Disclaimer: This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from Newsies belongs to Disney and not to me.
Chapter 58: Finding Equilibrium
A/N: In this chapter, Sniper (who will be making an appearance in the later part of the installment) is based off of the OBC version of the character portrayed by Alex Wong for the sole reason that I thought some of the information on his trading card* would be interesting to work into this story.
*The Newsies trading cards were released to promote the musical during its run on Broadway. I don't personally own any, but I've stumbled across pictures of them here and there on the internet, and some of the background "biographical" information they contain is interesting. There are probably varying opinions on how much of this information should be considered canon (in general, I haven't stuck closely to it) and I don't see too many people referring to them as a source, but I'm including a little bit of it in this particular instance and just wanted to clarify which version of Sniper I'm using for this interpretation.
Sniper's trading card reveals that he is the "son of Sam Wah, who owns the laundry above Jacobi's Deli." My supplementary headcanon to this is that Sniper's parents are immigrants who came separately to the United States from China during the 1870s prior to the Chinese Exclusion Act. They met, married, and settled in Lower Manhattan where Sniper was born and Sam Wah opened his laundry (a popular type of business for the Chinese at the time due to the racial discrimination they faced which denied them entry into many other types of work). Sniper grew up speaking both Chinese and English, as his parents spoke mostly the former but insisted that he learn the latter to ease his adjustment and hopefully provide better opportunities for him in the future. For this reason, he sounds and acts just like many of his newsie brothers, but because his appearance clearly marks him as "different," he is occasionally the target of racial slurs and attempted bullying. This was what initially caused him to become so proficient with a slingshot - it was a skill learned primarily for self-defense, but he enjoys it as a pastime as well, often getting into friendly competitions with Finch when they aren't busy selling papers.
So there's your little bit of historical context and headcanon that will be informing this chapter. Please be forewarned that this installment touches on the issue of racism (albeit in a brief manner); I wrote it several months ago, so it's not a response to or a commentary on the important civil rights issues that have been brought to the forefront in the last few weeks, as meaningfully addressing those topics goes beyond the scope of this story (though I do believe that responding to and engaging with those things is important, if perhaps more clearly facilitated on other platforms).
Okay, that was another long author's note - thanks for reading - let's get to what you came here for.
In the days that followed, Davey found his friendship with Sadie settling into a satisfying equilibrium. The mildly confusing feelings that had plagued him before the strike's conclusion did not resurface, so he reasoned that they were behind him now, and he was happy to enjoy his association with the landlord's daughter free from any perplexing complications.
Sadie, for her part, remained as cheerful and teasing as ever, but he could tell that the heartfelt conversation that had taken place outside of her family's apartment had deepened their understanding in a way that he couldn't explain. There was an easy camaraderie between them now whenever they met by chance on the rooftop or around the city or during their tutoring sessions in the evenings, and Davey found himself feeling content and happy whenever they crossed paths, and it seemed that the feeling was mutual.
It was a relief to have one area of his life finally straightforward and settled.
The same could not be said for virtually every other aspect of his daily activities. Working as a newsboy continued to present its difficulties, and he'd had to adjust his ambitious initial quota of fifty papers down to forty, which really shouldn't have been that demoralizing (he'd started out at twenty, after all), but it felt like a setback, especially on the days when he couldn't manage to sell even that reduced stock. On a few occasions, he found himself stubbornly hawking the afternoon edition well into the evening, determined not to sell back his papers even though common sense told him that he ought to just give up and go home. He'd staunchly adhered to his convictions regarding "improving the truth" and hadn't ever resorted to fabricating a headline, but he had to admit that the thought was occasionally tempting on those days when it was getting dark and his stomach was growling in hunger and he still had a paper or two left to sell before his bag would be empty and he'd allow himself to turn towards home.
There was also the problem of how to approach what little "free" time he had when he wasn't selling. He'd only just begun to work his way down the list of Mr. Becker's odd jobs, and he knew that some of the bigger projects would require more attention and time to learn and complete, but it was difficult to find a way to balance those tasks with his schoolwork and tutoring and occasional family obligations.
And then there was the matter of the newsies.
It shouldn't have surprised him that there would be a little bit of fall-out once the strike ended and his role in their company changed. He hardly darkened the door of the lodging house anymore, meeting the newsies at the circulation gate instead, and he found himself drifting towards the fringes of the group on the rare occasion where he did join them for their communal gatherings. It wasn't that anyone treated him differently; they still greeted him heartily every morning, and he was still subject to their pushing and shoving and good-natured ridicule, but things felt different, and since he was less frequently in their company, he found himself missing out on most of the banter and joking that took place when the newsies were off duty.
Race occasionally called him out for "ditching" them to go home, which had irked Davey at first (he was going home to work his second job, after all, not to loaf around), but after a while he realized that it was Race's odd way of communicating to him that he was missed and that he mattered, so Davey took the backhanded compliment for what it was and even occasionally snarked back (that there was only so much of Race's presence he could tolerate in one day), and this delighted the rest of the newsies, who for whatever reason found such mild jabs to be thoroughly entertaining, probably for the mere reason that they were coming from him.
The other boys' heckling and well-meaning jokes did much to help offset his occasional feelings of isolation, but there was more to his detachment than just the loss of not being at the lodging house. His role in the group was now ambiguous; some of the younger newsies still occasionally looked to him for answers, and he found himself instinctively half-responding to their questions before remembering that he ought to be sending them to Jack or Race or Crutchie instead. He hadn't managed to carve out a new purpose among the newsies now that the strike was over, and not knowing what he could contribute was quietly disorienting.
He pressed on, however (there was really no other option), and tried his best to balance the competing demands on his time and his attention while eagerly availing himself of any opportunity to connect with the newsies in whatever small ways he could. Sometimes this took on the form of settling a dispute between two of the boys over how to pronounce one of the more complicated words in a headline. Sometimes it was simply being an extra set of hands or a listening ear.
On one unexpected day, it turned out to be the latter.
Davey was making his way down the street, about three-quarters of the way through selling his stack of the afternoon edition, when he caught sight of a scuffle out of the corner of his eye. A trio of unfamiliar boys had cornered a newsie in a narrow alleyway. They'd somehow gotten his bag of papers away from him, and copies of the publication lay scattered about in the dirt.
Turning towards the confrontation, Davey dodged his way past a few pedestrians and came to the mouth of the alley just in time to hear the newsboy speak up warningly.
"I ain't playin' - you'd better get lost if you know what's good for ya." He took a few defensive steps back, and Davey caught sight of his face, immediately recognizing the newsie's distinctive gray cap and thatch of black hair.
Sniper.
One the bullies scoffed. "What'cha gonna do about it, Coolie?" His accomplices jeered, adding their own taunting insults, and Davey felt his indignation flare up at the racial slurs rolling off of their tongues. He took a step towards the group, but Sniper caught sight of him and gave a quick and imperceptible shake of his head. He didn't need any intervention at the moment, so Davey waited, thankful that the other boys hadn't seen him, and honestly not sure if what he'd do if it came to a fight, but knowing that he wasn't going to stand by and listen to his fellow newsie be mocked in such a way. He would respect Sniper's wishes and stay out of things for now, but he wasn't just going to walk away either.
"Hey, how'd you learn to speak English so good, anyway?" one of the ruffians asked.
Sniper ignored the question. "This is your last chance," he warned. "Get goin' before I make ya."
"Got a better idea, Coolie," the tallest one laughed. "Why don't you and the rest of your lousy Chinamen get on a boat and go back to where you belong?"
Sniper's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything until the bully closest to him took a threatening step forward. Quicker than a flash, the newsie's slingshot was in his hand, and then the offender was howling in dismay at the tiny projectile that had glanced with frightening accuracy off of his arm, leaving a red welt behind. His two cronies had barely a moment to register what had happened before they too felt the sting of the slingshot's barbs, and it only took another volley for the lot of them to take off running for the mouth of the alley, sparing Davey hardly a glance as they raced by him and down the street, disappearing from sight.
Davey made his way down the alley to where Sniper had already tucked his slingshot back into his knickers and was calmly bending down to pick up the papers that were lying in the dirt.
Davey knelt down to help him. "You all right?" he asked, reaching for a newspaper.
"Yeah," Sniper answered. He dusted off a copy of The World and tucked it into his bag. "Nothin' I haven't heard before."
"You definitely sent them running," Davey observed, still trying to feel out how to approach the situation. He didn't know Sniper well at all - the other newsie seemed to be always in the background whenever the group was together, quiet and watchful, but not saying much. In fact, the words he'd spoken just moments ago were probably the most Davey had ever heard him say at one time.
"They've come after me before." Sniper shoved several more copies of The World into his bag. "Seems like those nasty types always got a knack for pickin' out who's different and goin' after them."
Davey knew the truth of that statement only too well.
"Well, you did a good job of not letting them get to you," he remarked. "I know they're just words...but those names can sting."
Sniper gave him a shrewd look. "You sound like you know somethin' about that."
Davey smiled grimly. Indeed he did.
"What's it like for your family?" he asked. "Has it been pretty difficult?"
Sniper shrugged, tucking the last copy of The World into his bag and slinging the tote over his shoulder. "Guess that depends on how you look at it," he answered. "People don't always treat us nice here, but we's makin' a livin' wage and we ain't starvin', so that's somethin'." He adjusted his cap on his head, then added, "My pa always wanted to own his own business, so I guess you could say he's livin' the dream in some ways."
"Your father owns a business?" Davey asked, intrigued.
"He runs the laundry above Jacobi's." Sniper answered. He rotated his thumb absently, then slowly opened and closed his hand, perhaps stretching his fingers after his recent use of his slingshot. The movement drew Davey's attention, and he noticed the rough patches on the other boy's hands.
"You must help with the family business," he guessed. "You don't earn those kinds of calluses just from hawking headlines."
Sniper glanced at him curiously. "You know somethin' about laundry?"
"A little," Davey answered. "It's a long story."
The other newsie seemed pleased. "Ain't exactly high-falutin' work, but you gotta have some stamina for it - the soap and hot water get to your hands real quick, and you gotta be strong to lift the wet clothes."
Davey nodded. "Do you work at the laundry after you finish selling?" he queried. Most of the newsies seemed to be free to relax or bum around once their admittedly long hours of selling papers were over, but maybe he wasn't the only one with a second job after all.
"Yeah," Sniper answered. "Usually help my ma with a few loads in the evenin' after dinner. It's a 'round the clock kinda thing if business is good that week. If it gets really busy, I'll go home after sellin' the morning edition and stay at the laundry the rest of the day."
"Is there a fairly consistent demand for your services?"
"Depends. Some folks won't support a business that's run by folks who don't look like them, but then there's others who are regular customers and don't care who does their laundry, long as it's done right."
"It must be tough when people write you off like that," Davey sympathized.
Sniper shrugged. "Sometimes it's tough. Could be worse, though. In other parts of the country they've murdered Chinese or forced 'em out of their homes." He paused briefly, looking a little sober, before quickly adding, "At least we ain't bein' treated like that here. The words is nasty, but they don't break no bones. I figure it's gonna be like that wherever you go - you get some good apples and some that's rotten to the core. Don't make it right what the bad apples do...but you gotta pick and choose your battles."
It wasn't a pleasant disclosure, but there was a composure to the last statement that didn't escape Davey's notice. Maybe it was because he was a little more sensitive about these things himself, or maybe it was because he still wasn't used to Sniper being so talkative, but he found himself appreciating the other boy's equanimity. There was a resilience there that couldn't have come easily.
Now that Davey thought about it, he realized that Sniper wasn't always at the lodging house or even with the rest of the newsies. He seemed to slip quietly in and out of the group like a shadow, and now it made sense why: he, like Davey, had another job, another family, another life fraught with its own challenges and responsibilities that he was quietly trying to juggle.
How many of the other boys were the same?
"Your family got a business, too?" Sniper asked, breaking into Davey's thoughts as they began walking slowly towards the street.
"No, but I do have a second job," Davey answered. Briefly, he filled Sniper in on his family's situation as they reached the mouth of the alley.
"Sounds tough," Sniper remarked. "Your folks must've been ready to toss you to the curb when we went on strike."
"They weren't too happy about it," Davey conceded, "but they gave me a chance to make it work. I'm grateful for that."
"Must be even more grateful now that it's over."
"Yeah," Davey laughed. "I am." Oddly enough, that realization was exactly what he'd needed. It was too easy to get caught up in the challenges of adjusting to life after the strike, and while the intensity of those two weeks had been exhilarating and impactful and Davey knew he would never forget it, there was something about the return to normalcy that was good and right and maybe hopeful, even. He needed to remember that as exciting as it had been to lead the newsies and find a place of belonging among them, those friendships wouldn't stop with the strike. If anything, they would continue to develop, perhaps more slowly than before, but in unexpected and meaningful ways...just as they had through this serendipitous encounter.
"Well, guess we'd better get back to carryin' the banner," Sniper said, rolling his thumb again. He spat in his hand and held it out to Davey. "Thanks for stoppin' to check on me," he said. "I'll see you around, Davey."
Returning the gesture, Davey bid the other newsie farewell and then they parted ways, heading in opposite directions as they returned to peddling their papers. The remainder of the afternoon passed by quickly, and some time later, Davey found himself selling his last copy of The World and heading home, his pocket pennies and his heart surprisingly content.
If he hurried, he thought, he'd still have a few hours to get in some work for his second job before the sun went down.
A/N: Sniper's mention of the past violence and hostility sustained by the Chinese "in other parts of the country" is referencing a few historical instances that took place during the late 1800s, notably the Rock Springs Massacre of 1885 and the Hells Canyon Massacre of 1887.
Racism - in any form and exercised against any group of people at any time - is an ugly thing. This issue isn't really touched upon in Newsies because it wasn't the aim of the narrative, but I chose to tie it into this story (albeit briefly) because it likely would have been a part of some of the newsies' experiences growing up during this time as the children of immigrants or as immigrants themselves, which meant that they wouldn't have only had to contend with the hardships of poverty but with the adversity of racism as well. (In case it wasn't abundantly clear, I also wanted to state that I in no way condone the use of the offensive name Sniper is called in this chapter).
Thanks for reading - please let me know what you thought of this installment!
