I had hoped to spend Christmas with the Fischers, but it was obvious the boys needed me. Legs and Roller in particular were having a rough time—both had been orphaned earlier that year, and Christmas in Legs's family had apparently been a huge deal. It was obvious the boy idolized me, something I try to avoid for precisely this reason. He had begged me to do something for Christmas, and the boys were desperate for some attention. Perhaps it is a bit unreasonable, but I am a bit of a father figure for most of the guys. Besides, some of the guys from the other boroughs were headed over for a big bash. It should be fun; we haven't had a multi-borough get-together in ages, and since we had all grown closer since the strike it was a good time to see friends. I actually was looking forward to it. It was going to be especially fun given that we didn't have to work Christmas Day; we could start the party Christmas Eve and go all day Christmas Day.
Things were actually pretty roaring Christmas Eve. The lodging house usually has a big party, this year funded by the newspaper moguls—one of the perks since the strike. We had lots of hot food, and since we didn't have a proper caretaker the alcohol flowed freely—one of the reasons we had chosen Brooklyn as host. I was pretty busy arranging space, card tables, sleeping space, and the works; Cowboy took care of the company, bringing a few girls from Ms. Mina's, Ms. Cara's, and a few other places, while Two-Toe from the Bronx handled most of the alcohol. The Queens gang arranged some things for the younger kids—games and the like. We tried to keep it small—we really did. It was supposed to be a handful from each of the boroughs, but somehow it turned into a HUGE party with four hundred newsies. The lodging house normally sleeps about 250 and we were not anywhere near capacity at 175, but four hundred? I had no idea where I was going to put them.
I gave Crutchy, who arrived early since he struggled to cover long distances, my bed. I figured I could crash on the floor, if at all, given the nature of the party. A few of the Staten Island boys even brought a fiddle, some drums, and some other musical instruments I didn't know. Music isn't really my thing. The whole thing was noisy, a bit hectic, and certainly fun. A bunch of girls from one of the factories showed up with Silver. All in all it was a roaring Christmas Eve—full bellies, down time, and plenty of cheap beer saw to that.
"Spot, how 'bout some Five Card Draw?" Race, one of the strike leaders from the previous summer asked. His friend Skittery, another of the Manhattan boys who had been an instigator earlier, was already at the table, but he looked distracted by the girl in his lap. I grinned as I surveyed the group. Mush had no poker face, and Red didn't know it, but I had figured out his tells, too. Snoddy was an unknown, but he had a bit of an innocent look about him; I sized him up quickly and decided I could probably handle him. Race was the only one who stood a chance against me. I'll take those odds.
No sooner had I joined the group when three girls approached. Race never even looked up as the tallest girl spoke.
"Hi, gentlemen. I'm Lydia," she said stoutly. "This is Jane and that's Mary." I sniggered to myself as Mush and Snoddy looked up.
"I'm Mush," Mush said, making googoo eyes at Jane. "That's Skittery over there with Nellie, and this is Racetrack, Spot, Snoddy, and Red. Are you going to be my good luck charm?" Jane smiled shyly and joined Mush as the other boys looked hopefully at Lydia and Mary. Mary settled herself between Red and Snoddy, while Lydia sat down between Race and me. Race ignored her steadfastly, focusing on shuffling his cards.
"Spot, as in Conlon?" Lydia said, smiling at me in a way that told me more than she probably wanted me to know.
"Spot Wickham," I replied. "That's Fitz Darcy," I motioned to Squish, who was joining our game. He gave me a quizzical look, but Snoddy sniggered. He had obviously read Pride and Prejudice, one of those books girls make you read. Katja had talked me into it a few months ago, and while it wasn't really my speed, it wasn't as bad as I'd thought.
"There's another Spot around here?" Lydia said, eyes wide. Snoddy was coughing, trying (rather unsuccessfully) to conceal his laughter while the others looked on in confusion. I turned back to Lydia.
"Yeah, doll, I'm Spot Conlon. You seem to have a leg up on me since I haven't heard of you." I smirked, but not unkindly. She leaned over to whisper into my ear.
"Not yet, but I can make sure you'll remember my name after tonight," she breathed.
I pulled her into my lap. Hey, what can I say? It's not my fault girls throw themselves at me.
"Promises, promises," I whispered back, turning back to the poker game.
Alcohol flowed freely, and Mush had long since given up the game to find a corner with Jane. Race and I had done most of the winning that night, which wasn't all that surprising. Race doesn't drink when he gambles. I know most people think he cheats, but he doesn't. He's actually good, and staying sober helps his odds. It's part of my strategy too, but I am a bit more discreet. I typically pretend to drink, maybe taking an occasional swig. Switching glasses when I refill them makes it look like I'm drinking far more than I actually do. It allows me to keep control. It also enhances my reputation because people say I can win at poker while drinking. I hold my liquor well regardless, and Christmas Eve was no exception. Lydia, meanwhile, was drunk. She was all over me. I didn't mind too much—it's not a bad thing to have a cute girl kissing you, you know, and it was better than having her talk—her shrill voice would have driven me crazy.
Now, most people think I take girls like Lydia—you know, the ones who throw themselves at me—to bed, but I don't. I discreetly let them down. I don't have time for entanglements, and any girl who isn't a professional has a tendency to think that sex is indicative of a relationship. It's not. Besides, I don't want to risk getting a girl pregnant or any of the other myriad problems that come with having many girls. That's why I stick to the few places and girls I trust to get my release. Lydia was no different. At some point I took her upstairs, where she spent awhile puking in the washroom before passing out. I put her on one of the bunks, then returned to the lounge, putting a shit-eating grin on my face. Let the guys assume what they will.
Given that the lodging houses expect us to become model citizens and that we resist vigorously, this party was a huge success, even if I did end up sleeping in a large armchair.
Christmas morning was a bit rough, with many of the guys still passed out all over the lodging house, and those that were awake mostly hung over or exhausted. By late morning I had woken everyone so that they could be presentable in time for the arrival of the Children's Aid Society folks who provided our Christmas meal and presents (donated clothing and shoes that would last most of the boys through the year). This was one of the few times we saw Mrs. Kirby, who had been ailing.
The banquet had been going well, and I surveyed the room in satisfaction. Everything seemed settled, and now was as good a time as any to slip out. I knew my absence wouldn't go unnoticed—one of the drawbacks of being the leader of Brooklyn—but at least now would be the easiest time. I gave Mrs. Kirby a quick peck on the cheek and wished her a merry Christmas. I motioned to Red that I was headed out, and he nodded. I knew he, Ace, and Silver would keep the boys in line if needed in my absence. It was nice having such a reliable group of friends.
It was snowing. Ugh. To a newsie that means people heading inside quickly instead of stopping for newspapers, and it means trudging through slop with wet, cold, heavy feet. I looked down at my new boots and smiled slightly—no wet feet for me this year. In fact, the closer I got to the Fischer's building, the more my mood improved. The snow even started to look pretty.
I was in luck; Cat was just grabbing her cloak as I arrived. "Merry Christmas, Cat," I said as she greeted me. "I can't stay long, but I thought maybe we could go for a walk in the new snow."
Ten minutes later we were outside, enjoying the quiet of the Brooklyn streets as most people celebrated the day with families. She told me a bit about their economic woes, and I had to admit that I could understand her worry. Mr. Fischer barely made more than I did, and their apartment, while far nicer and more private than our lodging house, cost considerably more. I suddenly felt like a stingy bastard wearing shoes that I could have afforded and chose not to buy when they were so worried about money. I resolved to buy Katja something nice in the near future—maybe a new cloak? This one was looking a bit rough. They would never accept charity, especially from me, and had no idea that I currently had almost $400 in savings from the last five years. Actually, nobody knew that; who would ever suspect such a thing of a poor newsboy? The fact was that I was a miser who was also one of the top sellers in the city. Actually, so was Red, whom Katja had just mentioned, and my thoughts returned to the conversation at hand.
"He's thinking by next summer he'll be moving on; he's just waiting for the right ship. He's not in a hurry to take the first job that comes along, and he'll be looking for one where he can advance. It wouldn't be a bad life for him. He's happiest on the water," I said.
"Captain Red," Katja said, laughing at the mental image. "I suppose, though, that he'd have to go by his real name, right? I mean, only pirates have nicknames like yours. I don't even know his name," she mused. I couldn't help but laugh. Pirates?
"I don't figure he tells many people, but it's Michael," I told her. Seriously, Red doesn't like to talk about his other life. He may not even reclaim his old name. "Don't tell him I told you," I added, winking at her. She laughed. I decided in that moment that the sound of her laughter is the most magical thing I have ever heard.
"What about you?" she asked, and I had to mentally shake myself from my swoon over her laugh to rejoin her train of thought. Right, names.
"It's Tommy. Thomas Conlon. A good Irish name," I told her. Unlike most people in my profession, I don't have a huge past that I want to forget; I was so young when I wound up on the streets, and nobody really ever intentionally hurt me the way it's happened to so many of my boys. Nevertheless, it pays to keep one's aura of mystery, and while it wasn't exactly traumatic, my past was still personal—something we newsies don't do. "But ain't nobody who knows that except you, so don't you go telling people! I've been Spot since I sold me first pape and claimed the spot was magic. I always went back to my magic spot. I was so little, and the boys laughed at my obsession with it, so they called me Magic Spot. Didn't take long for that to be shortened. Before that I was just 'the kid.' Nobody around now who remembers anything else."
She laughed again. It actually is a bit of a funny story when you think about it.
"Where was this magic spot?" she asked, and now it was my turn to smile. I had inadvertently led her to our lunch bench—which happens to be my magic spot. I've been selling in this area near the business district since 1890. It's been magic for me in many ways, not the least of which was that I met the Fischers here. I couldn't help it. I grabbed her hand and turned her toward me, hoping she would understand just how magical this spot really was and how she factored into that.
"Right here," I said.
"Right where we met is your magic spot?" she said in surprise, and now it was my turn to smile, at least inwardly. God, I was falling for her, and the combination of her laughter, the snow, and this spot, this magical spot, was enough to drive me to distraction.
"In more ways than one," I said, looking her in the eyes. I love that—her expressive green eyes that reveal so much. She has this guileless expression that lets me see exactly what she's thinking, and I could just keep staring at her eyes forever. But I didn't. My gaze shifted to her lips, and it was like there was a magnet there, drawing me down to her. I leaned in and touched those magnetic lips with mine—just a brief contact. I didn't really pull away—just enough to look at her face and read the expression there. She was surprised; that much was obvious. She was also blushing—normal, I suppose, for a shy girl's first kiss. Mostly, though, I saw the hint of a smile on her face, and I knew that I had her approval, even if she wasn't aware of it yet. I smiled before leaning back in and kissing her again. This time, she responded, and I think a part of me that I hadn't known existed awoke in that moment.
As much as I would have loved nothing more than to spend the rest of the day there in that spot, kissing Katja and ignoring the world, it would never do. My body was going to want more, and my ability to think clearly demanded I quit while I was ahead, especially since I still had responsibilities that day. I pulled back from the kiss, but the ruthless pragmatist in me didn't completely win the day when I kept hold of her hand as we headed back. She was suddenly shy again; did she even know she was avoiding my gaze? I determined I would treat her normally in an effort to keep her from falling into those habits.
"Hey, I hadn't told you about the new kid, have I?" I asked, and she shook her head and looked up at me quizzically.
"No. When did this happen?" she asked, and I knew things were fine between us. We chatted amicably the whole way back to her apartment, just as we had on our way out—except that her hand was in mine the entire time. When we reached her place, that hand was still so warm in mine, and I glanced from it to her face. Whoops—those lips drew me in again, and I gave her another brief kiss before forcing myself to step away.
"See ya later," I said as casually as I could muster, and I wonder to this day how my voice didn't break.