(past)

I haven't lived in Manhattan my whole life. When I was younger, probably until I was about eight or so, I lived in the country. But when my mama died, I was left here. Here on these 22.7 miles of island. Here with the bright lights and new carriages and giant office buildings. Here where life is never empty.

Here in Manhattan, you can walk out of your door and find any kind of food, entertainment, risk or danger you could want. On every corner you hear voices. And later, on those same corners, you see bodies to keep you warm; you make sure that you're not alone. Any sin can be satisfied don the island on Manhattan. And most people, they love it here. To them, it's the city of hope and fresh starts. The city of America. Most people, they live for New York.

But I hate it here. I hate the bumpy streets, the loose cobblestones, the trolleys that rattle and shake. I hate the dark alleys, the feeling the dread that grows in my stomach when I walk by them by myself. I hate the click of the wagons' wheels, the smell of too much disease and sorrow. I hate how small those grand offices make me feel, how every window and closed door reminds me of my status. I hate the restaurants I can't afford, the grimy sunsets, the stale breezes that come off of the docks. I hate the false hope of Battery Park, the gloss of the World Building, the gaudy signs of the Vaudeville theaters. I hat how much I have to take in the city. How much it refuses to give. My nickname wasn't always Snitch, you know. I hate how Manhattan makes people desperate. And I'm just not a city boy.

But he…he belongs here. He thrives among the faceless crowds and fancy ladies and lilting accents. He needs to be here, and I know it. It's where he's always been, will always be.

These streets that I hate, he was raised by them. He grew up among the street children with smudged cheeks and scraped elbows. He's at home in chimney soot and newspaper print, and the grown of an empty stomach barely registers with him. He knows the city like the back of his hand, like I know the storms in his eyes. His feet were made to tear down alleys and city streets, his voice was made to call headlines and blend in with other city boys, creating the songs of New York. And his life is here.

He's been working in the city since he was born, practically. As hard as this life can be, he's a born newsie. He lives for the page numbers, the regular customers, the claimed corners. He doesn't mind the turf wars, the bad pay, the crowd in Tibby's. His rich voice and talent for making up headlines brings him a few black eyes, enough money for a place to stay and occasionally some pocket change. And, it brought him to me.

Sitting in Central Park, trying to figure out which vendor I hadn't stolen from yet, which alley offered the best shelter from the September rain, I'd felt someone's eyes on me. And there he was. Tall and wide eyed and wearing, of all things, a pink undershirt. He offered me a job and a place to sleep, a life more stable than the one I had grown used to. So I took him up on his offer, and he showed me ropes. He taught me how to find the most generous customers, how to claim a spot; he showed me the best escape routes. And we sold together and became quick friends, and we saved our pennies and ate dinner together and went walking in the winter snow and covered the lodging house fees for one another, if it was needed. And on a Sunday morning he gave me a quick and shy kiss. And on a Monday afternoon I finally returned the affection.

He likes to take Saturdays off, chasing dreams and pigeons in Central Park. He doesn't mind sleeping on the fire escape, even though he knows I would gladly share my bunk with him. He lets me go ahead of him in line at the distribution center, sings for me when I'm feeling down. He slings his arm around me in a most casual fashion, uses my shoulder as a head rest, and always asks if he can kiss me. He knows just where to find the cheapest dinners and what table at Tibby's will get the quickest service, just what spots near the harbor are best for spending our rare days off. His handwriting is the awkward script and wording of a boy who learned to write by figuring the shape or words in the evening edition. I could recognize it anywhere. He's alternately gloomy and hopeful, a soul not quite decided. And there's nothing that I don't love about him.

And we're stupid and young and lucky and careful, and praying no one will find out about us. But I can't be here. It just doesn't work for me.

I can't live in a drafty, over crowded lodging house, or constantly breathe in ink and dust and illness. I can't be sure if I'll be able to pay my five cents a night, because I just never know. I don't know when it wills all come crashing down and I'll have to find a new life.

But I look at him in the morning, with the grimy light filtering through the shattered panes of the windows, and he is New York. He's fast paced and exciting. New beginnings and worn endings. A world that's terrifying, exciting and painfully empty. He's the dusky streets at twilight, the lights of Vaudeville, the miracle of the Brooklyn Bridge, the hope of Ellis Island. He's New York wisdom and innocence and a dirty faced city angel.

I love him and wish I could stay with him. But I can't afford to live in New York, and he can't afford to leave.