John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

“ ‘Sure and hasn’t the Congress itself signed the Articles iv WAR! ’ says the copper.

“ ‘Ohhh — have they finally done the dade? Tis a hysteric occasion—’

“ ‘It’s got me martial spirit inflamed,’ says Gilhooley. ‘If there was a Spaniard at hand I’d pop him in the beezer meself!’

“ O’Malley throws a glimmer around the street. ‘And where is the swarthy little fandango-dancers whin you nade im? I don’t suppose an Eyetalian would do?’

“ ‘Diffrint race altogether, Martin. Yer Dons has been a haughty and crool outfit since the days of the conquistadoros, whereas your Eyetalian is more iv a Jovanny-come-lately to the Table iv Nations. Columbus himself was wurrkin for the Spaniards whin he bumped into the United States.’

“ ‘They’re a seafarin paypul, yer wops,’ agrees O’Malley. ‘Sure and haven’t ye ivver seen em on the Staten Island Ferry, with the rag and polish in their hands? All the grrreat ocean voyages — Magellan, Cook, Henry Hudson sailin up our own West Side — there was always a little Jewseppy aboard to kape a sparkle on their boots.’

“ ‘There’s a call out fer fightin men,’ says Gilhooley, twirling his stick. ‘I’ve half a mind to throw me name into the hat.’

“ ‘Half a mind indade,’ says O’Malley, filling the back of his wagon.

“ ‘Tis a grrreat day fer the Republic,’ continues the officer, a far-off look in his eye. ‘And the Cubings will be throwin a party as well.’

“ ‘The divvil with the Cubings,’ says O’Malley, tamping down his haul with the back of his spade. ‘This is our donneybrook now. They want a fight, they can attack Porto Rico or one iv them ither islands in the Carrybium. Forst come, forst served is what I say!’

“ ‘That’s the spirit—’

“ ‘And whin the Pearl iv the Aunt Tillies is free,’ he adds, ‘can the Emerald Isle be far behind?’ ”

There is cheering and banging on tables then and Schoendienst buys a round for anyone who can shove their way up to the bar. At the door the Yellow Kid runs into Maxie Schimmel, lugging in a stack of Herald s.

“Two more rounds in these jokers,” he shouts to Maxie over the sound of the scribblers stomping their feet in time and singing Glory, Glory Hallelujah , “and they’ll buy yes terday’s paper.”

He heads over to the Park Row turnaround then and attacks the commuters getting into their trolleys to go home.

“ WAR!” he hollers. “Spanish Threat to Burn Washington!”

He is bumping shoulders with One-Nugget Feeny, who’s got an armful of the World.

“ WAR!” cries Feeny. “ World Exclusive, Cuba Declared Newest State!”

“ WAR!” yells the Kid. “Houdini Disappears in Havana!”

“ WAR!” shouts Feeny. “The World Remembers the Maine !”

“ WAR!” screams the Yellow Kid. “The Journal Declares WAR!on Spain!”

The Kid is down to a handful by the time it is dark, hanging outside the New Citadel, the Delmonico’s downtown joint on South William Street. He has all but one paper stashed under a trash barrel across the way, and every time a couple sports wander out with their bellies full of oysters and alligator pears he goes into his crybaby routine.

“Wah-hah-hah-hah!” he goes, tears running down his cheeks, standing smack between them and the hack stand, bawling and snuffling and holding the lonely paper out with trembling hands.

“What’s the matter, sonny?” says one out of three.

“I wanna go to home!”

“Go home then.”

“I can’t! I gotta sell all my papers or my fadder’ll knock the tar outta me! Whah-hah-hah-hah! Dis is my last one ony won’t nobody buy it. I wanna go home!”

“Here, then. What’s this, the Hearst paper? There ought to be a Com-mission to look into this — forcing young children out on the streets to peddle this trash! Here, go home now.”

And before he’s halfway down the block they’re gone in their hack and he runs to grab the next one.

There is a woman, a young one, all dressed in satin and foxtails with a big hat with feathers and a bucket of perfume on her who bends down to take his face in her hands.

“Isn’t he adorable?” she says. He has the ratty old cap on still, and he’s been blubbering so much there’s snot hanging out his nose and his toes are sticking out the front of Hunky Joe’s old clodhoppers and he’s yellow as the flophouse sheets, but what the hell, she thinks he’s adorable that’s her business. “What’s the matter, little boy?”

There’s nothing much the matter, he’s never made so much mazuma in one day, ever, but her hands feel nice on his cheeks and the perfume is o.k. too, so he just keeps sniffling.

“I gotta sell — my last paper — before I can go home,” he manages to whine out between sniffs, lips trembling. “An if I don’t—”

“Hush now. Rupert?” And with this the skinny geezer scowling down at him sighs and digs into his jacket. “Rupert, buy this poor child’s newspaper. How much is it, darling?”

“Only a nickel,” says the Kid in a very small voice. “Onnaconna it’s my last one.”

Rupert slaps the coin into his palm and snatches the paper away.

“And where do you live?” asks the pretty woman, straightening up.

“Baxter Street,” he answers without pause, “with my fadder and six baby sisters.”

By the time he is making the long walk back up Broadway, legs weary, he has only four papers unsold. The Journal doesn’t give you nothing back for returns, none of them do, so he is out the four cents.

He is passing Fulton Street, yawning already, when Sluggo Pilchek calls from under a streetlight.

“Yo Kid,” he calls, “lookit what I got here.”

At first when Sluggo peels the paper back he thinks it is dead, but then he can see its face is red and that it’s only too weak to cry, little eyes blurry and almost clear blue, naked inside the front page of the morning Telegraph.

“Some lousy break, huh?” says Sluggo, who works for the Sun . “Ditched on the street wrapped in a stinker rag like that.”

“What you gonna do with it?”

“What am I spose to do with it? The old lady’s already got a squaller at home.”

“We can’t leave it here.”

“Its mother did.”

The Yellow Kid rewraps the baby, lifts it awkwardly. “Grab my papers.”

“You aint gonna sell these now—”

“Grab em.”

“What are we doing?”

“Look for a cop.”

Sluggo picks the Kid’s papers up, shakes his head. “This hour? They’re all up on Bowery, suckin at the tit.”

“So we’ll bring it to the nuns.”

They walk, the Yellow Kid wondering if it’s still alive but not daring to check.

“How’d you do today?” asks Sluggo.

“Knocked em dead. They can’t get enough of this Spain business.”

“It’ll only get better.”

“That’s what they say.”

Sluggo cocks a doubtful eye at the Kid’s new bundle. “So how you figure the nuns feed these things?”

“They keep milk.”

“Just sittin around?”

“Maybe.”

“Cause they got no tits, nuns.”

“Really?”

“Brides of Christ,” says Sluggo. “They’re not spose to have em.”

“They must keep milk then.”

“It goes bad awful easy.”

The Kid shrugs. “They do what they can,” he says, “then send em to Randall’s Island.”