Spot's Story [1/2]
Title: Spot's Story
Fandom: Newsies
Rating: PG
Completed: Yes
Summary: The Almost Completely True Story of Spot Conlon's Rise to Power and Eventual Ascension to Brooklyn's Metaphorical Throne
Author's Note: Basically a character study, or a meta on Spot in story-form. Very weird stylistically. XD Tiny hints of Sprace, but they could be read as just friendship--this is a gen, not a romance. Very long in the making. Please let me know what you think! :)
This is meant to be read as a one-shot, but my one-shots have a habit of being too long for LJ, so I broke it up into two parts meant to be read together, not as separate chapters. JSYK.
(Also, I know the title's boring. I kind of wanted the summary to be the title, but I figured maybe it was a smidgen too long.)
Dedicated to folkloric_feel, because without her fangirling I might never have finished. ♥
This is a story.
More than that, this is a mystery. One without an answer. There is no solution, no conclusion, no aha! moment. This isn’t Clue.
This is a story with one simple question and about a thousand answers, many of which could be right, many of which probably are right. Even the ones that aren’t necessarily true.
Because this is a story in which reality is considered to be highly overrated.
So.
How?
How did a ninety-pound shrimp come to control the toughest borough in New York City, with a veritable army of newsboys answering to his every beck and call? How could he have done it, when so many of the other Brooklyn newsies are older, bigger, stronger? How?
Well.
Spot’s not a straightforward person. So he’s not going to sum this up for you, nice and neat, in a straightforward answer. And neither will anyone else.
But maybe that’s because there is no nice, neat, simple, straightforward answer. Maybe the answer is a puzzle, made up of a thousand different pieces, stories, factors, reasons. Maybe some of them aren’t even true.
Maybe it’s more complicated than beating the last leader at a fistfight (unlikely, cliché, simple).
After all, you think a guy like Spot can commandeer an army like that through physical force alone (hegemony, people, hegemony)? Or hell, even good looks alone?
It is those things. But…it’s more than them, too.
So much more.
Would you believe that it happened when he was ten? That he was ten when he became leader?
No? Well, okay. Eleven, then?
Twelve?
Twelve is what the youngest of the Brooklyn newsies will tell you. They’ll say that Spot Conlon entered the Lodging House in a blaze of glory, right on his twelfth birthday, soaked five-maybe ten-of the big boys and staked his claim as leader. That was, they’ll tell you, that, and no one ever questioned his leadership after that, not even the boys who were nearing twenty years or had twenty inches on him.
Bullshit.
By the time they’d become newsies, those younger boys, Spot Conlon had been running Brooklyn for quite some time. Well-established, you might say. So how would they know how he’d done it? Someone would’ve had to have told them. Somebody would have had to have made up that cock-and-bull story.
But who?
Probably Spot.
He enjoys the different versions. They amuse him, keep people guessing. Spread his reputation, enhance his mystery. Keep people interested. Command respect.
Even if most of it isn’t true-even if the truth isn’t nearly as interesting as the reality, even if he didn’t do most of those things-he always liked being the center of attention.
The truth?
Or, at least, a truth?
Not even some of the older boys know for sure how it happened. And they were there.
Their confusion indicates what might be the exact opposite of the soaking story. It might indicate a slow progression, a gradual creep… A situation in which there is no exact day you could pinpoint as the day Spot Conlon became the most feared and respected newsie in all of New York (and probably everywhere else). He just…wasn’t one year, and was the next. There’s no explaining it. There’s no grand, epic battle to look at.
But how did he even manage that? Even a gradual takeover isn’t easy.
Take it from Bumlets. He’s been trying it for years.
The kid Brooklyn newsies are the rare exception. Most of the more ridiculous, outrageous, wildly out-there stories come from outside Brooklyn.
Actually, the further away you get from Brooklyn, the more implausible the stories get. You oughta hear what they say in Philly. (Yes, they talk about him there.) There’s a certain hierarchy to it. Older stories, and the stories told by older boys, are more credible than the stories told by the younger ones. The closer you live to Brooklyn, the more credibility your story has. And so on.
Everyone wants to know. Everyone has their story, their own version-one which they choose to believe. They argue over it, each one convinced-or at least wanting to be convinced-that theirs is right.
Even the Manhattan boys have their stories. One of them may even possibly have it right.
But we’ll get to that later.
Spot’s eleven.
No, really.
He’s eleven when he becomes a newsie. Don’t ask what he was doing before that; Spot, as we will learn, is a Man of Many Mysteries.
He’s eleven when he becomes a newsie. He’s eleven when a larger boy pushes him to the ground on his very first day.
He’s eleven when he stands back up.
Wanna hear another fun story?
Spot pushed the last Brooklyn leader off of a bridge.
No, we’re not kidding.
It’s become a bit of an old wife’s tale, actually. A fable. Urban legend. Myth.
In Brooklyn, Queens, anywhere nearby-they know it isn’t true. They scoff at it, if they happen to hear it. There was no Brooklyn leader who fell-or was pushed-off a bridge. Not around the time the stories claim, anyway.
Spot loves this story almost most of all. Because it, more than anything else, means he’s famous. A legend in less than three years.
Whoops-did we give away too much?
Back to the bridge.
Story goes-goes on Long Island, parts of Midtown, Trenton, anywhere anyone’s ever heard of Spot Conlon-Spot and some of the other Brooklyn boys were crossing the bridge.
He’s thirteen in this story.
Story goes, it’s an icy December. And the leader just happens to slip-
-or is pushed-
-or trips-
-or is tripped-
-or any number of things-
-and off he goes.
Sometimes it’s a full-blown fistfight, and he gets punched over the edge. One newsie in Harlem swears he jumped to avoid getting more of a soaking.
And sometimes it’s a slightly different tale. It’s night. Spot and the leader, alone now, are walking along the bridge. The leader’s sharing words of wisdom with his young protégé.
And then the push. The fall.
Spot slips back into the lodging house, gets in bed, cozy as you please. Doesn’t lose a wink of sleep over the thing. And in the morning, acts as surprised as everyone else to find Merv washed up on the riverbank.
But asserts his power that very day.
Nowadays, hardly anyone actually believes the bridge story. The very young boys sometimes do. They repeat it over and over in silent awe, in fear and in wonder. They use it as a cautionary tale-why never to go to Brooklyn.
The older boys act like they don’t believe it, and for the most part, they don’t. But many of them wonder in a small, vague corner of their minds. They look into Spot’s eyes and wonder if maybe, maybe there’s some truth to it (could those be the eyes of a killer?).
And Spot Conlon smirks and knows what they’re thinking and doesn’t deny it very convincingly.
There’s no such thing as bad publicity.
Let’s get back to reality, here.
Well, sort of.
Back to events that actually, arguably, happened. Ones that have eye-witnesses and vouchers. Ones slightly more plausible.
But important?
Well, if they all happened…
…and they all are claimed to be the moment Spot Conlon became King of Brooklyn…
Which one is true? Which is right? Which was it?
It all depends on your perspective.
Let’s focus on one individual.
No, not Spot.
Not even that alleged newsie who allegedly fell/was pushed off the non-alleged bridge. The definitely very real bridge.
Let’s meet someone new.
Let’s call him Bricks.
Everyone else does.
Bricks grew up in Brooklyn. Born and bred. On the streets at the age of six, doin’ the newsie thing by seven.
He’d never wanted to be leader of any kind, although he’d been around long enough. He’s seen his fair share of leaders and bi-leadership, and anarchy, and different levels of officialness. Taken sides a few times, learned better.
Decided it was safest and smartest to just stick with what he was good at:
Being big.
Being menacing.
Being tall.
Being gruff, tough, muscular.
It always worked fairly well for him.
In this story, Spot’s thirteen, maybe fourteen. This story-well, it actually happened. But its importance is mostly to Bricks alone.
You see, Bricks has roughed up a few leaders, pseudo-leaders and wannabe-leaders in his time.
In this story, Spot’s thirteen and Bricks is sixteen or seventeen. At this particular time, Brooklyn is in a state of complete anarchy. Sometimes they have a vague leader, sometimes a very specific one, occasionally a group of popular kids, sometimes many little ringleaders of many different groups… Bricks has seen it all. Every conceivable situation. But right now, no leader(s). Anarchy. And Bricks is the biggest of the boys.
He’s starting to like this feeling of being in control. Of being the newsie all the other newsies-the Brooklyn ones, at least-are scared of.
Uh oh. He’s tasting power, liking it.
And there’s nobody, at the moment, to challenge him. Nobody except Spot. Wise-cracking, witty-makes jokes at Bricks’ expense, and all the other kids laugh.
So Bricks…Bricks decides to rough this little punk up a bit. Or a lot.
Spot puts up much more of a fight than Bricks had counted on. And somehow it turns into a wrestling match, them rolling around, right there on the dirty ground outside the distribution center, the other boys gathered around, cheering and yelling indistinguishably. As boys will.
And Bricks is finding it much harder than he’d gambled on to beat the kid. You would think, wouldn’t you, that a wrestling match involving a skinny maybe-fourteen-year-old who couldn’t have weighed more than a large dog and arguably the biggest newsie in Brooklyn-and most other places (Brooklyn boys are, as a rule, large)-would be over pretty quickly. The outcome predictable, inevitable. Almost boring.
But Spot is quick, and keeps slipping through Bricks’ fingers like water. Bricks is cursing. Spot’s slippery. It’s hard.
But, of course, inevitably, unavoidably, he has Spot pinned. He’s just about to finish him off, make his point, with maybe a sharp bang of Spot’s head into the cobblestones, hard enough to cause swelling, when Spot-
-Spot-
-Spot kisses him.
Spot kisses him.
Full on the mouth. Lips and everything. Hard. And Bricks, surprised-maybe not the right word, maybe you need “shocked” or “flabbergasted” or “holy shit” or something stronger-loosens his grip.
And maybe-
-maybe, just a little, though he’ll always deny it-
-maybe he even, sorta, kinda, a little bit kisses back.
Maybe he doesn’t know what else to do. Maybe it’s an automatic response and he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Maybe he just likes the feeling of Spot’s lips over his own. (No. No, no, no, he’ll vehemently deny this. Maybe a little too much?)
The upshot of it all is that Spot takes his chance, quick as lightning, rolls him over, unattaches his lips before Bricks knows quite what’s happening. And knees him in the groin. Bangs his head on the cobblestones. Punches him swiftly on the jaw.
And stands up, the clear victor.
Bricks learns many things that day (besides the fact that he kinda maybe sorta likes to kiss boys).
He learns about Spot’s determination. Cleverness. Craftiness. Sneakiness. Manipulativeness. His ability to think fast and improvise. (Scrappy, underhanded-)
He learns how hard Spot can knee a guy in the groin.
He learns that he kinda don’t mind that punk too much. Actually, he sorta even-don’t tell a soul-likes him. Shh. Spot may fight dirty, but at least he fights fun.
But mostly?
He learns that Spot will do anything-anything-whatever it takes-to win.
And that lesson stays with him.
And he decides maybe he doesn’t like the taste of power too much after all. It’s a little too bitter in his mouth.
He never lays another finger on Spot again.
Does he lay his lips on him again?
Well.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
That’s a different story.
So is that what got Spot his spot as leader?
Determination? Fearlessness? Machiavelli? Sun Tzu?
Hmm. Maybe.
Kisses alone aren’t enough, though. Neither is determination (as Bumlets will doubtless tell you).
Thanks to our friend Bricks, though, we have what may be piece one to the puzzle of how.
Because maybe that fight didn’t matter just to Bricks. Maybe it stayed in the minds of the other boys, too. Maybe not even the specific incident-just it’s meaning. Just that piece of Spot.
Maybe, less consciously than Bricks had, they realized the same things about Spot that he did. That maybe that kiss represents a whole lot more.
It certainly lived on in mild infamy. The boys were talking about it for weeks afterward, congratulating Spot, teasing and harassing Bricks. A few of the boys still remember-one of the many insane things their leader Spot did, this way back in the day. Some boys will just recall a memory of a memory of the incident.
Spot claims he doesn’t remember it at all.
Claims.
But it happened. He doesn’t deny it.
And Bricks, Bricks is heading off to the mill soon. Away from the newsies. He’s getting too old for this.
Goodbye, Bricks.
Let’s take a moment here and step back. Why is Spot leader?
Not how. Why?
Well, he’s
-the best slingshot wielder in Brooklyn
-got a smart mouth
-not afraid of nothin’
-a good fighter
-smart
-fastest/best pape-seller in Brooklyn (and most other places, too)
-arrogant
-wants to be. Knows he’s good at it. Loves being in the center of attention. Knows everything. Charming.
So why shouldn’t he be, then? Shouldn’t it have been easy?
Well, he’s
-short
-scrawny
-arrogant
-young
-fallible
-slightly insane
-somewhat immature, at times, compared to some of the bullies and thugs in Brooklyn
-he cannot hold his drink
Here’s a story.
But it’s not a one-incident, one-day, one-event story. It’s an era. A time period.
And we’re back to the concept of a gradual takeover…
But first.
First, let’s have some amusement.
It makes sense that Racetrack is the first of the Manhattan newsies to meet him, or know of his existence. Racetrack is generally the first to know most things about Brooklyn and Coney. Before even Jack, who knows most everything from everywhere.
Race, after all, passes through Brooklyn at least twice a day. Sometimes more. His father was from Brooklyn. But that’s a long story, and this isn’t Racetrack’s story. It’s Spot’s.
(Why doesn’t Race just move out to Coney? He claims to be a Manhattan boy, but Jesus. Hassle much?
He’ll tell you he likes the commute. Sure, Race.
We don’t know. You decide.
Anyway.)
Race is riding along on the back of a carriage-more of a wagon, really-reading a pape. Opens it, scans the inside page. Headline reads: President McKinley Visits-
But he doesn’t finish reading it.
Because he hears a whizzing sound, like that of a bullet-but not a bullet-go past his head, and a sharp crack as a sharp little stone goes right into the paper, through the paper, perfect little round hole, dots the “i” in “McKinley”.
Well, what the hell.
No one can shoot so well, so fast, from a slingshot that it tears through three sheets of paper, nice clean hole. No one. No one that Race knows, anyway.
He looks up, looks around. Sees they’re crossing the bridge-he’d been immersed in his paper, hadn’t noticed much-sees the Brooklyn boys practically hanging off the bridge as they tended to do. Target shooting. Practicing. Mostly at birds (the poor things).
But apparently one of the boys’ targets was him.
A younger boy-about a year younger than himself, maybe, not much-smiles mockingly at him, waves. Looks smug and cocky, and ought to, really, judging from what he can back it up with.
Race touches his hat in a brief salute. You have to admire someone with that kind of talent.
But wait, you protest. Wait.
That wasn’t a meeting. That was barely even an interaction. At best, it could be labeled an encounter. So Spot destroyed Race’s pape and Race was duly impressed, so what?
Well, if that’s what you’re thinking, then maybe you should spend some more time with the Brooklyn newsies between the ages of six and ten. They’ll give you what you want.
Because if what you want for Spot and Racetrack’s first meeting is a deep, significant, meaningful conversation or an epic adventure that they’ll both remember forever and ever, then you also probably want Spot to blast his way into the Brooklyn Lodging House, bust a few heads and be declared Unconditional King of Brooklyn on the spot. (Spot, geddit?)
But real life isn’t like that.
Real life is getting to know somebody in peripheral vision. Becoming more and more aware of someone’s existence without even realizing you’re doing so. Until you can pick them out of a crowd (or a police lineup) and spout off basic information and more obscure facts about them without even knowing you know them.
Back to the standing up.
Remember that?
How Spot’s eleven when he stands back up?
Maybe that was the beginning of it all. The first lesson learned. The first puzzle piece. The first clue to how.
And the kicker?
Nothing all that eventful actually happened.
So he stood up. He looked the taller boy squarely in the eye.
And. And?
And nothing.
No kicking of butts and taking of names. No soaking, no pushing, no words.
The older boy merely scoffs at him and moves on, gets his papes. It’s over.
But already, however minorly, he’s established himself. Already he’s made it clear that his is a face, a name, to be remembered. And all he had to do was stand up.
So we know about the standing, and we know about the kissing. The standing and the kissing (and the tripping). We know about them both (all). Let’s go back to the beginning. The beginning, after all, is where the story (the big one, now) starts, where they all start (stories, that is).
The standing and the kissing were both near the beginning, but…
There was stuff before that.
Even.
Here’s a beginning: How did Spot get this way?
Surely he wasn’t just born a badass. His life couldn’t have just started the day he became a Brooklyn newsie.
You’d think there would have to be some sort of tragic childhood, right? Some bitter, angry mask he’s been using to hide his bitter, angry pain. Some type of Freudian excuse (for why he is the way he is).
But if there is?
Then that’s one damn good mask, because he’s not letting on.
Anyway, Spot Conlon doesn’t need a tragic childhood to be the way he is. Spot goddamn Conlon. Himself. Amazing. Whatever.
He was just born that way.
(Just like he must’ve been born with that cane, and with his slingshot abilities, and yes, his life must’ve started the day he became a newsie at age eleven-)
Oh, the story. The gradual, era story. Right.
Well.
Let’s refer back to Bricks, shall we?
Named so because he has bricks for brains, but that’s not important.
Remember all that he’s seen?
The leaders.
The fake leaders, the real ones, good and bad, weak and strong. The multiple leaders, the leader groups, the depends-on-your-point-of-view-who-the-leader-is leaders. The barely-above-everyone-else leaders, the unofficials and the officials.
And anarchy.
And difficult transitions. Everything.
This is sometime after The Kiss, now. No longer total anarchy.
Instead, out of the hundred or so Brooklyn Lodging House boys-ones from the main Lodging House, those who don’t live a) on the streets, b) with their parents, c) in the smaller Brooklyn Lodging House-two have arisen.
As potential leaders.
And neither is content to share power. And both want to be the more official, powerful, wise-and-respected-and-known type of leader. (Of the main Brooklyn Lodging House, that is. Being leader of all of Brooklyn-including the smaller LH-is as-of-yet unheard of.)
There’s only room for one.
And they’re ready to rumble. Just like in one of them dime-store novels.
Where are we?
Two leaders.
Let’s assess them.
Butch.
Butch is seventeen. (Bricks, remember Bricks: also seventeen. Spot fourteen, Jack fifteen. Same with Race. Teddy Roosevelt, 49. Just in case you were curious.)
(Amelia Earheart is three.)
Butch is…blonde.
Long John is brunette.
What more do you need to know?
Every famous newsie-that’s not to say there have been a lot-has had their Event.
For Jack Kelly, it was the strike. For those two weeks and a few months longer, his fame overshadowed even Spot’s own.
Of course, that pretty much ended by the time Teddy Roosevelt mentioned Spot by name in a National Address he gave (and in the same sentence as Napoleon, no less).
Now, Spot’s event, his first event-this is another big piece of the puzzle. This happened during a key time during his Ascension. At a time when no Brooklyn newsie would come out and say Spot Conlon was their leader, their decision maker, their king. (Remember this. This will be important later.)
Anyway, this is something that will gain him fame, and infamy, amongst not only the newsies of Brooklyn but also all of New York. And a few other places too. Trenton, even Philly.
And-here’s a kicker-even non-newsies across the city hear about this one. Bootblacks. Shoeshiners. Factory workers. Businessmen. The governor. Because, you see, Spot Conlon has been in the paper before.
Not by name. Not with a picture (of him, anyway). But the newsies, at least, know exactly who’s to thank for the good headline the next day.
This story will inevitably be brought up nearly every time someone mentions Spot Conlon for years.
It doesn’t even involve violence. You might think that, given his dangerous reputation, but you’d be wrong. No show of force or toughness here. Nothing like that.
Just what some might call-
-if I may-
-a joyride.
Oh, you laugh. So he stole a carriage, maybe rode around the block a little, possibly over the bridge? So what? That’d give him, what, a week of minor celebrity in Brooklyn, tops?
But there’s where you’re wrong.
He doesn’t steal a carriage.
He doesn’t even steal an automobile (of which, in the entire city, there is a total of about two).
Spot Conlon’s much too good for that.
Spot Conlon steals a ship.
It goes off without a hitch.
It’s the dreariest time of year in New York. Cloudy, clammy, cold, grey. But Mother Nature decides to switch things up a bit and grant the city a clear night. The Brooklyn newsies decide to switch things up a bit and give the city something to talk about.
What had begun as a meaningless joke-“We oughta get us a boat sometime, steer ‘round the bay a little”-turns very real.
It’s a Sunday. There is no afternoon edition, they’ve played cards and marbles here and there, it’s evening, they’re bored.
Little Mosie-near eleven-is chronicling his day selling at the shipyards, as though anybody would be interested. Mosie is fascinated by the shipyards, however poorly he does selling there. Nobody’s really listening, but no other conversations are really going on, either. Boredom.
A wicked gleam finds its way into Spot’s eye-where it often finds a home.
“Hey, Mosie,” he interrupts, and Mosie immediately shuts his mouth and stops his rambling, snapping to attention. Some of the other boys turn their heads, begin to listen-Spot’s showing interest in Mosie’s story, have they been missing something? Spot’s not the leader yet, but he is older than Mosie, and he’s definitely at the forefront of all the boys.
“Yeah?” Mosie asks, taking off his hat and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. In all honesty, he hadn’t thought any of the more important boys nearby-Long John, Butch, Bricks, Spot, Gooner-had been listening to his story at all.
“Y’see anything smaller than an ocean liner down at the docks?” Spot asks.
Mosie scratches his head. He could’ve sworn the most exciting part of his stories were the superliners-who cared about the smaller boats? But Spot asked…
“Uh,” he says, “Battleships at the Navy Shipyard, like always. Coupla fishing boats, maybe, those are real tiny…oh, and some ship just come over from dumpin’ a load of immigrants on the Island. Polish, I think. Maybe a thousand, from what I heard. Came to the shipyards for repairs-broken rudder, but they ought to have fixed it by now. Probably be sent back to Poland in the mornin’, t’ get more of ‘em. Like we need anymore Poles here, the-”
Spot strolls past Mosie and casually drives his cane into Mosie’s foot to shut him up. The younger boy winces and gets the hint.
“Hey boys,” Spot calls, raising his voice a little so that all the boys hanging on and around and off of the bridge can hear. “Whaddaya say we take a little trip down to the docks?”
The boys look at each other.
“Why?” calls out one.
“Gettin’ late,” observes another.
Spot simply smirks and turns to walk off the bridge. He doesn’t look back.
He knows they’ll follow.
Of course he’s right.
First there’s the younger boys, the ones who would follow the older ones-and especially Spot, that enigmatic devil-anywhere.
The curious ones, the ones who don’t want to miss out, the followers, all went.
The ones who particularly liked Spot. The ones who smelled adventure.
And then the ones who would’ve looked damn stupid not to go, at that point.
Even the gimp, even Bricks and Gooner, about forty boys in all, went.
Of those on the bridge, only Long John and Butch stayed behind.
Maybe they wanted to show that they were too good to be followers, that Spot Conlon had no power over them, that he was nothing.
This was their biggest mistake.
Because instead of making the impression that they were above any outing headlined by Spot Conlon…
…They just ended up on the outside of Brooklyn’s biggest inside joke in years.
Now, Spot could have orchestrated the biggest catastrophe in recent history, but he doesn’t.
He doesn’t at all.
It’s fairly dark by the time some fortysome Brooklyn newsies reach the shipyard. Very few workers are about. Most are going home for the night; the bustle is dying down. There are maybe half a dozen left, most back in headquarters or tethering up ships. Two on Polyana. Cleaning it. They’ve left their work a bit late, the slackers-
About fifteen minutes after the newsies stealthily arrive, unseen, at the shipyards, the First Admiral Commodore notices that Otto and Keuhn haven’t come back from swabbing the decks of that damn Polish ship. He looks out the window.
It’s not there. The damn Polish ship isn’t there.
He crinkles his brow, scans the dock; has it moved? Nowhere to be seen.
Consults his log. Was it supposed to leave this early? Tonight? And where the hell are Otto and Keuhn?
Looks out the window again.
Sees the ship.
Isn’t happy.
Surely you’re dying to know what’s become of Otto and Keuhn.
Relax. They’re fine.
They’re not exactly overjoyed with their situation, but they’re doing all right. About as right as you would be if you were tied to a pole belowdecks and floating towards the mouth of the Hudson, your life entirely in the hands of a ragtag bunch of teenaged newsboys, most of whom have never been to sea in their lives.
Actually, the boat is sailing surprisingly well. Spot, much to everyone’s surprise, headed straight for the steering deck when he got on board. (Right past the hobbling boys who are already having trouble getting their sea legs and the boys who are about to be very badly sick (ironically, Mosie, who’s always dreamed of going to sea, is among them.)) The captain’s hat firmly on his head (looking quite dashing at a jaunty angle, a far cry from his usual newsboy’s cap), Spot steers the ship out of the bay with little incident.
How he knows how to captain a ship no one’s quite sure.
But he doesn’t do it for long. He takes Danny up with him-a young boy, maybe eleven, idolizes Spot with all of his wide eyes-and, it can be assumed, shows him the ropes, because when he leaves the steering deck to visit the captain’s cabin, the ship continues its forward course, passing right under the bridge, and doesn’t run into anything, or even come all that close to doing so (except for one minor incident involving a flock of geese). It must be a remarkably easy ship to handle, for an eleven-year-old to be able to do it. But apparently the Poles are known for their shipbuilding.
While the boys are carousing on deck-running and laughing and yelling, threatening to push each other off, spitting over the edge and generally praising their own awesomeness-Spot saunters down to the captain’s cabin. He comes back a few minutes later with two dozen bottles of the finest Scottish whisky-the real captain is either a Scottish nationalist or a very, very heavy drinker (perhaps both)-and a box of fireworks. Usually used to signal other ships in times of distress.
The Manhattan sky is well-lit that night.
When the small Navy frigate Blastside finally catches up to Polyana an hour later-in the middle of the frigid New York Harbor, far from the Brooklyn Bridge (it’s been quite a marvelous, one-sided chase), it is to find a number of unexpected things:
a) no one on board except Keuhn and Otto, tied up belowdecks and looking rather scared
b) empty whisky bottles everywhere
c) all of the fireworks detonated and some recent fire damage and burns on the deck
d) one word carved into the wooden wall of the captains’ cabin:
BROOKLYN.
You might be wondering if everything changed in Brooklyn that day.
Of course it didn’t.
Well, did anything change?
Of course it did.
For one thing, Danny was now called Sailor. In honor of this, Spot bestowed him with the captain’s hat he had taken. Sailor tried not to wear it near the docks, or anywhere near the presence of any Navy officials.
This hardly left Spot without a souvenir, however. After all, all the locks on Polyana were changed-just to be safe-once it was discovered the key to the captain’s cabin had mysteriously gone missing along with the hat, the fireworks, and the whisky.
Spot isn’t big on symbolism, but that key was his first and most prized trophy.
Okay, so Spot got a new necklace and Danny got a new name and a hat. The ship got new locks. What else changed?
Well, Spot became as often seen at the very head of the distribution line as Long John or Butch. He definitely established himself as ahead of either Bricks or Gooner, status-wise (before, it had been rather murky and contested).
Their relationship with the docks changed, too, giving the newsies yet another gathering place (a bit more legroom than the bridge, actually, and nicer when one wanted a swim).
What else changed?
Well, short-term, the papers sold very well the next day (the picture was a nice touch: the boat looked quite magnificent silhouetted against Liberty Island while fireworks lit up the sky).
And long-term, well, still no Brooklyn newsie would tell you Spot Conlon was their leader, their decision maker, their king, if you were to ask.
But-
-very big but here-
-they wouldn’t tell you he wasn’t, either.
Part Two.
Fandom: Newsies
Rating: PG
Completed: Yes
Summary: The Almost Completely True Story of Spot Conlon's Rise to Power and Eventual Ascension to Brooklyn's Metaphorical Throne
Author's Note: Basically a character study, or a meta on Spot in story-form. Very weird stylistically. XD Tiny hints of Sprace, but they could be read as just friendship--this is a gen, not a romance. Very long in the making. Please let me know what you think! :)
This is meant to be read as a one-shot, but my one-shots have a habit of being too long for LJ, so I broke it up into two parts meant to be read together, not as separate chapters. JSYK.
(Also, I know the title's boring. I kind of wanted the summary to be the title, but I figured maybe it was a smidgen too long.)
Dedicated to folkloric_feel, because without her fangirling I might never have finished. ♥
This is a story.
More than that, this is a mystery. One without an answer. There is no solution, no conclusion, no aha! moment. This isn’t Clue.
This is a story with one simple question and about a thousand answers, many of which could be right, many of which probably are right. Even the ones that aren’t necessarily true.
Because this is a story in which reality is considered to be highly overrated.
So.
How?
How did a ninety-pound shrimp come to control the toughest borough in New York City, with a veritable army of newsboys answering to his every beck and call? How could he have done it, when so many of the other Brooklyn newsies are older, bigger, stronger? How?
Well.
Spot’s not a straightforward person. So he’s not going to sum this up for you, nice and neat, in a straightforward answer. And neither will anyone else.
But maybe that’s because there is no nice, neat, simple, straightforward answer. Maybe the answer is a puzzle, made up of a thousand different pieces, stories, factors, reasons. Maybe some of them aren’t even true.
Maybe it’s more complicated than beating the last leader at a fistfight (unlikely, cliché, simple).
After all, you think a guy like Spot can commandeer an army like that through physical force alone (hegemony, people, hegemony)? Or hell, even good looks alone?
It is those things. But…it’s more than them, too.
So much more.
Would you believe that it happened when he was ten? That he was ten when he became leader?
No? Well, okay. Eleven, then?
Twelve?
Twelve is what the youngest of the Brooklyn newsies will tell you. They’ll say that Spot Conlon entered the Lodging House in a blaze of glory, right on his twelfth birthday, soaked five-maybe ten-of the big boys and staked his claim as leader. That was, they’ll tell you, that, and no one ever questioned his leadership after that, not even the boys who were nearing twenty years or had twenty inches on him.
Bullshit.
By the time they’d become newsies, those younger boys, Spot Conlon had been running Brooklyn for quite some time. Well-established, you might say. So how would they know how he’d done it? Someone would’ve had to have told them. Somebody would have had to have made up that cock-and-bull story.
But who?
Probably Spot.
He enjoys the different versions. They amuse him, keep people guessing. Spread his reputation, enhance his mystery. Keep people interested. Command respect.
Even if most of it isn’t true-even if the truth isn’t nearly as interesting as the reality, even if he didn’t do most of those things-he always liked being the center of attention.
The truth?
Or, at least, a truth?
Not even some of the older boys know for sure how it happened. And they were there.
Their confusion indicates what might be the exact opposite of the soaking story. It might indicate a slow progression, a gradual creep… A situation in which there is no exact day you could pinpoint as the day Spot Conlon became the most feared and respected newsie in all of New York (and probably everywhere else). He just…wasn’t one year, and was the next. There’s no explaining it. There’s no grand, epic battle to look at.
But how did he even manage that? Even a gradual takeover isn’t easy.
Take it from Bumlets. He’s been trying it for years.
The kid Brooklyn newsies are the rare exception. Most of the more ridiculous, outrageous, wildly out-there stories come from outside Brooklyn.
Actually, the further away you get from Brooklyn, the more implausible the stories get. You oughta hear what they say in Philly. (Yes, they talk about him there.) There’s a certain hierarchy to it. Older stories, and the stories told by older boys, are more credible than the stories told by the younger ones. The closer you live to Brooklyn, the more credibility your story has. And so on.
Everyone wants to know. Everyone has their story, their own version-one which they choose to believe. They argue over it, each one convinced-or at least wanting to be convinced-that theirs is right.
Even the Manhattan boys have their stories. One of them may even possibly have it right.
But we’ll get to that later.
Spot’s eleven.
No, really.
He’s eleven when he becomes a newsie. Don’t ask what he was doing before that; Spot, as we will learn, is a Man of Many Mysteries.
He’s eleven when he becomes a newsie. He’s eleven when a larger boy pushes him to the ground on his very first day.
He’s eleven when he stands back up.
Wanna hear another fun story?
Spot pushed the last Brooklyn leader off of a bridge.
No, we’re not kidding.
It’s become a bit of an old wife’s tale, actually. A fable. Urban legend. Myth.
In Brooklyn, Queens, anywhere nearby-they know it isn’t true. They scoff at it, if they happen to hear it. There was no Brooklyn leader who fell-or was pushed-off a bridge. Not around the time the stories claim, anyway.
Spot loves this story almost most of all. Because it, more than anything else, means he’s famous. A legend in less than three years.
Whoops-did we give away too much?
Back to the bridge.
Story goes-goes on Long Island, parts of Midtown, Trenton, anywhere anyone’s ever heard of Spot Conlon-Spot and some of the other Brooklyn boys were crossing the bridge.
He’s thirteen in this story.
Story goes, it’s an icy December. And the leader just happens to slip-
-or is pushed-
-or trips-
-or is tripped-
-or any number of things-
-and off he goes.
Sometimes it’s a full-blown fistfight, and he gets punched over the edge. One newsie in Harlem swears he jumped to avoid getting more of a soaking.
And sometimes it’s a slightly different tale. It’s night. Spot and the leader, alone now, are walking along the bridge. The leader’s sharing words of wisdom with his young protégé.
And then the push. The fall.
Spot slips back into the lodging house, gets in bed, cozy as you please. Doesn’t lose a wink of sleep over the thing. And in the morning, acts as surprised as everyone else to find Merv washed up on the riverbank.
But asserts his power that very day.
Nowadays, hardly anyone actually believes the bridge story. The very young boys sometimes do. They repeat it over and over in silent awe, in fear and in wonder. They use it as a cautionary tale-why never to go to Brooklyn.
The older boys act like they don’t believe it, and for the most part, they don’t. But many of them wonder in a small, vague corner of their minds. They look into Spot’s eyes and wonder if maybe, maybe there’s some truth to it (could those be the eyes of a killer?).
And Spot Conlon smirks and knows what they’re thinking and doesn’t deny it very convincingly.
There’s no such thing as bad publicity.
Let’s get back to reality, here.
Well, sort of.
Back to events that actually, arguably, happened. Ones that have eye-witnesses and vouchers. Ones slightly more plausible.
But important?
Well, if they all happened…
…and they all are claimed to be the moment Spot Conlon became King of Brooklyn…
Which one is true? Which is right? Which was it?
It all depends on your perspective.
Let’s focus on one individual.
No, not Spot.
Not even that alleged newsie who allegedly fell/was pushed off the non-alleged bridge. The definitely very real bridge.
Let’s meet someone new.
Let’s call him Bricks.
Everyone else does.
Bricks grew up in Brooklyn. Born and bred. On the streets at the age of six, doin’ the newsie thing by seven.
He’d never wanted to be leader of any kind, although he’d been around long enough. He’s seen his fair share of leaders and bi-leadership, and anarchy, and different levels of officialness. Taken sides a few times, learned better.
Decided it was safest and smartest to just stick with what he was good at:
Being big.
Being menacing.
Being tall.
Being gruff, tough, muscular.
It always worked fairly well for him.
In this story, Spot’s thirteen, maybe fourteen. This story-well, it actually happened. But its importance is mostly to Bricks alone.
You see, Bricks has roughed up a few leaders, pseudo-leaders and wannabe-leaders in his time.
In this story, Spot’s thirteen and Bricks is sixteen or seventeen. At this particular time, Brooklyn is in a state of complete anarchy. Sometimes they have a vague leader, sometimes a very specific one, occasionally a group of popular kids, sometimes many little ringleaders of many different groups… Bricks has seen it all. Every conceivable situation. But right now, no leader(s). Anarchy. And Bricks is the biggest of the boys.
He’s starting to like this feeling of being in control. Of being the newsie all the other newsies-the Brooklyn ones, at least-are scared of.
Uh oh. He’s tasting power, liking it.
And there’s nobody, at the moment, to challenge him. Nobody except Spot. Wise-cracking, witty-makes jokes at Bricks’ expense, and all the other kids laugh.
So Bricks…Bricks decides to rough this little punk up a bit. Or a lot.
Spot puts up much more of a fight than Bricks had counted on. And somehow it turns into a wrestling match, them rolling around, right there on the dirty ground outside the distribution center, the other boys gathered around, cheering and yelling indistinguishably. As boys will.
And Bricks is finding it much harder than he’d gambled on to beat the kid. You would think, wouldn’t you, that a wrestling match involving a skinny maybe-fourteen-year-old who couldn’t have weighed more than a large dog and arguably the biggest newsie in Brooklyn-and most other places (Brooklyn boys are, as a rule, large)-would be over pretty quickly. The outcome predictable, inevitable. Almost boring.
But Spot is quick, and keeps slipping through Bricks’ fingers like water. Bricks is cursing. Spot’s slippery. It’s hard.
But, of course, inevitably, unavoidably, he has Spot pinned. He’s just about to finish him off, make his point, with maybe a sharp bang of Spot’s head into the cobblestones, hard enough to cause swelling, when Spot-
-Spot-
-Spot kisses him.
Spot kisses him.
Full on the mouth. Lips and everything. Hard. And Bricks, surprised-maybe not the right word, maybe you need “shocked” or “flabbergasted” or “holy shit” or something stronger-loosens his grip.
And maybe-
-maybe, just a little, though he’ll always deny it-
-maybe he even, sorta, kinda, a little bit kisses back.
Maybe he doesn’t know what else to do. Maybe it’s an automatic response and he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Maybe he just likes the feeling of Spot’s lips over his own. (No. No, no, no, he’ll vehemently deny this. Maybe a little too much?)
The upshot of it all is that Spot takes his chance, quick as lightning, rolls him over, unattaches his lips before Bricks knows quite what’s happening. And knees him in the groin. Bangs his head on the cobblestones. Punches him swiftly on the jaw.
And stands up, the clear victor.
Bricks learns many things that day (besides the fact that he kinda maybe sorta likes to kiss boys).
He learns about Spot’s determination. Cleverness. Craftiness. Sneakiness. Manipulativeness. His ability to think fast and improvise. (Scrappy, underhanded-)
He learns how hard Spot can knee a guy in the groin.
He learns that he kinda don’t mind that punk too much. Actually, he sorta even-don’t tell a soul-likes him. Shh. Spot may fight dirty, but at least he fights fun.
But mostly?
He learns that Spot will do anything-anything-whatever it takes-to win.
And that lesson stays with him.
And he decides maybe he doesn’t like the taste of power too much after all. It’s a little too bitter in his mouth.
He never lays another finger on Spot again.
Does he lay his lips on him again?
Well.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
That’s a different story.
So is that what got Spot his spot as leader?
Determination? Fearlessness? Machiavelli? Sun Tzu?
Hmm. Maybe.
Kisses alone aren’t enough, though. Neither is determination (as Bumlets will doubtless tell you).
Thanks to our friend Bricks, though, we have what may be piece one to the puzzle of how.
Because maybe that fight didn’t matter just to Bricks. Maybe it stayed in the minds of the other boys, too. Maybe not even the specific incident-just it’s meaning. Just that piece of Spot.
Maybe, less consciously than Bricks had, they realized the same things about Spot that he did. That maybe that kiss represents a whole lot more.
It certainly lived on in mild infamy. The boys were talking about it for weeks afterward, congratulating Spot, teasing and harassing Bricks. A few of the boys still remember-one of the many insane things their leader Spot did, this way back in the day. Some boys will just recall a memory of a memory of the incident.
Spot claims he doesn’t remember it at all.
Claims.
But it happened. He doesn’t deny it.
And Bricks, Bricks is heading off to the mill soon. Away from the newsies. He’s getting too old for this.
Goodbye, Bricks.
Let’s take a moment here and step back. Why is Spot leader?
Not how. Why?
Well, he’s
-the best slingshot wielder in Brooklyn
-got a smart mouth
-not afraid of nothin’
-a good fighter
-smart
-fastest/best pape-seller in Brooklyn (and most other places, too)
-arrogant
-wants to be. Knows he’s good at it. Loves being in the center of attention. Knows everything. Charming.
So why shouldn’t he be, then? Shouldn’t it have been easy?
Well, he’s
-short
-scrawny
-arrogant
-young
-fallible
-slightly insane
-somewhat immature, at times, compared to some of the bullies and thugs in Brooklyn
-he cannot hold his drink
Here’s a story.
But it’s not a one-incident, one-day, one-event story. It’s an era. A time period.
And we’re back to the concept of a gradual takeover…
But first.
First, let’s have some amusement.
It makes sense that Racetrack is the first of the Manhattan newsies to meet him, or know of his existence. Racetrack is generally the first to know most things about Brooklyn and Coney. Before even Jack, who knows most everything from everywhere.
Race, after all, passes through Brooklyn at least twice a day. Sometimes more. His father was from Brooklyn. But that’s a long story, and this isn’t Racetrack’s story. It’s Spot’s.
(Why doesn’t Race just move out to Coney? He claims to be a Manhattan boy, but Jesus. Hassle much?
He’ll tell you he likes the commute. Sure, Race.
We don’t know. You decide.
Anyway.)
Race is riding along on the back of a carriage-more of a wagon, really-reading a pape. Opens it, scans the inside page. Headline reads: President McKinley Visits-
But he doesn’t finish reading it.
Because he hears a whizzing sound, like that of a bullet-but not a bullet-go past his head, and a sharp crack as a sharp little stone goes right into the paper, through the paper, perfect little round hole, dots the “i” in “McKinley”.
Well, what the hell.
No one can shoot so well, so fast, from a slingshot that it tears through three sheets of paper, nice clean hole. No one. No one that Race knows, anyway.
He looks up, looks around. Sees they’re crossing the bridge-he’d been immersed in his paper, hadn’t noticed much-sees the Brooklyn boys practically hanging off the bridge as they tended to do. Target shooting. Practicing. Mostly at birds (the poor things).
But apparently one of the boys’ targets was him.
A younger boy-about a year younger than himself, maybe, not much-smiles mockingly at him, waves. Looks smug and cocky, and ought to, really, judging from what he can back it up with.
Race touches his hat in a brief salute. You have to admire someone with that kind of talent.
But wait, you protest. Wait.
That wasn’t a meeting. That was barely even an interaction. At best, it could be labeled an encounter. So Spot destroyed Race’s pape and Race was duly impressed, so what?
Well, if that’s what you’re thinking, then maybe you should spend some more time with the Brooklyn newsies between the ages of six and ten. They’ll give you what you want.
Because if what you want for Spot and Racetrack’s first meeting is a deep, significant, meaningful conversation or an epic adventure that they’ll both remember forever and ever, then you also probably want Spot to blast his way into the Brooklyn Lodging House, bust a few heads and be declared Unconditional King of Brooklyn on the spot. (Spot, geddit?)
But real life isn’t like that.
Real life is getting to know somebody in peripheral vision. Becoming more and more aware of someone’s existence without even realizing you’re doing so. Until you can pick them out of a crowd (or a police lineup) and spout off basic information and more obscure facts about them without even knowing you know them.
Back to the standing up.
Remember that?
How Spot’s eleven when he stands back up?
Maybe that was the beginning of it all. The first lesson learned. The first puzzle piece. The first clue to how.
And the kicker?
Nothing all that eventful actually happened.
So he stood up. He looked the taller boy squarely in the eye.
And. And?
And nothing.
No kicking of butts and taking of names. No soaking, no pushing, no words.
The older boy merely scoffs at him and moves on, gets his papes. It’s over.
But already, however minorly, he’s established himself. Already he’s made it clear that his is a face, a name, to be remembered. And all he had to do was stand up.
So we know about the standing, and we know about the kissing. The standing and the kissing (and the tripping). We know about them both (all). Let’s go back to the beginning. The beginning, after all, is where the story (the big one, now) starts, where they all start (stories, that is).
The standing and the kissing were both near the beginning, but…
There was stuff before that.
Even.
Here’s a beginning: How did Spot get this way?
Surely he wasn’t just born a badass. His life couldn’t have just started the day he became a Brooklyn newsie.
You’d think there would have to be some sort of tragic childhood, right? Some bitter, angry mask he’s been using to hide his bitter, angry pain. Some type of Freudian excuse (for why he is the way he is).
But if there is?
Then that’s one damn good mask, because he’s not letting on.
Anyway, Spot Conlon doesn’t need a tragic childhood to be the way he is. Spot goddamn Conlon. Himself. Amazing. Whatever.
He was just born that way.
(Just like he must’ve been born with that cane, and with his slingshot abilities, and yes, his life must’ve started the day he became a newsie at age eleven-)
Oh, the story. The gradual, era story. Right.
Well.
Let’s refer back to Bricks, shall we?
Named so because he has bricks for brains, but that’s not important.
Remember all that he’s seen?
The leaders.
The fake leaders, the real ones, good and bad, weak and strong. The multiple leaders, the leader groups, the depends-on-your-point-of-view-who-the-leader-is leaders. The barely-above-everyone-else leaders, the unofficials and the officials.
And anarchy.
And difficult transitions. Everything.
This is sometime after The Kiss, now. No longer total anarchy.
Instead, out of the hundred or so Brooklyn Lodging House boys-ones from the main Lodging House, those who don’t live a) on the streets, b) with their parents, c) in the smaller Brooklyn Lodging House-two have arisen.
As potential leaders.
And neither is content to share power. And both want to be the more official, powerful, wise-and-respected-and-known type of leader. (Of the main Brooklyn Lodging House, that is. Being leader of all of Brooklyn-including the smaller LH-is as-of-yet unheard of.)
There’s only room for one.
And they’re ready to rumble. Just like in one of them dime-store novels.
Where are we?
Two leaders.
Let’s assess them.
Butch.
Butch is seventeen. (Bricks, remember Bricks: also seventeen. Spot fourteen, Jack fifteen. Same with Race. Teddy Roosevelt, 49. Just in case you were curious.)
(Amelia Earheart is three.)
Butch is…blonde.
Long John is brunette.
What more do you need to know?
Every famous newsie-that’s not to say there have been a lot-has had their Event.
For Jack Kelly, it was the strike. For those two weeks and a few months longer, his fame overshadowed even Spot’s own.
Of course, that pretty much ended by the time Teddy Roosevelt mentioned Spot by name in a National Address he gave (and in the same sentence as Napoleon, no less).
Now, Spot’s event, his first event-this is another big piece of the puzzle. This happened during a key time during his Ascension. At a time when no Brooklyn newsie would come out and say Spot Conlon was their leader, their decision maker, their king. (Remember this. This will be important later.)
Anyway, this is something that will gain him fame, and infamy, amongst not only the newsies of Brooklyn but also all of New York. And a few other places too. Trenton, even Philly.
And-here’s a kicker-even non-newsies across the city hear about this one. Bootblacks. Shoeshiners. Factory workers. Businessmen. The governor. Because, you see, Spot Conlon has been in the paper before.
Not by name. Not with a picture (of him, anyway). But the newsies, at least, know exactly who’s to thank for the good headline the next day.
This story will inevitably be brought up nearly every time someone mentions Spot Conlon for years.
It doesn’t even involve violence. You might think that, given his dangerous reputation, but you’d be wrong. No show of force or toughness here. Nothing like that.
Just what some might call-
-if I may-
-a joyride.
Oh, you laugh. So he stole a carriage, maybe rode around the block a little, possibly over the bridge? So what? That’d give him, what, a week of minor celebrity in Brooklyn, tops?
But there’s where you’re wrong.
He doesn’t steal a carriage.
He doesn’t even steal an automobile (of which, in the entire city, there is a total of about two).
Spot Conlon’s much too good for that.
Spot Conlon steals a ship.
It goes off without a hitch.
It’s the dreariest time of year in New York. Cloudy, clammy, cold, grey. But Mother Nature decides to switch things up a bit and grant the city a clear night. The Brooklyn newsies decide to switch things up a bit and give the city something to talk about.
What had begun as a meaningless joke-“We oughta get us a boat sometime, steer ‘round the bay a little”-turns very real.
It’s a Sunday. There is no afternoon edition, they’ve played cards and marbles here and there, it’s evening, they’re bored.
Little Mosie-near eleven-is chronicling his day selling at the shipyards, as though anybody would be interested. Mosie is fascinated by the shipyards, however poorly he does selling there. Nobody’s really listening, but no other conversations are really going on, either. Boredom.
A wicked gleam finds its way into Spot’s eye-where it often finds a home.
“Hey, Mosie,” he interrupts, and Mosie immediately shuts his mouth and stops his rambling, snapping to attention. Some of the other boys turn their heads, begin to listen-Spot’s showing interest in Mosie’s story, have they been missing something? Spot’s not the leader yet, but he is older than Mosie, and he’s definitely at the forefront of all the boys.
“Yeah?” Mosie asks, taking off his hat and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. In all honesty, he hadn’t thought any of the more important boys nearby-Long John, Butch, Bricks, Spot, Gooner-had been listening to his story at all.
“Y’see anything smaller than an ocean liner down at the docks?” Spot asks.
Mosie scratches his head. He could’ve sworn the most exciting part of his stories were the superliners-who cared about the smaller boats? But Spot asked…
“Uh,” he says, “Battleships at the Navy Shipyard, like always. Coupla fishing boats, maybe, those are real tiny…oh, and some ship just come over from dumpin’ a load of immigrants on the Island. Polish, I think. Maybe a thousand, from what I heard. Came to the shipyards for repairs-broken rudder, but they ought to have fixed it by now. Probably be sent back to Poland in the mornin’, t’ get more of ‘em. Like we need anymore Poles here, the-”
Spot strolls past Mosie and casually drives his cane into Mosie’s foot to shut him up. The younger boy winces and gets the hint.
“Hey boys,” Spot calls, raising his voice a little so that all the boys hanging on and around and off of the bridge can hear. “Whaddaya say we take a little trip down to the docks?”
The boys look at each other.
“Why?” calls out one.
“Gettin’ late,” observes another.
Spot simply smirks and turns to walk off the bridge. He doesn’t look back.
He knows they’ll follow.
Of course he’s right.
First there’s the younger boys, the ones who would follow the older ones-and especially Spot, that enigmatic devil-anywhere.
The curious ones, the ones who don’t want to miss out, the followers, all went.
The ones who particularly liked Spot. The ones who smelled adventure.
And then the ones who would’ve looked damn stupid not to go, at that point.
Even the gimp, even Bricks and Gooner, about forty boys in all, went.
Of those on the bridge, only Long John and Butch stayed behind.
Maybe they wanted to show that they were too good to be followers, that Spot Conlon had no power over them, that he was nothing.
This was their biggest mistake.
Because instead of making the impression that they were above any outing headlined by Spot Conlon…
…They just ended up on the outside of Brooklyn’s biggest inside joke in years.
Now, Spot could have orchestrated the biggest catastrophe in recent history, but he doesn’t.
He doesn’t at all.
It’s fairly dark by the time some fortysome Brooklyn newsies reach the shipyard. Very few workers are about. Most are going home for the night; the bustle is dying down. There are maybe half a dozen left, most back in headquarters or tethering up ships. Two on Polyana. Cleaning it. They’ve left their work a bit late, the slackers-
About fifteen minutes after the newsies stealthily arrive, unseen, at the shipyards, the First Admiral Commodore notices that Otto and Keuhn haven’t come back from swabbing the decks of that damn Polish ship. He looks out the window.
It’s not there. The damn Polish ship isn’t there.
He crinkles his brow, scans the dock; has it moved? Nowhere to be seen.
Consults his log. Was it supposed to leave this early? Tonight? And where the hell are Otto and Keuhn?
Looks out the window again.
Sees the ship.
Isn’t happy.
Surely you’re dying to know what’s become of Otto and Keuhn.
Relax. They’re fine.
They’re not exactly overjoyed with their situation, but they’re doing all right. About as right as you would be if you were tied to a pole belowdecks and floating towards the mouth of the Hudson, your life entirely in the hands of a ragtag bunch of teenaged newsboys, most of whom have never been to sea in their lives.
Actually, the boat is sailing surprisingly well. Spot, much to everyone’s surprise, headed straight for the steering deck when he got on board. (Right past the hobbling boys who are already having trouble getting their sea legs and the boys who are about to be very badly sick (ironically, Mosie, who’s always dreamed of going to sea, is among them.)) The captain’s hat firmly on his head (looking quite dashing at a jaunty angle, a far cry from his usual newsboy’s cap), Spot steers the ship out of the bay with little incident.
How he knows how to captain a ship no one’s quite sure.
But he doesn’t do it for long. He takes Danny up with him-a young boy, maybe eleven, idolizes Spot with all of his wide eyes-and, it can be assumed, shows him the ropes, because when he leaves the steering deck to visit the captain’s cabin, the ship continues its forward course, passing right under the bridge, and doesn’t run into anything, or even come all that close to doing so (except for one minor incident involving a flock of geese). It must be a remarkably easy ship to handle, for an eleven-year-old to be able to do it. But apparently the Poles are known for their shipbuilding.
While the boys are carousing on deck-running and laughing and yelling, threatening to push each other off, spitting over the edge and generally praising their own awesomeness-Spot saunters down to the captain’s cabin. He comes back a few minutes later with two dozen bottles of the finest Scottish whisky-the real captain is either a Scottish nationalist or a very, very heavy drinker (perhaps both)-and a box of fireworks. Usually used to signal other ships in times of distress.
The Manhattan sky is well-lit that night.
When the small Navy frigate Blastside finally catches up to Polyana an hour later-in the middle of the frigid New York Harbor, far from the Brooklyn Bridge (it’s been quite a marvelous, one-sided chase), it is to find a number of unexpected things:
a) no one on board except Keuhn and Otto, tied up belowdecks and looking rather scared
b) empty whisky bottles everywhere
c) all of the fireworks detonated and some recent fire damage and burns on the deck
d) one word carved into the wooden wall of the captains’ cabin:
BROOKLYN.
You might be wondering if everything changed in Brooklyn that day.
Of course it didn’t.
Well, did anything change?
Of course it did.
For one thing, Danny was now called Sailor. In honor of this, Spot bestowed him with the captain’s hat he had taken. Sailor tried not to wear it near the docks, or anywhere near the presence of any Navy officials.
This hardly left Spot without a souvenir, however. After all, all the locks on Polyana were changed-just to be safe-once it was discovered the key to the captain’s cabin had mysteriously gone missing along with the hat, the fireworks, and the whisky.
Spot isn’t big on symbolism, but that key was his first and most prized trophy.
Okay, so Spot got a new necklace and Danny got a new name and a hat. The ship got new locks. What else changed?
Well, Spot became as often seen at the very head of the distribution line as Long John or Butch. He definitely established himself as ahead of either Bricks or Gooner, status-wise (before, it had been rather murky and contested).
Their relationship with the docks changed, too, giving the newsies yet another gathering place (a bit more legroom than the bridge, actually, and nicer when one wanted a swim).
What else changed?
Well, short-term, the papers sold very well the next day (the picture was a nice touch: the boat looked quite magnificent silhouetted against Liberty Island while fireworks lit up the sky).
And long-term, well, still no Brooklyn newsie would tell you Spot Conlon was their leader, their decision maker, their king, if you were to ask.
But-
-very big but here-
-they wouldn’t tell you he wasn’t, either.
Part Two.