious man. His phlegmy voice confirmed my suspicion of years of smoking and further indicated a man of middle age. That was enough – I didn't want to know any more.
I heard the valet close the door and although I couldn't see him do it, I pictured a cockamamie, half-witted grin on his face as Pulitzer scowled his farewell. He grunted a few more times, which made me terribly uncomfortable. I desperately wanted to offer him my handkerchief or at least a whispered "bless you," but I couldn't risk it. And what would I do if he coughed up spit all over me? Nothing, but that was the worst.
The carriage hadn't even moved yet and my muscles hurt. I had never used my muscles so much before in my life as when I tried not to move. I felt the cramping coming on, coupled with the tingling in my legs and bit my tongue, hoping the local pain would be worse than the cricks throughout my body.
"Go!" my host yelled, nearly sending me flying in surprise. Out of habit when someone yells, I sat up straighter and then mentally smacked myself for doing so. I tried to counsel myself that no matter what he did, I wasn't to respond. I was going to have to expect anything if this was going to work.
His voice must have reached the bulbous driver, because I heard the quick snap of the reins and felt the carriage lurch forward. Although my head didn't move, my eyes darted around the darkness of my cloak at the unfamiliarity of the sensation.
Pulitzer cleared his throat again and I could feel the bile rising from my stomach. I didn't know how much more tobacco-flavored hacking I could take, never mind the fact I would have to face it again when I got home. If I didn't say something soon, it would all be vomitously over.
I breathed deeply and my lungs felt ready to explode. The carriage was trotting along at a regular pace, and Pulitzer's coughing had quieted. My legs still tingled and I could feel my fingers dance unwittingly across my palms. The globular behind of the driver was plainly visible through the front window, bouncing as the wheels traversed the cobblestone streets. It was time, and there was no going back.
As slowly as I could, I pulled the curtain that was nearly covering me away from my form. I turned my head slowly towards my comate, finally getting a good look at him. He was looking straight ahead and hadn't appeared to have noticed my movement.
For all intents and purposes, he wasn't an ugly man. His hair was wispy, but his substantial beard compensated sufficiently, keeping his head from floating off. Although shaped like a hawk's beak, his nose had a strange dignity about it, like that was precisely how he wanted it to look. I further confirmed my inference that he was a serious man from the wrinkles that lined his face. A joyous man has cheerful folds only around his eyes as a result of years of smiling. A serious man has wrinkles likewise around the eyes as in between them: a result of many hours spent in brow-furrowing thought and of squinting to read what had just been written.
His wire glasses were thin, and deceptively made me think of an old man. He certainly wasn't the youngest self-made man in New York, but it would likewise be a mistake to call him feeble. I could see the strength of his youth in his face, even amidst the dunes of wrinkles.
For a second my fear disappeared, as Joseph Pulitzer's face melded into my father's. The same wrinkles, the same signs of a life hard-earned, the same sooty cigar smell. I relaxed. If I was going to talk to a man who was like my father, how hard could it possibly be?
My fear returned in a flash. I saw him scowl at what appeared to be a pause in our journey, and I knew in my mind I had turned him into someone he wasn't. My father was my father, and this man… was Joseph Pulitzer, newsie scammer extraordinaire. I waited until his scowl passed and he settled back again into the seat.
I sent up one last silent prayer, hoping it would break through the roof of the coffin-like carriage, and I cleared my throat.
I have to give him credit: whereas many people would have been frightened out of their wits at a carriage stowaway, he simply sat up straighter. He took his time in turning to regard me, but I wasn't fooled – I saw the angry flash in his eyes. I was grateful, however, that he didn't immediately try to throttle me. The difficult part came next. Where to begin?
"Excuse me... Mr. Pulitzer," I said, lifting my face slightly so he could see my feminine (or what should have been) features. "I, uh… I would like to speak with you about an important matter."
I could feel my cheeks heat with the complete and utter insanity of what I was doing. Who in their right mind hijacks a carriage carrying perhaps one of the most important men in New York? What was he planning as he looked at me? Where were Jack and David? Why was I doing this?
He didn't say anything and I could feel my hands shaking under the cloak. Seeing the futility (and quite frankly, rudeness) of disguising myself, I uncovered my face with trembling fingers.
It was an awkward situation, to say the least. Me looking at him, him looking at me. Me talking to him, him ignoring me. I couldn't deny that he had every right to be upset. Sure, he was a cruel dictator of the newspaper world, but a sane person wasn't supposed to do what I was doing. It just wasn't done.
I took another deep breath and tried again. "It's about the newsies, sir." I couldn't help the last bit of courteousness. He was a sir, no matter how much I disliked him and his policies. I hoped that my politeness covered the fear I felt in each and every one of my bones. I could hear them rattling - a real, live orchestra of calcium and marrow.
"Ah," he said, casually scratching his cheek with his index finger, "the newsies. Yes, I should have known they would try something like this."
I didn't know how to respond. He wasn't the head of one of the most successful newspapers in history for being naive. "Excuse me, sir?"
Beneath his woolly moustache I could see his upturned lip. "You're here to tell me I ought to lower the price of the newspapers, are you not?"
"Well, I suppose so, sir," I said, taking my eyes away from him and savoring the wash of relief. "You must know that the price hike is going to hurt them."
He regarded me again, but said nothing for a moment. "And, my dear, you are a newsie as well?" he asked. His finger had moved from his cheek to his moustache and proceeded to twirl it like wool.
"Well, no, sir. I'm from Cuba," I said, as if it explained everything.
"I see," he said, condescension burning through his words. "Then, why, may I ask, are you here?"
It was my chance to prove I wasn't completely useless. This was why they picked me out. This was why being from Cuba was so important.
"Because, sir, it's not fair. After all you wrote about Cuba, it's just not fair to treat the newsies that way."
He narrowed his eyes at me. "I'm afraid I am not following your logic."
"Well, sir, you must remember the war in Cuba last year. I believe you published several articles about it."
His expression changed, subtly, but perceptibly. The wrinkles between his eyes knitted yet more closely together, and I saw the right corner of his mouth twitch in irritation.
"Yes, I recall a collection of articles I published on the independence fighters in that country."
"Well, sir, then you'll remember that you specifically called for the United States to intervene on behalf of the Cubans, to save them from the cruelty of their colonizers."
The wrinkles became and even more tightly-woven fabric of skin. "And what does this have to do with the newsies?"
"You're abusing the newsies like the colonizers abused the Cubans. In your articles you called for justice and courage and now you're perpetrating injustice and poverty."
I watched him carefully when I was finished. I knew what I said had the opportunity to either change his mind or turn him in a raging bull. Unfortunately, it ended up being the latter.
"Tell me," he said after a moment, folding his hands carefully in his lap. "Is there any good reason why I shouldn't stop this carriage right now and have the police arrest you on the spot?"
I sucked in the air too quickly and gave a visible gasp. It wasn't from surprise as he must have thought, but rather from fearful expectation.
"Mr. Pulitzer, I only want to stop this fighting. The newsies strike can't be good for your business. With so many boys not working your paper has to find other, slower sellers to do what the strikers used to do faster and better. If you'd just listen to me, sir, you could have all your newsies back."
He leaned back against the seat and turned a critical eye on me. I could feel the straining tension of the leather as he moved. There were several different directions our conversation could take from that point, and most of them would end badly for me. The carriage continued at its regular pace and I was frankly surprised Pulitzer hadn't immediately called for the driver to stop. I held out a spark of hope that maybe I had gotten through to his conscience.
"You are from Cuba?" he asked with faint curiosity hidden in his voice, after moments of interminable silence.
"Yes, sir."
"Then, my dear," he said, his finger back to the wisps of his moustache, "you should be grateful I published what I did. This country would have never agreed to war if it hadn't been for my attention. Now, considering the favor I have done for you, it is very bold of you to interrupt my daily return home for such a mere matter as the newsie strike; however, I have a fondness in my old heart for your country and I will let you go without a word to the police. I must warn you," he said, leaning towards me, his face becoming ashier by the minute, "that if I find you further involved in this strike, I will not hesitate to give you the punishment you deserve."
I didn't have a chance to agree to his terms before he knocked on the front window of the carriage, a clear signal for the driver to stop. He allowed me a moment to put my cape back into the bottom of my flower basket.
"Clever," I heard him murmur to himself.
I saw the squat driver jump off his seat and walk over to Pulitzer's side of the carriage. I opened the door and stepped out, just as he opened the door to ask his passenger if there was a problem. We shared no parting words. I walked away as unassumingly as possible from the vehicle, my hands folded demurely and my head facing down.
The flower basket was growing heavier by the second in my arm. I wanted desperately to crawl into an alley and be swallowed by the grease and dust. I had failed my mission. There was nothing left to do. I had tried my best, and my best wasn't enough. Could I have done more? I'll leave that to the historians to figure out.
I didn't dare look back at the carriage. I was afraid I would see that face, regal in its experience, frightening in its determination, staring back at me, mocking my foolish attempt at justice.
My self-disparagement was sharply interrupted by a police whistle. I circled around to see where the noise was coming from, and saw Pulitzer standing outside his carriage, the driver pointing at me and two police officers running in my direction. His face looked like a dead man's: his eyes were hauntingly hollow and his skin ashen. I wondered at how he ever resembled my father.
Without thinking, my feet sounded off against the street (at least some part of me knew what they were doing). Where to, I wasn't entirely sure, but I knew it wasn't time to question my instincts. I let them take me wherever they deemed best, and hoped they (or I) wouldn't get injured in the process.
My walk of shame would have to wait.