Newsies and More!

He likes what Specs and Snipeshooter have. They’re brothers by blood. Sometimes Specs can be irritated with Snipes, and sometimes Snipes can be annoying to be around. But at the end of the day, it’s obvious – even to a little kid like Tumbler – that they care about each other and have something special that not everyone can claim.

Tumbler wishes he could have that brotherly bond with someone. He’s been on his own since he was 6 years old. He knows most all the newsies at the Duane St Lodging House watch out for him. It’s an unspoken rule that the older boys keep an eye on the younger ones.

Tumbler has a lot of older brothers to choose from. The most obvious choice would be Cowboy, but he seems to be busy making sure everyone stays in line. Racetrack always has some sort of game or bets going on and Tumbler doesn’t care about that stuff. Mush likes to share bad jokes that goes over the younger ones’ heads. Dutchy is best friends with Specs, and as a result, they’re co-keeping an eye on Snipes. Bumlets is fun. He’ll swing him around like a Coney Island ride or carriy him on his shoulders, but don’t you dare disturb Bumlets while he’s sleeping or he’ll be cranky.

“Heya, kid.” A hand engulfed his head and ruffles his hair.

Tumbler bats the hand away. “Heya, Skits.”

Skittery takes a seat on the floor next to him and leans against the wall. “Looks like you was deep in thought. Trying to move those marbles with your mind?”

Tumbler scrunches his nose. “No. That’s impossible.” The concept takes root for a flash of a second. “Is it possible?”

Skittery chuckles. “As far as I know, it ain’t. So, what’cha thinkin’ about?”

Tumbler gives an exaggerated hmph. “Y’know how Specs and Snipeshooter are brothers?”

Skittery snatches up a blue marble off the floor to fiddle with. “Yeah.”

“I wish I had a brother.”

“You have 30 brothers livin’ here at this house.”

“I know, and all the fellahs are great. They watch out for me and pal around with me. But I mean, someone I can come to no matter what. Someone that’ll be there even after being a newsie.”

“That’s a tall order, kid, even for blood brothers like Specs and Snipes.”

Tumbler shrugs. “I’m afraid one day everybody will move on, and I’ll never see them again. I don’t wanna lose everyone. If I had a brother then maybe he’d stick with me, whether we was still newsies or not. He’d stick with me.”

“You put a lotta thought into this, huh?”

Tumbler nods. During the nights when he’s wide awake from all the noises lurking in the bunkroom and he’s too afraid to go to the washroom alone. When he catches a glimpse of a family walking by on the street. When he sees people come and sees people go. When he’s gazing around at ever fellow newsie and wonders when they’ll disappear, never to be seen again – and it leaves a gaping hole in his short life.

Skittery flicks the blue marble out of his fingers. It bounces, knocking into another marble as they clink together. “Y’know, I never had a brother, either?” He glances at Tumbler then focuses on the marbles as if they’ll keep his secret. “I got practice being a brother, though. I have a little sister – Annie, but she’s livin’ in an orphanage. I don’t know if one day I’ll show up and she’ll be gone. I won’t have my sister anymore.”

Tumbler frowns. Skittery has never mentioned his sister before.

“I get it. Not wantin’ to be alone. I don’t want that, and I don’t want that for you, kid.” Skittery finally looks up at him with the faintest smile. “What’d ya think about me and you being brothers?”

Tumbler’s mouth drops open. His little heart can’t be contained in his chest. “You mean it?”

Skittery playfully punches his jawline. “I wouldn’a said it if I didn’t mean it.”

Tumbler launches himself at him. Skittery catches him, giving him a warm squeeze. “Thanks, Skits! I promise, I’ll be the best brother ever.”

Skittery chuckles. “I’ll hold ya to that.” He spits in his palm. “Let’s seal the deal. You and me. Brothers for life.”

Tumbler spits in his palm, and they shake on it. “Brothers for life.” He hugs Skittery one more time, inconspicuously wiping the spit off his hand.

“Are you wiping spit on me?”

Tumbler pulls away, grinning. “Isn’t that what brothers do?”

Skittery balls a fist, but his smile tells a different story. “You’re gonna get it now, kid! Don’t think I’ll hold back just because you’re my brother!”

Kloppman sat up in bed and swung his legs over the edge. He hated feeling old, and today was the day that reminded him the most. One year older. His joints were happy to remind him of his age as well.

He stood gingerly and began his morning stretches. Stretch left; stretch right; reach for the ceiling; touch your toes. With his joints warmed up, he got about to dressing.

The sun was just starting to filter in as Kloppman climbed the stairs to the bunkroom. It was the same routine every day, seven days a week, but the boys made it feel fresh every day.

He walked into the bunkroom, already shaking his head in mock exasperation. They were all sound asleep. They’d sleep their lives away if it weren’t for him!

Kloppman quietly chuckled to himself at how different the boys slept. Snaps living up to his nickname snapping in his sleep. Snitch’s dirty foot once again pressed to Itey’s face. The blanket cocoon that would hatch Bumlets. Skittery’s long legs hanging over the end of the bunk. The cigar cuddled to Snipeshooter’s chest like a stuffed toy. Pie Eater’s blanket hanging halfway off his bunk along with one leg and one arm. Tumbler’s hat cocked on his head, covering part of his face. It was never a dull morning.

Kloppman took in a few more seconds of peace to peer around before he banged his broom handle on the wooden floor.

“Time to wake up! Sell the papes!” he bellowed. Heads popped up and instantly were buried in pillows. A sea of groaning sounded throughout the room. Another day, another dollar.

After thoroughly yelling their wake-up call and making sure every bunk was vacated, Kloppman headed back downstairs. He propped the front door open. He’d learned the hard way several years ago that a stream of rambunctious boys was detrimental to the hinged of a door.

The stampede soon came pounding down the stairs as the boys filed out. He knew it would probably fall on deaf ear, but Kloppman made sure to remind them to practice manners and keep their noses out of trouble.

“Heya Kloppman,” Specs was the last out this morning. He threw an arm over Kloppman’s shoulder and steered him out the door.

Kloppman side-eyed Specs suspiciously. Specs gripped his vest smugly and gazed out at the waking streets of Manhattan with a debonair air.

“What an extraordinary morning, isn’t it, Kloppman?”

“It’d be extraordinary if you’d leave to sell ya papes,” he grumbled.

Specs kept a firm arm around his shoulders. “Can’t we jist take it in for a moment?” He breathed in deep to take in the morning air but then tried to suppress a cough.

Kloppman shook his head, wondering where this little charade was leading.

Dutchy suddenly bolted out the door behind them, slapping Specs on the back. The latter spectacled boy took off after his friend, both shouting a goodbye to Klopmman without looking back.

Kloppman released an exaggerated sigh, waving a dismissive hand at them as he walked back into the building. He made his way around the front desk and paused at the sight of a package that had not been there before.

A large note sat atop the package. He picked up the note and held it out enough for him to read. He silently cursed his clumsiness a few weeks ago when he broke his reading glasses. The letters were big enough to read easy without too much focusing. To Kloppman; OPEN was written in what he recognized as Dutchy’s handwriting.

Kloppman did as the note instructed. He pulled off the lid and stared at the contents of the package. A pair of new reading glasses sat in an open metal case. Kloppman carefully removed the spectacles. He held them up to his eyes and raised the note to test the strength of the lens. The letters of his name cleared instantly. He nodded with approval, impressed that the prescription was correct. A folded paper sat underneath the glasses case. He slipped the new pair of spectacles on and surveyed the paper.

Happy Birthday in red letters was painted on the face of the paper. He opened it and gasped softly. Every name of every boy was written in each of their own handwriting on the paper. Some wrote short notes or well wishes beside their name.

Kloppman’s hand covered his mouth. His throat tightened as he read every name and message. These boys – many of whom he’d watched grow from little boys into determined young men – were apart of his purpose in life. They gave him a hard time; kept him on his toes. Worried him to the point of being heartsick; amused him to the point of laughing until he cried.