Post by Anthony Higgins on Dec 28, 2008 22:10:24 GMT -5
He considered betting on Dan Patch again, but then considered how that had worked out for him the past two times, and then went against it. Everyone said Dan Patch was the surest bet in horse racing, but apparently, someone didn't think so. That someone now had about two dollars of Racetrack's hard-earned money. He pondered Omaha, Strike the Gold and War Admiral. As he looked up and saw the line beginning to thin out, he stood quickly and gathered his stack of papers. The boys were waiting, and he needed to join them for a while before they went their separate ways selling their papers.
He joined Specs and Dutchy for a while, and after a moment Crutchy and Itey joined them. They chewed the fat for a while, and soon Racetrack began to get antsy. He was beginning to feel mischievous. When was the last time he and the Four Musketeers had played a good prank? It had been a long time, and he felt that some kid or another was overdue. He glanced around, almost nonchalant, and spotted Benjamin Epstein coming down the ramp with his papers under his arm. Racetrack didn't know Benjamin, apart from he turned scabber during the strike and he was a standoffish kid. Ben was awkward and a loner, and he didn't have many friends. Racetrack decided to give the kid a hard time for the hell of it.
He walked forward, almost as if to pass Benjamin as he walked through the gates, and rammed into him hard. Benjamin "oof"ed and dropped his papers. What a klutz, Racetrack thought, and rounded on him, faking fury. "Who the hell do you think you are?" he cried, giving Benjamin a good shove. The other boy staggered, regained his footing, and remained silent. Slowly he began to gather his papers from the ground, but Racetrack wasn't satisfied with such an unsavory outcome. He continued in his faux-rage. "What, ya deaf and stupid? Answer me when I'm talkin' to ya, ya weak stick! Ahh, you ain't nothin'."
Benjamin looked at him, his expression fearful and still, through his horn-rimmed glasses. Seeing the glasses gave Racetrack another idea. "Bet you couldn't even cross a damn room without windows in front of your face..." He snatched the glasses from Benjamin's face and held them lazily in one hand. As Benjamin grabbed blindly for them, Race held them further and further away. "Poor kid. Ya need 'em, don'cha?" In a stroke of cruelty, he tossed them over his shoulder. They skittered across the ground and landed near Les Jacob's feet. "Whoops. Sorry, Benji..." Race's voice was mocking, his apology meant nothing.
"Hey, Race!" Specs yelled. Race turned to him, expecting a jeer or encouragement to continue, but to his surprise, his fellow newsboy's face was stony and cold. "What the hell is that? You don't pull stunts like that!"
"Yeah, Race, that ain't funny!" Itey called. "Les! Hey, Les, help the boy out..."
Les was already scurrying over to Benjamin, the glasses in his hand. As Benjamin replaced his glasses and offered Les a small thankful grin, Snipeshooter came forward to help them gather Benjamin's scattered papers. Les and Benjamin kept their heads down, but Snipeshooter made it a point to give Race a reproachful glance as he stooped to pick up the fallen papers.
Race looked at his friends askance. "What's the matter?" he demanded. "I mean, what ails you guys? That was gold!"
"Like hell it was!" Specs retorted. "Stunts like that ain't funny, Race. What happened, you lose your cool or somethin'?"
Dutchy stepped forward. He was a boy with a quiet voice, but one that was listened to instantly. He could grow up to be a preacher or something, it was often said, but there was none of a preacher's warmth in his voice as he spoke now. "You ain't seein' straight here, Race. Practical jokes are fine by us. We're all good sports here. But pickin' on that kid ain't none too practical, or a joke. You're being a jerk." He paused, and added stonily, "Oscar an' Morris would be proud, wouldn't they?"
"Sure would," Crutchy mumbled. A surprised look came over him, as if he was shocked that he had actually spoken.
Race looked around at the other boys. Most of them were either minding their own business (at least pretending to) or giving him a solemn look. "You fellas got no sense of humor!" he cried. "I was kiddin' with the kid! You all know I ain't that jerk!" He paused, looking for some indication of agreement from the others. There was only a dead silence, and a shifty look from some of them. Slowly, it dawned on Racetrack that, maybe occasionally, maybe all the time, they did consider him a jerk. He stared around, his temper flaring. He was just about ready to yell something at someone when Weasel called from the window, "Let's get a move on! C'mon, I ain't got all day!"
The interruption was a minor matter, but it sent temperamental Racetrack over the edge. "Who needs ya?" he yelled. "Who needs any of ya..." He turned on his heel and made a beeline out of the gates and into the street. On his way, someone apparently pushed at the gate (accidentally or otherwise, he would never know) and it hit him squarely as he walked. Racetrack cursed loudly, and was met with a chorus of loud laughter from those surrounding him. The laughter stung him like knife wounds. He looked over his shoulder scornfully and stormed out of the distribution center, never looking anywhere except straight ahead. Once he was out of the view of the boys inside the gate, he broke into a harsh run.
Day after day alone on the hill,
The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still,
But nobody wants to know him,
They can see that he's just a fool.
What the hell did they know? He was always the one making them laugh, wasn't he? He was always their damn comic relief, and now they decided his jokes were lousy all of a sudden. He knew for a fact that not one of them cared about that kid, no more than he did. But they didn't want to seem like jerks. They're all for it, until there was the risk of making themselves look bad about something. That's when everyone backs out, and makes him the bad guy. Of course, that's how it always was. See if he ever cracked a joke for them again, the finks. What was he, just the court jester or something? The king's fool? Was he there to amuse them? They were all for him, they were all his friends, and then all of a sudden, once things went from blue to black, they were all against him. The rats.
And he never gives an answer,
But the fool on the hill sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head,
See the world spinning around.
How do you bring people together? Give them someone to hate. Snipeshooter and Les would have never looked an Benjamin Epstein twice, if they weren't all ganging up on Racetrack. Neither would Specs, Dutchy, Itey or any of them. They only gave two bits about the kid because they were busy calling Race out. Some friends they were, if they would choose a kid who was a scabber and practically a stranger over the one who had lived with them for seven years. He saw everything now; he was no better than a prop. A toy doll, where you pulled the string and something witty came out. Apparently, his jokes were all he was good for, because once he pulled out a dud everyone was ganging up on him. Finks.
Well on his way his head in a cloud,
The man of a thousand voices talking perfectly loud
But nobody ever hears him,
Or the sound he appears to make.
Racetrack stopped running. He had gone around the block and was on the other side of the World building; the reporter's entrance. The distribution center was just on the other side of the building. He could hear the calls and cries of the newsies as they walked together, made plans to meet up after they finished selling, and some of the younger ones began to pair off, looking for selling partners for the day or struggling to find their usual partners in the crowd. Race felt a twinge of something between anger and remorse, and he made a point to ignore it. As much as he was used to being part of the crowd, right now he had to make a point. He didn't need them half as much as they needed him. He wondered, in the back of his mind, if anyone would really care...
And he never seems to notice,
But the fool on the hill...
Nobody seems to like him
They can tell what he wants to do.
And he never shows his feelings...
Who was he kidding? Of course they would care. They certainly would care if he didn't sell. How could he sell, considering he forgot all his papers?! Racetrack could kick himself. Who knew what had happened to his two-bits-worth of papers? Who had picked them up and would get fifty cents profit, if they were good enough to sell that much? He could also forget about betting on any horse at the races today. He knew that some of the newsies would start to round the corner and head to their selling spots, so he continued walking around the block, planning to head back to the center once it was deserted. Who needed those grafters? He sure didn't. Racetrack put on an expressionless mask and continued walking. "Extry, extry!" the call came out from nearby. He avoided the voice.
He joined Specs and Dutchy for a while, and after a moment Crutchy and Itey joined them. They chewed the fat for a while, and soon Racetrack began to get antsy. He was beginning to feel mischievous. When was the last time he and the Four Musketeers had played a good prank? It had been a long time, and he felt that some kid or another was overdue. He glanced around, almost nonchalant, and spotted Benjamin Epstein coming down the ramp with his papers under his arm. Racetrack didn't know Benjamin, apart from he turned scabber during the strike and he was a standoffish kid. Ben was awkward and a loner, and he didn't have many friends. Racetrack decided to give the kid a hard time for the hell of it.
He walked forward, almost as if to pass Benjamin as he walked through the gates, and rammed into him hard. Benjamin "oof"ed and dropped his papers. What a klutz, Racetrack thought, and rounded on him, faking fury. "Who the hell do you think you are?" he cried, giving Benjamin a good shove. The other boy staggered, regained his footing, and remained silent. Slowly he began to gather his papers from the ground, but Racetrack wasn't satisfied with such an unsavory outcome. He continued in his faux-rage. "What, ya deaf and stupid? Answer me when I'm talkin' to ya, ya weak stick! Ahh, you ain't nothin'."
Benjamin looked at him, his expression fearful and still, through his horn-rimmed glasses. Seeing the glasses gave Racetrack another idea. "Bet you couldn't even cross a damn room without windows in front of your face..." He snatched the glasses from Benjamin's face and held them lazily in one hand. As Benjamin grabbed blindly for them, Race held them further and further away. "Poor kid. Ya need 'em, don'cha?" In a stroke of cruelty, he tossed them over his shoulder. They skittered across the ground and landed near Les Jacob's feet. "Whoops. Sorry, Benji..." Race's voice was mocking, his apology meant nothing.
"Hey, Race!" Specs yelled. Race turned to him, expecting a jeer or encouragement to continue, but to his surprise, his fellow newsboy's face was stony and cold. "What the hell is that? You don't pull stunts like that!"
"Yeah, Race, that ain't funny!" Itey called. "Les! Hey, Les, help the boy out..."
Les was already scurrying over to Benjamin, the glasses in his hand. As Benjamin replaced his glasses and offered Les a small thankful grin, Snipeshooter came forward to help them gather Benjamin's scattered papers. Les and Benjamin kept their heads down, but Snipeshooter made it a point to give Race a reproachful glance as he stooped to pick up the fallen papers.
Race looked at his friends askance. "What's the matter?" he demanded. "I mean, what ails you guys? That was gold!"
"Like hell it was!" Specs retorted. "Stunts like that ain't funny, Race. What happened, you lose your cool or somethin'?"
Dutchy stepped forward. He was a boy with a quiet voice, but one that was listened to instantly. He could grow up to be a preacher or something, it was often said, but there was none of a preacher's warmth in his voice as he spoke now. "You ain't seein' straight here, Race. Practical jokes are fine by us. We're all good sports here. But pickin' on that kid ain't none too practical, or a joke. You're being a jerk." He paused, and added stonily, "Oscar an' Morris would be proud, wouldn't they?"
"Sure would," Crutchy mumbled. A surprised look came over him, as if he was shocked that he had actually spoken.
Race looked around at the other boys. Most of them were either minding their own business (at least pretending to) or giving him a solemn look. "You fellas got no sense of humor!" he cried. "I was kiddin' with the kid! You all know I ain't that jerk!" He paused, looking for some indication of agreement from the others. There was only a dead silence, and a shifty look from some of them. Slowly, it dawned on Racetrack that, maybe occasionally, maybe all the time, they did consider him a jerk. He stared around, his temper flaring. He was just about ready to yell something at someone when Weasel called from the window, "Let's get a move on! C'mon, I ain't got all day!"
The interruption was a minor matter, but it sent temperamental Racetrack over the edge. "Who needs ya?" he yelled. "Who needs any of ya..." He turned on his heel and made a beeline out of the gates and into the street. On his way, someone apparently pushed at the gate (accidentally or otherwise, he would never know) and it hit him squarely as he walked. Racetrack cursed loudly, and was met with a chorus of loud laughter from those surrounding him. The laughter stung him like knife wounds. He looked over his shoulder scornfully and stormed out of the distribution center, never looking anywhere except straight ahead. Once he was out of the view of the boys inside the gate, he broke into a harsh run.
Day after day alone on the hill,
The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still,
But nobody wants to know him,
They can see that he's just a fool.
What the hell did they know? He was always the one making them laugh, wasn't he? He was always their damn comic relief, and now they decided his jokes were lousy all of a sudden. He knew for a fact that not one of them cared about that kid, no more than he did. But they didn't want to seem like jerks. They're all for it, until there was the risk of making themselves look bad about something. That's when everyone backs out, and makes him the bad guy. Of course, that's how it always was. See if he ever cracked a joke for them again, the finks. What was he, just the court jester or something? The king's fool? Was he there to amuse them? They were all for him, they were all his friends, and then all of a sudden, once things went from blue to black, they were all against him. The rats.
And he never gives an answer,
But the fool on the hill sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head,
See the world spinning around.
How do you bring people together? Give them someone to hate. Snipeshooter and Les would have never looked an Benjamin Epstein twice, if they weren't all ganging up on Racetrack. Neither would Specs, Dutchy, Itey or any of them. They only gave two bits about the kid because they were busy calling Race out. Some friends they were, if they would choose a kid who was a scabber and practically a stranger over the one who had lived with them for seven years. He saw everything now; he was no better than a prop. A toy doll, where you pulled the string and something witty came out. Apparently, his jokes were all he was good for, because once he pulled out a dud everyone was ganging up on him. Finks.
Well on his way his head in a cloud,
The man of a thousand voices talking perfectly loud
But nobody ever hears him,
Or the sound he appears to make.
Racetrack stopped running. He had gone around the block and was on the other side of the World building; the reporter's entrance. The distribution center was just on the other side of the building. He could hear the calls and cries of the newsies as they walked together, made plans to meet up after they finished selling, and some of the younger ones began to pair off, looking for selling partners for the day or struggling to find their usual partners in the crowd. Race felt a twinge of something between anger and remorse, and he made a point to ignore it. As much as he was used to being part of the crowd, right now he had to make a point. He didn't need them half as much as they needed him. He wondered, in the back of his mind, if anyone would really care...
And he never seems to notice,
But the fool on the hill...
Nobody seems to like him
They can tell what he wants to do.
And he never shows his feelings...
Who was he kidding? Of course they would care. They certainly would care if he didn't sell. How could he sell, considering he forgot all his papers?! Racetrack could kick himself. Who knew what had happened to his two-bits-worth of papers? Who had picked them up and would get fifty cents profit, if they were good enough to sell that much? He could also forget about betting on any horse at the races today. He knew that some of the newsies would start to round the corner and head to their selling spots, so he continued walking around the block, planning to head back to the center once it was deserted. Who needed those grafters? He sure didn't. Racetrack put on an expressionless mask and continued walking. "Extry, extry!" the call came out from nearby. He avoided the voice.
