A Lucky Quarter

New York was busy as ever on Monday morning when Vincent Moretti stepped out of his apartment in Little Italy and began his daily commute to Park Row. It was another week of labor for the lad, but the thirteen-year-old was used to it by now  because of his three year experience as a newsboy for the New York World. The pay was minimal, but it was enough to put food on the table. Plus, he knew for a fact that he would rather be at the World than the other newspapers in town. A friend of his from the Tribune always turned somber when he tried to talk about the life of the newsies who bunked in the basement of the building where  the majority of the orphans slept. About a week ago, when Vincent had given him some bread, he watched in amazement at how fast the other boy had devoured half of the  loaf despite it being stale.

Vincent barely caught the bus that morning to take him from Little Italy to Park Row, where many of the large newspaper buildings, including the World, dominated the skyline. The bus was crammed to its capacity limit, and Vincent slipped in between two men. He didn’t stare at them- he’d learned in the past that staring only results in trouble- but he could observe the odor of alcohol already reeking from the man on his right, despite it not even being 9 a.m.. It was strong, much more powerful than beer- possibly whiskey. Furthermore, there was a mixture of cigarettes, sauerkraut, and who knows what else. The rancid odors were only amplified by the hot, humid air. 

As the bus kicked into acceleration, Vincent closed his eyes and drew in the environment. Behind him, he could hear Irish accents, Russian, and other languages; however, the one that stuck out most to him was three voices in front of him speaking German. He could determine them to be two men and a woman, and they were speaking quite loudly. They always sound so angry, Vincent thought to himself.

The bus stopped, and the man on his right shifted his briefcase, signaling his departure. Thank God, Vincent imagined, that’s one less person and one less smell. A large number of people exited the bus, yet an almost equal amount got on. Vincent sighed, he could already tell the monotony of this week was going to be the same as the last. After a couple more stops, it was his turn to get off on Park Row, and he stepped out of the bus.

 As he gazed down the street, he could see mobs of people, holding signs and shouting chants in unison. Must be protesting about that fire on Saturday, Vincent imagined. He looked up to see a clock on the building to his right and panicked. He rushed towards the Pulitzer building where the New York World was headquartered. After a few minutes of dodging protesters and traffic, he made it there, out of breath, and out of time. “Boy!!” The foreman scolded, “Yer late. Name?”

“Vincent Moretti, sir.”

“Dammit boy, I was ‘bout to close ‘er up. Here’s whatcha git for bein’ so late t’day.” The foreman tossed a thin package of newspapers over to Moretti. “Lucky for you them folks out there is gonna pay up ta’ git on top of the news from this Saturdee. Now git!”

“Yes sir.” Vincent exited the building and headed for Broadway. Damn bus. I should start taking the Elevated train.  to himself. He knew that despite the lesser workload, the consequence was smaller pay.  Even now, he barely earned a little pocket change in the given week, so every penny mattered. When he reached Broadway Street, he broke the banding on the stack and read the headline. “Factory Owners Face Prosecution for Devastating Fire” read the bold, black lettering read. Vincent was almost tempted to sit down and read the article himself; however, he knew it was time for business. 

“GET THE LATEST NEWS FROM THE FIRE HERE FOR ONLY FIVE CENTS, FOLKS!” Vincent hollered, “THAT’S RIGHT SIR, ONLY FIVE CENTS!” 

Five cents… Vincent muttered inwardly, these bastards probably act like that amounts nothing. I barely make twelve in a day. Oh how they cheat us newsies…

At that moment, a man came up to Vincent. “I’ll take two,” he said. He was a short, stout man, probably in his forties. Vincent presumed him to be Jewish from the Kippah on his head. He gave Vincent two nickels and Vincent handed him two copies. The man stepped off to the side and opened up one of the papers. He read it intently for a couple minutes. “Shame about what happened to those girls,” he said to Vincent after a couple minutes passed, “My daughter was friends with someone who worked there. Thankfully, she was on a different floor.”

“Yes, sir. It was a shame indeed.” After a few more minutes the man left, resuming  his daily life. Vincent was on a roll selling his papers. In only an hour, he was able to give away half of his twenty paper supply. Maybe by lunch I can go back to the station and see if they have any extras, he thought. Vincent closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of Broadway Street around him. He could hear the bustling city and the mix of nationalities and languages blending together, representing the melting pot that New York had become over the past couple of decades. More than the sounds, what stuck out to Vincent was the smells. It was nearing lunchtime, and the aroma of soft pretzels and hotdogs from stands nearby wafted in his direction. With his mouth watering, Vincent called for a break at noon and used change to buy a brat from a nearby German vendor. He only had three papers left, so he started to walk back to the World building to report and find out if there were more copies he could sell off. He received word there was not, and in disappointment he sold off his last three papers within the hour. 

After turning in his earnings, a foreman counted out the sums of the day. “Yer lucky kid, yer the first here and special editions earn more,” he told Vincent as he passed him a quarter. Vincent almost cried out loud. A quarter! That’s twice my earnings on a normal day, with all the extra time, I may even catch a Nickelodeon to celebrate! Vincent thanked the foreman and left the building. He sat on the front steps, trying to decide what to do with the free time. In the end, he thought he’d just explore the city, or harass newsies from other papers.

Three hours passed, and Vincent took the El train home; he could no longer stomach the city bus. He arrived in Little Italy shortly before dinnertime and hurried home to tell his family about the past day’s fortunes. As he walked down the street, Vincent savored the environment around him- children kicking a soccer ball in the yard to his right, two women gossiping in their native tongue, and the smell of garlic wafting through the air. Little Italy truly was home for Vincent Moretti.

He walked into the compound where his apartment building was one of four, the edifications surrounding one outhouse for the whole lot. It was a cramped space, but it was home. Vincent trudged up the stairs to the fifth floor and walked a couple doors down to the left, door 13B. He opened up to see his father, grandmother, and little brother Donavan sitting at the table, waiting for him to join.

“Ciao, everyone. Pa, how was the shoe factory today?”

“Slow, as always,” his father grumbled back, “A couple more months like this and I’ll have to find somewhere new. Damn Fogerty sure as hell don’t know how to run shop.” The smell of Spaghetti filled the room as Vincent’s grandmother set the dish of spaghetti onto the table.

“I’m sorry, Pa. Here, I got something to fill us over.” Vincent flipped the quarter over to the table; his father’s eyes widened.

“Twenty-five cents! That’ll buy into the rent this month, boy! Grazie Dio! Howdya come up with this kind of dough?”

“I was one of the first to sell out today.”

“Well my boy, I’m proud a’ya. Marie would be too if she was still here.” Vincent’s father’s eyes started to water up, “I miss her everyday.”

“I miss Ma too.”

“Well, tonight we’ll eat in honor of her. Nana Moretti served us well tonight,” his father expressed as Vincent pulled out a chair next to his brother.

“How was your day, Donnie?” Vincent asked.

“Quite well! I can’t believe you brought in a whole quarter!” Donovan exclaimed, with a look of admiration towards his older brother. Donnie was turning seven in a month. The family piled spaghetti onto their plates and said grace. They dug into their delicious meal and talked about the recent news of the fire, laughing at each other’s jokes. Hours went by, and one by one they peeled off for bed, anticipating the next day of labor.

Vincent was the last to go into slumber. He laid awake, staring into the darkness, thinking about the day's luck, and the contribution he had made to his family. He thought about the possible news of the next day, and wondered about the families of the young women that had perished that Saturday. Eventually, he let his mind wander enough to bring him into a deep sleep.