The pub was thick with people. All around them, tired, callous workers poured their spirits into forgetting the week's labor and filled the air with cigar smoke. Red-faced men with bristling mustaches and loud, abrasive laughter sat playing poker at one corner of the room. Thin, frowning businessmen with dark circles beneath their eyes sat together on barstools, eyeing their surroundings wearily for the slightest glimpse of a female companion. The no-nonsense bartender endlessly dried the same glass mug, pretending to listen to the numerous drunken stories he was steadily barraged with; there was nothing he hadn't heard before.
Specs was shifting in his seat a lot. He would take a gulp of beer, a shadow of a grimace flashing across his face at the bitterness, and put the glass back down on the table, nodding at it as if it had just engaged him with an amusing tale. Then he'd glance behind his shoulder, rub his neck, knock on the table with the palms of his hands, and briefly catch Skittery's eyes before starting the whole process over again.
By all accounts, Skittery should have been the one who was nervous. He thought he'd seen several shifty-eyed looks thrown in his direction on the way to the bar, and was sure one or two men recognized him from the fight a few tables away. But Skittery wasn't nervous. He wasn't feeling anything particular at the moment.
What Skittery was doing was taking note of things. He watched Specs rub his thumb repeatedly along the glass handle of his mug, and saw that his white sleeves hung low and billowed around the knuckles, making him look like some sort of writer - a poet, maybe. He observed how lean Specs was in comparison to the others, wiry but strong, and how elastic his mouth appeared, wrapping around words with gusto. He noticed that his fuller bottom lip always made him look like he was pouting, and how his eyebrows would crawl together like caterpillars when he was confused or concerned about something - and right now he seemed to be feeling both.
He didn't know why he noticed these things about Specs.
"Anything wrong, Specs?" he finally asked, after clearing his throat. "Ya seem—"
"You want to tell me what happened today?" Specs fired back. Skittery shut his mouth. "Yeah, okay then."
This was not how Skittery had anticipated their night out. He thought Specs had extended the invitation to get him to loosen up, have a little fun – instead there was more tension than ever. His head still throbbed and his right arm hurt all over, from shoulder to fingertips. Skittery left his beer almost untouched and picked at the threadbare material covering his hand, momentarily wondering whom the shirt had once belonged to. It appeared to be child-sized.
Specs took another large sip, glanced around, and put his head in his hands. He muttered something that Skittery didn't catch. He leaned forward.
"What didja say?"
"I'm sorry," Specs repeated loudly, peering at him over the rims of his glasses. "For snapping at ya. I just…" He snatched his bowler hat off his head and tossed it on the table. "Damned stupid thing." Running his fingers through his hair, now damp with sweat, he let out a sharp breath and muttered, "I just had a really bad day, is all."
Skittery shot his eyes up in surprise.
"Ya had a bad day?" he reiterated, as if the meaning of the words was lost on him. Specs nodded, staring at his near-empty glass with an equally empty look. "Well, uh… what happened?"
Specs shrugged and avoided his friend's gaze. "Got called a kike."
"What?"
Specs blinked slowly. "I got called a kike…" he murmured again.
Skittery didn't know what to say - a feeling he was getting accustomed to. He scratched his head. "Do ya… do ya wanna tell me about it?"
A bitter smile flickered across Specs's lips, but he nonetheless complied. Sitting up a little straighter, he wrinkled his forehead and gathered his thoughts, gazing at a point a few inches from Skittery's face. Finally, gesturing with his hands, the story tumbled out of his mouth with dire need.
"I, uh. Let's see. I was sellin' papes with Dutchy over by City Hall; he took one corner and I took another. And this real pretty, real rich lady – I mean, she was a lady, with ribbons in her hair and everything – she steps out of the building I was next to, kinda waiting around. So I turns to her, and I take off my hat an' kinda bow at her, and I says, 'Excuse me, miss? Would you care for a paper?' Y'know, real polite-like."
"Sure, sure," Skittery said, trying to visualize all the details.
"I mean, I didn't even want to lie about the headline or nothin'. So I just looked at her, tryin' to be as gentleman-like as possible. And she gives me this nice, sweet smile – her teeth were real white and straight, too – and she hands me a whole two bits."
"A whole two bits?" Skittery echoed with a mixture of awe and skepticism.
"Well, she asked for most of it back, but told me to keep five cents," Specs explained. "Five cents! So I was strugglin', tryin' to hold my hat and give her a pape and count out the change I owed her, but I dropped a few papes and they landed on her shoes. Her shoes looked like they cost more than all my clothes put together, but she didn't seem to mind too much. I put my hat back on so I wouldn't hafta hold it no more, and bent down to pick up the papes—"
"Sorry to interrupt, but would you fellas care for another ale?" The two of them looked up at the buxom waitress standing before them, apron tied tightly around her chest and hands gripping two full glasses.
"Sure, I'll take one," Specs said, draining his old beer and gladly accepting the new. Skittery shook his head and she moved on, bitter lines etched deeply into her face. "Anyways… where was I?"
"Ya bent down—"
"Oh yeah," Specs said. He glanced around and seemed to become more aware of his surroundings again. He lowered his voice. "So I put my hat on just so's I can give her back the change and pick up the papes, right? Well, just so happens at that exact time a big, snooty fella comes out of the building and sees me bent over, reachin' around the bottom of his wife's skirt."
"Oh, shit," Skittery muttered, eyes wide.
"Yeah, I know. So I grab the papes quickly and give her the change, and he steps up and starts shoving me." Specs nudged Skittery across the table once or twice in demonstration. "Says to me, 'How dare you' and 'Remove your hat in front of my wife' and things like dat—"
"What a jerk!"
"—And I don't know what to say, and she's grabbin' at him trying to quiet him down, and I step on his foot."
"Real hard?"
"Pretty hard, yeah. His shoes was polished, too. But I couldn't help it! He was the one—" Specs waved a hand dismissively. "Well, anyway, this really makes him mad, and he pushes me off extra hard, so's I almost fall down. I stumbled and he threw my papes at me, callin' me a 'filthy, street rat kike.' Says I better not show my 'knife-nose' around them again."
The enthusiasm he had maintained in telling the story faded quickly as the meaning of these words sunk in. He frowned and drank a good deal of beer as an ending to the account. Skittery sat back and sighed, wincing inwardly for his friend.
"Christ. I mean, that's… that's rough, Specs. Callin' you things like that. It ain't right."
"Yeah. It just—usually, what do I care what some rich bum calls me? Y'know? And Dutchy came over and treated me to lunch and everything… But somethin' like that, words like that, they stick with ya. And it—it just makes me think of me old life." His voice got quiet and his eyes softened a little. "Y'know, Skitts, I'm from Jewtown."
Skittery nodded. This he knew. Once, and only once, had the two shared their personal histories – or at least as much as they dared to reveal. Coincidentally, it had been over their first taste of alcohol, as ten-year-olds, before boundaries had been built and after their tongues had loosened. Skittery's mother had just recently departed and, in an effort to make him feel better, Specs stole a flask of whiskey from under an older newsie's pillow. The boys drank half the bottle, sputtering and coughing at the vile taste and the burning in their throats, as Specs regaled Skittery with stories of the famed Hebrew quarter.
And now, once again over drinks, Specs emptied his mind of memories.
"God, I'm so glad to be outta Jewtown. It's terrible there."
"It's terrible everywhere," Skittery pointed out.
"O' course. And things are hard here and everything… but there it was terrible like all the time. The adults all look like they're the walkin' dead. Just," Specs waved a hand in front of his face, "empty, y'know? Work themselves harder than anybody I ever seen. Crammed wall-to-wall in all the buildings. So's moving to the lodgin' house wasn't much of a change for me," he laughed weakly. Skittery cracked a sad smile. "I mean, not to say I was livin' so bad. My mom had work, makin' clothes all day and night. And I went to school for awhile."
Skittery perked up a little. "Yeah, what was that like?"
"Lotsa holidays," Specs said, taking a long drink from his beer. The two chuckled.
"I went to school for awhile too," Skittery said, massaging his aching shoulder. "I liked it. Until I… well, until I had to leave." His voice drifted off and he stared at the table, thinking again of his dad lying on the floor. The tightening in his jaw returned.
Specs nodded, but didn't press it. Instead he raised a finger in the air, his eyes looking less focused than they had earlier, and said, "I do remember somethin' about school, actually. My teacher was really into bein' clean."
"What?" Skittery struggled to remember a time he'd ever been clean. "Why?"
"I dunno why. But every day, he would look at us sternly like this," Specs paused to frown and stare at Skittery over the rims of his glasses, "and he would ask us, 'What must I do to keep healthy?' And we would have to—have to answer…" He began to laugh, and Skittery grinned expectantly. Specs composed himself and continued in a falsetto, "'I must keep my skin clean, wear clean clothes, breathe pure air, and—and live in the sunlight!'"
The two laughed harder. Specs was doubled over, hands wrapped tightly around his beer, and Skittery smiled broadly, his tongue poking out between his teeth a little. Finally Specs sat up and wiped his eyes with his knuckles, panting and snickering.
After a moment the two sighed and quiet settled over the table. Skittery scratched his head. It felt strange to laugh, like the last time he'd done it was too far away to recall.
"Yeah…" Specs said out of nowhere. "That was school, up until—forth grade, I guess it was."
"Why did ya leave?"
A deep, sad smile overtook Specs's face. He seemed to concentrate on not meeting Skittery's eyes.
"Me dad."
Skittery's left hand involuntarily balled into a fist.
"You had a bum dad too, huh?" he managed through gritted teeth.
Spec's eyelids seemed to grow heavier as he nodded. "Firebug."
Skittery leaned in again. "What?"
"Firebug. Me dad was a firebug. It's a… it's like a…" He paused to drink some more beer, and stifle a belch. "He and a bunch of other guys would burn stuff. Like tenement buildings. They'd collect on the, uh, the insurance for the furniture afterwards."
"Pretty fuckin' dangerous…" Skittery muttered, immediately wishing he hadn't.
"You're right," Specs said, and looked up briefly before affixing his gaze back on the table. "You're right. And so was me mum, because he got busted one day after it got way outta hand. Whole building went up in flames, only it wasn't empty. Couple people died, and he went to jail."
He took his glasses off and tossed them on the table. Small, dark imprints were visible on the bridge of his nose. Skittery raised his eyebrows in surprise, more at Specs's change in appearance than what he'd said. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Specs without his glasses for more than a few seconds; he was known even to sleep with them on sometimes.
Skittery shook his head of these thoughts and felt bad for being so easily distracted.
"So, yeah, me mum went nuts. She lost it, y'know?" Specs let out a short, hoarse laugh. "Wouldn't let me go nowhere. After a week I couldn't take it no more. I was…" He rubbed his eyes with his hands and didn't stop. "I was really scared. And I ran—ran to Manhattan, ran to get outta there. Just needed to get outta Jewtown. And, well, y'know the rest already." The last bit was muffled as he buried his whole face in his palms. "I ain't never been back."
Skittery shifted in his seat uncomfortably. He thought he heard a faint, solitary sob, but it was over almost instantly. Now he found the will to drink.
He grabbed his beer glass and, with some trouble, downed half of it. He had to use his left hand, because the joints in his right were too swollen and stiff to bend around the handle. There was a pleasant burning in his chest as the liquid traveled down to his stomach.
Specs finally looked up again, his eyes bloodshot and his face tinged red. Skittery couldn't tell if it was the beer, the rubbing, the embarrassment, or all three, but he also found it didn't matter. They stared at each other and then they both drank some more.
"Alright," Skittery said finally, putting his glass down. "I'll tell ya what happened today."
Specs sat up and pushed his beer away, attempting to give his friend his full attention, despite being too drunk to fully do so. The door of the bar opened and two new voices were added to the surrounding conversations, voices that should have been familiar, but neither of them noticed as the details of Skittery's day flooded off his chest and into Specs's open ears.
There was the bad headline, the lice, the filth. There was the scuffle with the Newspaper Man and the angry barber, and the resulting injuries. There was the poor boy, and his battered older sister, looking at him with a harrowing need and despair that he couldn't shake from his mind. There was David. There was the lost feeling that sometimes overcame him in the middle of a crowd, seizing his heart with the fear that nothing would ever improve. There were minor annoyances that would build, and build, and build. And finally, there was the little girl.
"The little girl?" Specs repeated with confusion. Skittery nodded once.
"This jerk knocked over this little girl and hurt her. I don't know why, but I—I just snapped. I guess it was all the other stuff that made me do it, but I really beat the shit outta him. I don't even know if he's okay or not. I mean, I know he's not okay, and he deserved it, the fucker. But still, I hope he ain't dead."
"Holy shit," Specs managed.
"And then I…" Skittery swallowed his pride. "I fainted." He paused. "I'm not as good at tellin' stories as you, I guess."
Specs ignored this. "And all for a—little girl?"
"I, uh—well, I know it sounds… it sounds funny, when I say it out loud." Skittery knitted his eyebrows in frustration. "But I, I really like little girls." Specs didn't respond right away, so Skittery felt the need to elaborate.
"See, I coulda had a sister. Me mother… she got pregnant, when I was a young kid, and she always said it was gonna be a girl."
"How could she know that?"
"She couldn't. I don't know why she said that, but she wanted it so bad. And I wanted it too. I wanted a little sister." Skittery sniffled, a gesture that embarrassed him. "But it went rotten. Do ya know what I mean? Me little sis… she never came out."
"Yeah," Specs said quietly. "I know what ya mean."
His gaze connected with Specs's (exposed, dark, serious) eyes and Skittery felt sick.
"I just wonder sometimes what my life woulda been like, if I had a sister to take care of. Little girls… they're so sweet, and nice, and pure, right? Like angels, y'know? I just like lookin' at 'em, playin' happily in the streets and not carin' about none of the bad things in life." He unconsciously ran his fingers along the tattered shirt around his hand, picturing the image. "And I saw this real special little girl today, after all this other bad stuff happened, and she smiled this pretty smile at me. And I felt, for the first time all day, so good, like hope—"
"Whatsa matter, Skitts? Can't find a date your own age?"
Skittery and Specs froze.
Jack laughed at Racetrack's joke and grabbed a chair to join them, beer in hand.
"Hey you two," the Cowboy said, sitting down. "Whatcha talkin' about? Little girls?" They didn't respond. Racetrack shrugged and leaned against the wall, shuffling a worn deck of cards.
"They's awfully quiet." He squinted at Specs. "Hey, Specs, where's your specs?"
"Oh, uh, my eyes were hurting…" Specs mumbled, waving vaguely at the glasses on the table.
Jack ignored this and looked closely at Skittery. He took his bandaged hand and examined it. "What do we got here? 'S all banged up. What happened—"
Skittery jerked his hand away, but said nothing. Jack narrowed his eyes.
"What's your problem?"
You'remyproblemYou'remyproblemYou'remyproblemYou're—"Skittery's having a bad day," Specs said. Jack and Racetrack turned to him with interest, Skittery with alarm.
"So what else is new?" Race shot back. Jack half-smiled and half-frowned in disapproval at the comment.
"Don't mind Race, fellas, he's just sore 'cause he lost big at the tracks today."
"So what else is new?" Skittery echoed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Race scowled.
"Least I'm not always glum, ya big—"
"Fellas!" Jack interrupted, standing between the two of them. Skittery didn't care about his argument with Race, because the little bastard had a snide joke for everything, but he glared at Jack with all the contempt he could muster.
The Cowboy. The infamous Cowboy. Since Jack Kelly had been revealed as the deceptive and deluded Francis Sullivan, most of the newsies had been given a reason to love him even more. They'd been given a reason to pity him, or better relate to him, or better trust him since they'd overcome something together. The guy had confronted Pulitzer and won; the guy was a hero. Skittery, on the other hand, had simply been given another reason to dislike him. "Liar" was added to an always-growing list of qualities that included "smug", "cocky", "womanizer", and "self-appointed, self-important leader", though not necessarily in those words or that order.
Skittery wasn't dumb, and he wasn't ungrateful. He knew that Jack had done a lot for the newsboys and, therefore, done a lot for him. He even considered himself Jack's friend, in the respect that he would fight on his side if and when the time came. He'd collected one or two scars for Jack's sake, and he'd done it more than willingly. But he also wasn't a pushover, and he was painfully aware with every time he looked at the Cowboy that Jack had gotten away with everything. That, in essence, was Skittery's biggest problem with him: Jack got away with everything. And that damned, self-satisfied grin of his was a constant reminder.
"So what the hell happened to our friend today, Specs?" Jack asked, his voice suggesting he would not repeat the question again. "What's this about a bad day?"
Specs blinked several times, calmly regarding each person, and said shortly, "Skittery beat up a guy for mouthing off."
Evidently this was not expected, as two sets of faces fell uneasy. Specs drank some more beer and stared at the ceiling with satisfaction.
"Beat 'im up somethin' awful, too," he added.
Skittery came close to laughing, but chose to smirk at Race instead. His diminutive cohort smiled shakily, coughed, and gave his cards a quick shuffle. His dark eyes scanned the bar momentarily.
"Wonder if those fellas over there'd be interested in a game or…" He trailed off as he crossed to the other side of the room, avoiding the three pairs of eyes that watched him go. Skittery's smirk grew wider. He turned to look at Jack.
"I'm not sure I like that, Skitts," Jack said slowly.
"I'm not sure I give a damn," Skittery said in an equally even tone. He ran his fingers over his bandaged hand and stared at Jack with a feeling of authority. For the first time all day—a day in which he'd repeatedly been under someone else's control, or lost control of himself—he felt power.
Whether Jack recognized this in his voice or his eyes, Skittery couldn't be sure, but he knew the message had been received and a choice had been made.
"Alright, fellas, I get it," Jack said, pushing his chair away from the table and standing up. "I know when I'm not wanted," he added with mock suffering. "Specs, Skitts, have a good one. See youse two later." And with that, he sauntered over to where Racetrack had joined a game of poker, never casting a glance behind him.
The two remaining boys grinned at each other. Skittery noticed with relief that concentrating on his friend's problems had eased his own anger, and replaced it with something much better.
There were no words, so Skittery casually picked up Specs's glasses and examined them. One of the lenses had a crack in the corner, and both were badly scratched. The frames were bent out of shape and devoid of color, except for a few small blotches of black paint. They were wiry – wiry like Specs. Skittery put them on, and blinked a few times.
The difference was startling. All around him, things became clear and more distinct. Edges and details were sharply defined from their surroundings; colors made more brilliant, faces more visible. Skittery realized he'd never seen clearly before this.
He looked over to where Racetrack sat smoking a cigar, and to his surprise found he could make out the red pattern on the backs of the cards. He could see the wisps of smoke curling above their heads, and the swirls of knotted wood on the walls.
After a moment, he began feeling nauseous. He was seeing things a little too clearly, and it made his eyes strain and ache. He took them off, but continued handling them.
"Guess my eyesight ain't so great," he said lamely. Specs snorted.
"Ya think that's bad? Those things don't even help me that much anymore." Skittery raised his eyebrows.
"Your eyes must be worse than I thought." He looked at them once more and then handed them to Specs.
"Yeah, I've had 'em since I left home. A good pair of glasses costs a lot. More than I got, that's for sure." He put them on again. "Been saving up, though. A couple pennies a week since I been here. Somehow I had the smarts to realize they weren't gonna last forever. I'm thinkin' another year and I'll have enough for a stronger pair. Can't wait to see things again."
"I'll bet. Wearin' those just now was amazing."
"Really makes a difference, eh? Well, if ya want, when I get a new pair I can give ya these old ones. I won't need 'em no more."
Skittery considered this, but shook his head. "Nah, I dunno. It'd take a lot of getting used to…" He glanced back at the poker game, and realized with disappointment that he had to squint just to discern the curls of smoke. "Well, let's see how bad it gets by next year, huh?"
Specs smirked. "I told Dutchy he should save too, but he don't seem too concerned. His prescription isn't as bad as mine anyway."
"Prescription." Skittery repeated the word with interest.
"Yeah. This pair of glasses is the last thing I ever got from me dad. He wore real thick glasses; made his eyes look twice as big." Specs raised his eyebrows high into his forehead and crossed his eyes.
Skittery chuckled bitterly. "Least he was good for somethin', right?"
"I guess." Specs suddenly became serious. "Y'know, Skitts… I remember what ya told me about your old man."
Skittery frowned and concentrated on his beer. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I wouldn't forget somethin' like that. And the things he did…" Specs knew it wasn't necessary to continue. His point had been made.
"I know ya wouldn't, Specs."
"What about your mom, though?" Skittery looked up quickly. Specs shrugged nervously before he continued. "Ya hardly ever talk about her."
A moment of silence. Then—
"Nah. Me ma… that's just for me. Okay?"
"I understand, Skitts."
Their eyes connected. For a brief instant, Skittery wanted to touch Specs's face. He didn't know what it was about it, but he wanted to feel it against his injured hand; feel the look he was being given. It was a look of understanding and brotherhood. He felt his hand twitch, but the impulse disappeared immediately.
"I know ya do, Specs," he said finally. "I know ya do."
Specs tore his eyes away and fished around for his pocket watch. "'S getting late. We should head back." He put some change on the table and grabbed his hat.
Skittery nodded and drained his glass. He was dimly aware that his headache had subsided, and the beer eased some of the pain in his arm, making it feel warm and strangely detached. The two stood up and left the bar.
It was dark, and the temperature had cooled somewhat. Skittery drew in a deep breath of fresh air – as fresh as city air could get, at any rate – and sighed.
They made the short trek back to Duane Street in silence, Specs fiddling with his hat, Skittery noting things about their surroundings and picking out certain faraway sounds in the distance. Being aware of these parts of New York made it feel more like home somehow.
"Hey," he said, turning to Specs as they were about to enter the lodging house. "Tell me somethin'. If ya had a bad day, where'd ya get the money to pay for our drinks?"
Specs paused. Then a wide, proud grin spread across his face. "I got to keep the lady's two bits."
Skittery laughed and slapped him on the back, resisting the urge to hug Specs with all his might.
The lodging house was back to its usual dull roar. Kids here and there snored lightly in their sleep, but most of the boys were up and about, playing cards, chasing after marbles before they slipped through the floor cracks. Snipeshooter was showing Boots a dime store novel he'd stolen; the two boys' faces lit up at the sight of colorful cowboys and Indians at war. Dutchy and Bumlets were washing their faces and brushing their teeth before bed, Snitch was scrubbing the stubborn blackness from his feet while shooting glances at Itey. Blink was telling Mush a series of jokes that had the former boy doubled over in laughter, but had Crutchy, Snoddy and Pie Eater rolling their eyes. Specs lay in his bunk calmly, finishing up the day's news. Swifty entered the room not long after Jack and Race, smirking secretively.
Skittery stood in front of the bathroom mirror, warily studying his reflection. There were a few scratches on his face and chin that made him reconsider shaving for the night. He ran a hand along his jaw, the light brown stubble feeling coarse against his skin.
An image of his father, heavily bearded and looking not unlike Skittery himself, changed his mind. He quickly reached for the blade and lather.
Afterwards he walked back into the center of commotion, surveying the room with a blank expression. There seemed to be a silent arrangement that he was to be left alone for the night, and few of them raised their eyes. Skittery wasn't sure if he was appreciative or resentful of this.
A small pair of arms wrapped around his waist. He looked down in surprise, and saw the coffee-colored complexion of Tumbler staring back at him, wide-eyed and hopeful.
"Are ya okay now, Skitts?" he asked quietly. Skittery felt a warm, rising sensation in his chest. The kid would never know how much that moment meant to him.
"Yeah, kid, I'm okay. It's okay." A smile from each. He patted Tumbler's head and pulled him into a brief hug. "Now off to bed with ya's."
The little one pouted but obeyed. With nothing else to do, Skittery waltzed over to the open window and stepped outside on the fire escape. The city stretched out before him in the dark, reduced to twinkling lights from windows and wisps of smoke from chimney-stacks.
He wondered what tomorrow had in store for him. Maybe he would be recognized on the street and have the bulls to answer to. Maybe he'd crossed a line with Jack tonight and there would be heightened tension between them from now on. Maybe his lice would still bug the hell out of him. Maybe he'd avoid Specs for awhile to avoid any more confusing feelings – then again, maybe not. Skittery supposed that was the price one paid when living moment to moment.
Intending to light a cigarette, he struck a match against the brick wall, but paused halfway through the motion. He watched the flame fizzle and fade into darkness with a sadness he couldn't quite explain. He glanced at the cigarette again and put it back in his pocket.
Instead he inhaled the cool, fresh breath of wind that was temporarily relieving him of the muggy weight of the September air. Soon it would be winter. Not for awhile, but soon enough.
With winter would come the biting cold on fingertips wrapped tightly around the day's papes, and numbed feet receiving little protection from their worn boots. With winter would come the blanket of snow that cleansed the city of its filth, and oxygen that was sharp to breathe – a rejuvenating shock to the system. With winter would come frosty ground and whipping winds, causing the newsboys to huddle together around their cigarettes during the day and share nips of whiskey at night. With winter would come Christmas, the boys' meager but warm celebration and an excited exchange of small, cheap gifts; gifts that had been paid for through no small, cheap sacrifice. With winter would come the promise of spring.
Winter's waiting and Skittery couldn't be happier.
Author's Note: And as Skittery's day comes to its inevitable end, so does the story. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. This chapter was exhausting to write as I was unsure about many aspects, but ultimately it was worth the effort. It's considerably longer (about three times longer, actually) than the other chapters, but I just didn't have the heart to break it up.
For some reason my Specs!muse is Jewish, in case some were surprised at that. Many thanks to How the Other Half Lives for its articles on "The Street Arab" and "Jewtown" which I referenced heavily, as well as the always useful Wikipedia. Extra special thanks to the kind and helpful reviews and the words of encouragement that feed my fire – you guys are the best!
Oh, one last thing – although I'm surely not suggesting that there was any slash between Specs and Skittery (for who could interpret any part of that scene in such a way? -wink-), I will say that I totally have the perfect name for the pairing: Spittery. Mwhahaha, how great is that? I love it, and I hope other writers will explore their relationship – preferably with more steaminess than I dared. And don't tell me there's no basis for it: the next time you watch the movie, notice how many times the two are side by side. See KONY, TWWK, and STD (plus the reprise - wait, STD? Ewww) for just a few examples. YEP, 'at's what I thought.
So this is for all you readers – may you have a better day than Skittery (though none of you have Specs to curl up to, unfortunately)!