I think I'm moving, but I go nowhere (Jack)

[Mabel]

Mabel, spoon in hand, was currently attempting to fix her hair, using the piece of Tibby’s silverware as a makeshift mirror. The day's heat had not been kind to her hair and it was beginning to look something like a bird’s nest. While scowling at a spoon in the middle of a crowded restaurant did earn one a good many odd looks, Mabel didn’t care—hell, she was more or less used to it.

Sighing, she pulled back her hair quickly with a ribbon she kept in her pocket, her arms tiring from struggling with the mop of brown hair. As useful as silverware was when having a hair emergency, Mabel had not come to Tibby’s to fix her hair. Even Mabel had to admit, food took priority over vanity.

Mabel let her eyes wander about the bustling resturaunt, tapping her fingers against her glass of water boredly. She was happy to escape the lodging house—with what was going on with Mike, things seemed exceptionally tense these days. She tried to avoid it, but she knew where her loyalties lay. Though she'd seldom admit, she had grown fond of the Manhattan newsies in the last sixth months and, even if she disliked the job, she occasionally enjoyed the company.

Pulling her hand away from the glass, an involuntary twitch of the wrist pushed the glass on its side. Cursing, Mabel stood up quickly to avoid the flow of water. Never altogether graceful, these sort of mishaps were annoyingly commonplace for Mabel.

Grabbing a napkin, Mabel began to clean up the mess, scowling all the while.

(OOC: Kind of short! Apologies!)

[Jack Kelly]

Jack Kelly had never gone to school, so he was lucky he could even read the headlines of the papers he sold every day. What he couldn't do for his life, however, was arithmetic. He pretended he could, of course, but that he was just too lazy to, or else he didn't want to bother with it. What he ended up doing most of the time was asking someone who knew what he was doing, like Itey or Racetrack or Jake, and jokingly tell them to count out how much he'd have left over for lunch. They would do it, too, unsuspecting that Jack couldn't rather than wouldn't do it for himself.

Thanks to Itey this time around, Jack found out that out of his dollar, he'd need fifty cents for tomorrow's papers, twelve cents for lodging house rent and dinner, leaving him with forty-eight cents to blow on lunch. More than what he needed. He needed to remember those numbers, because he didn't think much would change, unless Kloppman jacked the lodging house rent, which Jack knew he would never do.

Jack walked into Tibby's alone, told by his friends that they would meet up with him after they finished selling. Honest boys, Jack thought with a smirk. They didn't make up phony headlines as often as he did, and as a result were out selling longer than he was. But that wasn't so bad...Jack was only worried about the pennies in his pocket and what it could buy him: food, a bunk, new shoes, a train ticket.

He walked in, just in time to see Mabel, a news-girl here in Manhattan, spill a glass of water. He chuckled to himself, and then once he was fairly sure he wouldn't embarrass her (too much), he walked over. "Havin' a little trouble there, Mabel?" he asked with a smirk.

[Mabel]

Throughout the spilled water fiasco, Mabel had made an enemy of an anxious waiter who scolded her for being in his way. Mabel, already peeved with the task at hand, had to literally bite her tongue to keep from snapping at the rude man. Luckily for her, the man went back to his job and left Mabel to deal with her mess.

"Havin' a little trouble there, Mabel?"

Hearing the familiar voice of one Jack Kelly, Mabel pursed her lips and braced her hands on the edge of the table. Irritated, Mabel reminded herself that Jack had not done anything to warrant her foul mood and that she should hold her tongue. Besides, she got along with him well enough—on most days.

“No, I’m… I’m good.” She sighed, tossing the waterlogged napkin to the side of the table and putting her glass upright. Turning to face Jack, she gave him a friendly nod. Opening her mouth in hopes of forming something of a witty greeting, Mabel was interrupted by a very pointed “ahem”.

Narrowing her eyes, Mabel turned slowly towards the same pushy little waiter from before. Taking a step back, Mabel extended her arms to one side, signifying that he had her permission to pass. Though she fancied herself a mature young woman, Mabel could not resist sneering childishly at the back of his head.

Returning her attention to Jack, she sighed dramatically. “People these days… you can have a seat, if you want—can’t promise I won’t knock your drink over, though.” Mabel quipped, gesturing to the seat across from her own. “How are things with the higher-ups of Newsiedom?”

The question wasn’t a serious one, not really, anyway. Mabel could not get her head around newsie politics, but she had to appreciate someone willing to step up and take charge. That and Mabel knew there was turmoil amongst newsies with that Mike fellow around and she figured she might see if Jack wanted to get anything off his chest. After all, most of this would fall on his shoulders.

[Jack Kelly]

"No, I’m… I’m good."

She didn't too much look it, but Jack didn't persue it any further, mostly because he wasn't exactly looking to help Mabel clean up the mess she'd made. Apparently, the waiter wasn't looking to do that either, because he made very clear that he had better things to do. Jack watched the display between Mabel and the waiter with a blank expression. Did that fella expect a tip? Jack gave an amused chuckle, however, when his high-born friend glared at the waiter from behind. He hadn't quite expected that of her...

"People these days… you can have a seat, if you want—can’t promise I won’t knock your drink over, though."

Jack chuckled again. For being a little superior, Mabel has some sharp wit, and that was the main thing Jack liked about her. She could take it and give it, too, without slowing down. "I'll take that chance," he said, and took a seat beside her. He glanced over his shoulder at the rude waiter. "You, ah, gonna tip 'im at all?" he said with a grin.

"How are things with the higher-ups of Newsiedom?"

What a loaded question that was. Jack almost considered lying, but after six months of living with her he knew Mabel well enough to know she would keep her head about whatever he had to tell her, "Bad," he said blatantly. "I haven't been able to talk to Spot, and I'll be needin' his help. Note hasn't given me anythin', either, but I don't think he's given Mike much neither." Note and Spot were the two he needed to talk to before he made another move.

((Kinda short, sorry...))

[Mabel]

"You, ah, gonna tip 'im at all?"

Mabel sniffed humorously, attempting to take a sip of her empty glass and frowning when her attempt was not rewarded. Only Mabel could spill a drink and then think it replenished not a moment later.

Putting the glass back down with an embarrassed smile, “Well, luckily for him, he wasn’t my server… just an angry little man with no patience.” She sighed, absentmindedly running her hands over her hair, tucking stray pieces back as she did.

“But,” She began, glancing at Jack with a smirk, “If he was, there would certainly be no tip…” Glancing over her shoulder, she spotted the waiter once more. “There might have been a few choice words, but no tip.”

"Bad," he said blatantly. "I haven't been able to talk to Spot, and I'll be needin' his help. Note hasn't given me anythin', either, but I don't think he's given Mike much neither."

As Jack explained his situation, Mabel felt her lips quirk into a frown. Though she was pleased Jack had been frank with her, it was not often that he sounded quite so defeated. The truth of the matter was the sooner Jack talked to Spot, the better. Again, Mabel was not interested in newsie politics, but anyone with ears knew the kind of influence Spot Conlon had.

Glancing at her plate and the one roll of bread left on it, Mabel pushed it in front of Jack. No waiter had come by yet and, while a mundane consolation gift, Mabel couldn’t see why it should go to waste.

Resting her elbows on the table, she forced a smile. “Oh, c’mon… you’re Jack Kelly. What could this Mike fellow have on you? Unless he’s fresh from a strike he led in Boston, you shouldn’t lose sleep over it.”

Mabel meant what she had said, but that did not mean the situation didn’t worry her. Young boys and girls were easily persuaded. If Mike had something worthwhile to offer, they might just listen.

“Besides,” She began, with a joking air of superiority. “You’ve got me to back you up… well, insofar as I don’t end up beaten to bloody pulp, you do.” When push came to shove, Mabel found hiding and/or the fetal position worked best for her. “What with all my influence.” She grinned, knowing full well that her reputation amongst newsies was in no way the best.

[Jack Kelly]

“Well, luckily for him, he wasn’t my server… just an angry little man with no patience. But, If he was, there would certainly be no tip…There might have been a few choice words, but no tip.”

Jack raised his eyebrows and gave a small nod in agreement. Although Manhattan newsies were possibly the small restaruant's best customers, the serving staff didn't exactly take kindly to them all the time. Often, they were loud and rather rude, and more than once they had tried (or else succeeded) to walk out without paying for what they'd eaten. The manager only minded the latter; he knew that without the newsies he'd loose close to a third of his business. His prices were low, and the food was good...there wasn't much more to be asked. However, you sometimes had to keep an eye on your server: the real nasty ones sometimes did some interesting things to your dish before they through it out.

As Jack told her what was going on, Mabel sympathetically pushed her plate in front of him. Thanking her silently with a nod, Jack took the bread, but didn't eat it yet. The talk of the impending fight with Mike and whoever he had aquired didn't exactly put his stomach in the best of moods.

“Oh, c’mon… you’re Jack Kelly. What could this Mike fellow have on you? Unless he’s fresh from a strike he led in Boston, you shouldn’t lose sleep over it.”

He couldn't argue with her there. Mike wanted to be a leader, but Jack knew that Mike didn't have half the leader experience Jack did. He'd been through conflicts, fights, rumbles and even a strike. He couldn't always control his newsies, but that wasn't always his job. They were loyal to him because he was their friend, and he didn't treat them like subjects. He didn't know much about what was happening in Midtown, but he had the feeling that Mike wouldn't be so obliging with his boys. All Mike had was the blind desire for power. "Mike got nothin' on me," he said firmly. "But he thinks he does, and with a fella like Mike that's the problem." Mike was headstrong, and worst of all he was one of the best fighters the newsies had ever seen.

“Besides, You’ve got me to back you up… well, insofar as I don’t end up beaten to bloody pulp, you do. What with all my influence.”

Jack smirked. He knew, or else had a clear feeling, that Mabel wouldn't be much of a fighter. But she was pretty respectable, for a girl and all, and for some reason Jack was glad to know she would back him up. She was articulate, if not persuasive. He said to her, "Good to know. An' don't worry. We're makin' sure there ain't no girls in the fight." He scowled suddenly. "But leave it to Mike to bend the rules..." He knew that if anyone would bring a girl into the fight, it would be Mike. He could find the few girls in New York that could give the boys a run for their money and use them to his advantage: a lot of boys on Jack's side were too decent to fight a girl, no matter who she was.

[Mabel]

"Mike got nothin' on me," "But he thinks he does, and with a fella like Mike that's the problem."

“Well,” Mabel remarked, taking on a tone of mock seriousness, “It’s a very good thing we don’t have guys like that around here, eh?” She smirked sardonically, glancing out the window at passerbys on the sidewalk. She was not meaning to parallel Jack with Mike—Jack was certainly the better man, but the idea of Jack referring to the stubbornness of another human being tickled Mabel. From the looks of it, the two most hot-headed boys in New York were looking to butt heads and the ramifications of such a meeting were daunting.

"Good to know. An' don't worry. We're makin' sure there ain't no girls in the fight." He scowled suddenly. "But leave it to Mike to bend the rules..."

Unable to stop herself, Mabel rolled her eyes and slouched back in her chair, arms crossed across her chest. “My god,” She exclaimed, staring at Jack with a hint of incredulity. “Do you boys know there are other ways of dealing with your poblems then throwing fists, right?”

She leaned back up right, twisting her body so she could face him better. “You know, have you tried using, I don’t know, words? Tried to make audible connection—because frankly-…” She trailed of, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. Frankly, Mabel did not know what would convince Mike to give up his little game.

It was times like these that Mabel wished the city’s system wasn’t so polluted with men who did not care what happened to the disenfranchised youth. Newsies and the like were forced to deal with their problems on their own; no one was going to care if a couple of kids got bloodied up in the streets,

Reminding herself of this made Mabel wish she could do something—anything that might give Manhattan the upperhand. Nothing came to mind. “Well, if I could fight, I’d certainly lend you hand—or a fist,” Mabel giggled at her dumb joke. Though Mabel seldom went out of her way to compliment someone, this situation called for a little ego boosting.

“And you have always done well by your boys—I don’t think that’s about to change. You’re good at what you do.” The compliment ended up sounding a little strange to Mabel’s ears, but it would suffice.

Clearing her throat, she racked her brain for something less serious to discuss. The topic of Mike D. Greaser was like a rain cloud that followed Jack wherever he went, Mabel fancied, and it might be nice to talk about something else for a change.

“How was selling?” Mabel began, before interjecting once more, “Oh, that’s a stupid question—I hate that question—you probably do, too, and seeing as you typically always do well selling, it’s a boring question.” Ending her rant, she put her knuckles to her lips and sighed.

“Oh, surely there’s something good going on in your life—talk about that.” Mabel said with a determined nod. That said, Mabel had no clue if something good was going on in Jack’s life. After all, it wasn’t uncommon—street kids led hard, unforgiving lives that left little time for the finer things.

[Jack Kelly]

“It’s a very good thing we don’t have guys like that around here, eh?”

Jack appreciated the good nature of Mabel's joke, but felt the need to speak out. "I ain't like Mike," he said firmly. "I tol' ya that already. The problem is me and him both don't wanna give up. So that's why all this is goin' on." Jack had run Mike out of New York two years before, but apparently Mike wouldn't stand for losing. And Jack wouldn't stand to see a murderer take over New York City. What did Mike even want it for? Jack couldn't think of any reason why Mike would want to do what he was doing in the first place, except for a blind desire for power. But Jack was almost sure that Mike's blinding desire would turn just that: blinding. And when it did, Jack would be ready.

“My god, Do you boys know there are other ways of dealing with your poblems then throwing fists, right?”

He shrugged. Fists had always worked pretty well for him...

“You know, have you tried using, I don’t know, words? Tried to make audible connection—because frankly-…”

She trailed off, and Jack pressed: "Frankly, what?" He referred to her inquiry and said, "Mike's beyond words. All he wants is power. He doesn't talk, his fists can do that for him." He knew that there was never any time for talking things over when it came to Mike. They had been past trying to compromise even before they started. And look what it had come to: they had finally agreed on a rumble at Maisy's Field, Mike's boys against Jack's. Fists only, no chains or clubs. But he wasn't too sure that Mike would uphold that condition. If anyone was going to play dirty, it was Mike.

“Well, if I could fight, I’d certainly lend you hand—or a fist,”

He chuckled. "Thanks, Mabel," he said. "Yeah...a lot of you girls would. But it was agreed, fellas only in the rumble. No offence or nothin', ya know, but you girls wouldn't do so good, ya know?" Rumors circulated like the autumn winds, going from mouth to ear to mouth to ear, about both sides of the conflict. Mike had murderers on his side, willing to obey his every command. Jack was about to bow out before the final rumble. Mike was stealing knives to bring to Maisy's Field. Jack was talking to the New Jersey newsies about helping him with Mike. Most weren't true, and he could only hope the same about the ones concerning Mike. It was maddening to be in the dark about what Mike was doing...

“And you have always done well by your boys—I don’t think that’s about to change. You’re good at what you do.”

He grinned and nodded at the compliment. He and Mabel weren't really the closest of friends, and a lot of them time they would insult each other, not meaning to be hurtful, just witty. And Mabel was one girl Jack knew wouldn't suck up for anything, so when she complimented him, he knew she meant it. "Thanks," he said. "I'm tryin' to keep my--" he was about to say boys, but stopped, "my kids safe from all this. I hear we got spies somewhere around here..."

“How was selling? Oh, that’s a stupid question—I hate that question—you probably do, too, and seeing as you typically always do well selling, it’s a boring question.”

He had to agree. "How 'bout you, Mabel? How's the life treatin' ya?" Although Mabel had been a newsie for six months or so, she and Jack weren't exactly as chummy as this all the time, so he never had the chance to ask her that question.

“Oh, surely there’s something good going on in your life—talk about that.”

Was there? He didn't know. His life had pretty much been ruled by the situation with Mike since the very beginning. He thought for a moment, and then said, almost shocked: "You know somethin', Mabel? I don't think there is..."

[Mabel]

Listening to Jack, Mabel tried to gauge what kind of person Mike D. Greaser was and, more over, what it would take to put him down. Clearly, his lust for power surpassed hunger and was an obsession. Mabel wondered if his play for power would become a desperation—tempt not a desperate man, as good old Shakespeare had put it.

"Yeah...a lot of you girls would. But it was agreed, fellas only in the rumble. No offence or nothin', ya know, but you girls wouldn't do so good, ya know?"

Mabel nodded—particuarly her waif-like, easily rattled self. The idea of getting caught in the crossfire alone frightened her. Jack was smart, though, and he would keep the fighting away from the lodging house, for the sake of the younger newsies. The last thing a starving six year-old needed was to feel even less safe in his makeshift-home.

Still, Mabel had met several girls who would make formidable opponents. Strangely, their mannerisms were more mannish than one might expect from a young woman, but hard knocks had many different effects on today’s youth. But trying to convince Jack that these girls might do him a favor was not something Mabel was interested in—arguing with Jack took effort. He was fun to go toe-to-toe with, but not now—the last thing he needed was to be challenged on trivial matters. He needed support, more now than ever. Mabek would hold her tongue.

"I'm tryin' to keep my--" "my kids safe from all this. I hear we got spies somewhere around here..."

“And you will.” Mabel remarked with deliberate nonchalance, fingers curling around her empty glass. Jack’s remark about spies caught her off guard, though. “Spies?” She deadpanned with slight incredulity, “This man—Mike—has spies? Seems a bit… extreme, doesn’t it?” Despite his reputation, Mabel still under-estimated Mike D. Greaser.

Leaning towards Jack, Mabel looked him in the eye. “Do you have spies?” Mabel asked softly, shooting an accusatory glare at a woman who glanced their way. Mabel’s paranoia told her the lady was eavesdropping on this delicate matter.

Frankly, the idea of newsie-spies tickled Mabel. Moreover, there was something to theatrical about being a spy; it was borderline appealing, if only for the act of it all. Biting her lip, Mabel frowned, “Any of your boys turn rogue?”

The situation was like a novel—fanciful, dangerous, but all too real. Mabel preferred her adventures bound and in ink.

"How 'bout you, Mabel? How's the life treatin' ya?"

Mabel shrugged, wringing her hands in her laps. More often than not, Mabel took inquiries such as Jack’s and ran with them. She could complain til’ she was blue in the face about her life. She was not the best seller, she kept spending her savings on useless things, some of her posessions were stolen, she had been pick-pocketed twice the previous week, her home-life was fast falling apart—her father was engaging in seedy business just to stay afloat. He was becoming distant, colder.

Yes, there were a good many things Mabel Fitzpatrick could complain about—“I’m alright.” She said plainly, smiling slightly—she just couldn’t complain about them now, not to Jack. This was no time to seek sympathy.

"You know somethin', Mabel? I don't think there is..."

Mabel chewed the inside of her cheek and glanced down at the table. Awkwardly raising a hand, she held it above Jack’s shoulder before giving him a light pat—again, Mabel was not known for her ability to comfort. “Well, I-“ Mabel broke off, turning her attention to the window, racking her brain for something to say.

“We could-…” She trailed off once more, rubbing her neck and pursing her lips in thought. With a sigh and a roll of the eyes, she turned back to Jack. “Damn it all, there must be something mildly entertaining to do in the city—to clear your mind… you know, enjoy life a little.”

Mabel had found that, despite rather unforgiving circumstances, that newsboys and girls found ways of preoccupying their minds and enjoying themselves. Mabel herself had yet to find such a thing (aside from reading), but Jack was a decdidedly more adventurous fellow.

“Yes,” Mabel said definitively, getting to her feet and promptly banging her knee on the table. “Ahh- oh,” She exclaimed, “Let’s go… you clearly need fresh air—I mean, well, not that that’s easily found in the city, but c’mon- up you go.” Mabel impatiently gestured for Jack to stand.

(OOC: Yeah, I dunno where to go with this exactly—any thoughts? :])