Date: Sun, 5 Nov 2006 13:48:56 -0500
From: carl_mason@comcast.net
Subject: STREETS OF NEW YORK - 1

STREETS OF NEW YORK - 1

Copyright 2006 by Carl Mason

All rights reserved.  Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal
enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without
the written permission of the author.  However based on real events and
places, "Streets of New York" is strictly fictional.  Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.  As in real life, however, the sexual themes unfold
gradually.  Comments on the story are appreciated and may be addressed to
the author at carl_mason@comcast.net

This story is indebted for both its inspiration and many of its ideas to
several books, especially Tyler Anbinder's FIVE POINTS, Jacob Riis's HOW
THE OTHER HALF LIVES, and Luc Sante's LOW LIFE.

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both
adults and teenagers.  As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the
personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults.  If you are not of
legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you
trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral
dilemmas in your life, please leave.  Finally, remember that maturity
generally demands safe sex.


CHAPTER 1

(Tom Arnold)

They say that if you see a shooting star, you're not likely to forget it.
It brings good luck.  Perhaps it is understandable that many on Mulberry
Street who were involved in Tom Arnold's June 1893 arrival on the Lower
East Side saw him as a shooting star.  Or maybe they saw him, as myth would
have it, as a lightening bolt flung by Zeus or as a shining sword suddenly
withdrawn from its scabbard and then, just as quickly, returned.  God knows
he transformed the lives of many who came in contact with him during his
short stay in that hellhole - but, hold, that's for our story.

The day was not particularly auspicious.  Indeed, in the immigrant slums of
lower Manhattan, it was a day like any other...with more than a hint of the
summer to come.  The babble of countless languages assailed our ears.
Nearly choking on the hot, sticky air, we could scarcely move.  People were
packed shoulder to shoulder, and push carts filled the spaces unoccupied by
human beings.  We looked down for an instant and saw that we were trying to
shuffle forward through a sea of garbage decorated with islands of offal
and manure.  The stench of unwashed humanity, poverty, and the thousands of
gallons of urine contributed daily by the city's horses rose from the
street, engulfing both onlookers and the dilapidated buildings on either
side.

In the distance, we saw a striking figure approaching us: a good six feet
tall, dark- haired, good looking in a thoroughly masculine way, built like
a tree trunk, and dressed in light tan trousers and an off-white football
sweater.  The sweater was emblazoned with a large block letter, but we
could not make it out in the crowd.  Against the frenetic anthill's many
shades of black, his height, light-colored clothing, and fresh, youthful
appearance stood out sharply.  The lad carried a sack slung across his
shoulders and seemed to be working his way towards one of the tenements off
to our right.

The athletic looking young man finally stopped in front of two dilapidated
buildings that stood side by side on the jammed street.  After looking down
at something in his palm, he slowly walked up the stone steps of the
building with the open black door.  Momentarily balancing his sack on the
floor, he knocked on an interior door labeled "Super."  Moments later, it
opened, disclosing a red-haired kid of, perhaps, fifteen.

"Good afternoon," the young man began.  "Is Mr.  Monahan in?"  "Nah," the
teen rasped, "me Da's out.  If you're Tom Arnold though, he told me to show
you the flat."

After Slats Monahan and Tom had introduced themselves, they were on their
way up the dark central staircase to the fourth floor.  Using his key, the
youngster opened the door for Tom.  Arnold's heart sank.  God knows, he
wasn't used to luxury.  After all, he was a college student, and his family
lived in a simple farm home in the rural hills of northern New Jersey...but
this?  Essentially, the dark hole into which he had stepped measured about
ten feet by twelve feet.  There were two windows: one, strange as it may
seem, in the wall between the main room and that which was little more than
a large closet at the end nearest the door; the second that opened three or
four feet from the brick wall of the next building.  A ratty-looking bed
consumed most of the room in the closet; a second, somewhat larger bed, was
visible in the "apartment's" basic room.  The basic room also contained a
small stove that stood on a piece of sheet metal, an icebox, and a rough,
but strongly built table with two wooden chairs.  The walls, dented and
worn, didn't appear to have seen paint for many a year - and then it was
probably only whitewash!  That was it...all of it.  A communal water spigot
was in the hallway for the apartments on that floor; a bathroom (without
bathing facilities) designed to serve three of the apartments was in the
same hallway.

"At least it has an outside window," Slats mumbled apologetically.  He went
on to say that his father had been real sorry that he didn't have a
"three-room" to show him, but none had been available for nearly three
months in any of the buildings he managed.  Given his friendship with the
guy at the Settlement House who had recommended Tom, he could use one piece
of furniture in the basement for free.  A few other pieces could be
purchased cheaply.

A quick check of the basement turned up a simple cabinet that could be used
to store food and supplies (free) and a chest that would hold most of his
clothes (25 cents).  After the two young men had lugged them up to the
fourth floor, Slats went back to his apartment, returning with tall glasses
of cold lemonade.

"Thanks for the drink, Slats," Tom said, raising his glass.  "No problem,
Tom.  If I hadn't promised Da that I'd stay around till he returned, I'd
have rushed the growler [i.e., taken a tin container to the local bar to
buy beer]."  "Nah, this is fine, Slats," Tom responded.  "You in college?"
the boy asked.  "Yep," came the answer.  "You a jock?" the questions
continued.  "Yep," came the answer.  "Wow..."  the boy continued, "Whadda
you play?"  "Well," the tall young man answered, "my favorite's football,
but I've also played a little baseball.  I'm even into some gymnastics."
"Wow...  Maybe you'd show me and my friends a few things?"  When Tom
grinned and allowed that he'd enjoy doing that, the boy squirmed a little.
College guys, especially those who "talked funny," were supposed to be
stuck up.  This guy sure wasn't - in fact, he liked him.  Bravely he forged
ahead, offering to help Tom pick up a few needed things for his new
apartment...  without being "stole blind," as he put it.  As soon as the
rental fee had been set with Slats' father - about a quarter of the weekly
wage of most families on the Lower East Side - the boys were off.

One thing was quickly clear: Everyone knew Slats Monahan.  In fact, in this
neighborhood, it appeared that everyone knew everyone!  Within an hour or
less, Tom had met many of the older teens - and the feeling on both sides
of the handshakes was decidedly positive.  Two of the more interesting guys
came up as the new arrival was hefting an iron frying pan at one of the
pushcarts.  The air was filled with greetings: "Hey, Slats!  How they
hangin'?"  "Wots up, Red?  Who's yer friend?"  During a few minutes of
sharply funny repartee, Slats mixed in introductions to Tom, Dross (aka
Erich Wagner), and Tony Prieto.

The "Dutchman" (as German as any "Pennsylvania Dutchman" who had come to
this country in years past) was a good looking kid - 17 years-old, perhaps
5'9" or 5'10", and smoothly muscled if a bit on the lanky side.  (Today,
we'd say that he had a "swimmer's build.")  For reasons of his own, he
insisted on being called "Dross."  Perhaps his most distinctive feature was
his hair.  Yes, there might have been a few drops of gold in the mix, but,
basically, his hair, cut in a long crew cut, was a startling shade of
"electric white."  Grinning shyly and shuffling his feet a bit, he stuck
out a big paw and welcomed Tom to the neighborhood.  That was clearly
instant liking on both sides.

Tony Prieto was a case and a half.  Only a shade shorter than Tom and
nearly as muscular, the swarthy eighteen year-old was barely two years
younger than the collegian.  "Outta sight," he growled when he learned that
Arnold was a footballer and, indeed, had played in a game in the City the
previous fall that had been witnessed by 40,000 fans.  Suddenly, he paused
and looked at Tom with awe.  "You were the tackle who scored two defensive
touchdowns in that game.  I remember my dad showing me your picture in the
newspape.  Man...!"  Tom blushed slightly, lightly pounded Tony on the
shoulder, and simply said, "Got lucky."  Nevertheless, the young athlete
realized that he now had a third friend in the neighborhood - and it was
only his first day!

Inasmuch as Slats and Tony had other duties, Dross said he would take over
as guide.  Besides, he was curious as all hell about what a big football
star, probably an Ivy Leaguer, was doing down in the pits of Manhattan!
Slowly, they wandered towards the River through the heart of the Lower East
Side.  Every now and again, Tom would mumble something and shake his head.
When Dross would turn towards him and raise his eyebrows, he would say
something, but rarely otherwise.  For instance, on one occasion he caught
Dross's questioning look, violently shook his head as if to banish the
darkness, apologized to his guide, and commented that he had never seen so
many kids packed so closely together in his life.  "Yeah," Dross answered
sadly, "and most of them will never see adulthood.  Their parents have cut
them loose because they are too poor to take care of them.  Besides, if
they are going to make their rent, they've got to use the space in the
apartment to take in lodgers.  The kids die like flies.  Did you know, Tom,
that in your house there are 89 kids in addition to 101 adults.  In the
tenement next door, there are another 91 kids.  I know, I counted them for
a school project.

"Most of them don't have a chance whether they live or die.  Maybe one kid
in seven is in school - and they're not enough schools for those who want
to go.  Damned few will have the chance to go out West on one of those
Orphan Trains.  The Tammany Hall politicians use public money to line their
own pockets.  And you know, Tom, the pull of the streets is pretty heavy
anyway.  I'm just seventeen.  If my parents hadn't been screaming for four
or five years for me to stay in school, I'd never be facing my final year.
After a while, most parents just shut up and go with the flow."  A
white-faced Tom Arnold swallowed convulsively and said nothing.

Not every new sight, of course, elicited sadness.  Coming around one
corner, for instance, they came across an organ grinder whose monkey should
have won some kind of prize.  A circle that included children, teens, and
adults watched as the little creature bowed, pirouetted, danced, and
visited each onlooker with chatter and a cap outstretched for whatever he
could wheedle. Tom felt that the dime that he placed in the hat was well
spent.  (Evidently, the monkey did, too, for he leapt up on Tom's shoulder
and groomed his hair for a moment before resuming his begging.)  Nearly in
hysterics, Dross actually sang the words (however off-key) as the old man
continued to grind out his tune: "The Bow-ry, the Bow'ry!  They say such
things and they do strange things on the Bow'ry!  The Bow'ry!  I'll never
go there anymore!"  As Dross completed his performance, Tom grimaced as if
in great pain, grasped him securely by the collar, and dragged him down the
street!

Passing another street corner, a younger teen yelled to Dross.  "Hold on a
minute, Tom," his companion grunted.  "I go to school with this character."
A few minutes and a few introductions later, the shirtless collegian found
himself engaged in a hot game of stickball with the local teens.  (How many
urban youngsters got their start as American baseball heroes in this
fashion!)  Three-quarters of an hour or so later - Tom having contributed a
record-breaking five home runs! - the sweaty duo were ready to resume their
odyssey.  Dross trotted over with Tom's sweater and T-shirt from where he
had hung them to keep an eye on them.  Taking one look at the young athlete
who was bent over with his hands on his thighs as he tried to catch his
breath in the humidity, Dross took the T-shirt and proceeded to wipe him
down, both front and back.  "Guess I smell pretty ripe," Tom groaned.  He
thought that the white-haired one mumbled something like, "Don't smell so
bad to me," but when the boy said nothing further, he let it go.

Reaching the East River, the boys sat in a protected spot where they could
enjoy the busy dock scenes in the dusty late afternoon light.  "Man, Dross,
this is fantastic!  Thanks for bringing me down here," Tom murmured.
"Think nothing of it; it's one of my favorite spots, too," his guide
responded.  "Would you be offended, if I asked you a personal question?" he
continued.  "Nope," the collegian responded promptly.  "Ask away, friend."

"Tom," Dross rather held his breath and asked, "What in hell are you doing
down here in the armpits of the world?  I guess you're not rich, but you
have to go to an important school.  Forty thousand New Yorkers don't come
out to watch a football game between pick-up teams."  His voice became a
bit sharper as he continued.  "We see guys like you from time to time.
After the game, they come slumming down to the Bow'ry.  After they get a
few cheap thrills...and maybe some drugs...they go home, and we don't see
them any more.  Sometimes we read their comments about us in the papers.
Every now and then, they send a new batch of missionaries to thump their
tubs on the corners and try to save us for Jesus.  The point is that we
don't see the movers and shakers, for they keep their godlike distance.
There's no way they'll let us know that they can...  'smell a little ripe'.
What's with you?"

'Well,' Tom thought, 'I kinda asked for that.  Still, it proves what I
thought early on.  This guy's a good one...smart and sensitive.'  Pausing
for but a moment, Tom replied, "Chances are I'll be going back to school
after the coming year, Dross.  I want that degree, and I want my last year
of football.  I've worked hard for both of them.  Right now, however, I'm
sick of beautiful ivy-covered stone walls...and books.  God, I'm sick of
books... almost as much as some of the rich sons of bitches with whom I go
to school.  Farmers run in our family.  We have a nice place over in Jersey
and, yeah, we don't have to worry too much about where the next meal is
coming from.  I talked things over with my folks.  They understood how a
guy could feel this way and said they'd help me out if I took a year off
from school - as long as I did something positive with my life.  I don't
have any idea of 'saving the world,' Dross, but I do want to help make it
just a little bit better during the year ahead.  I also want to give my
life more direction as I get closer to that point where I'm expected to
make a difference.  I had thought of working through a Settlement House.
Trouble was, though I respect what the Settlement Houses are beginning to
do, they strike me as dominated by women, women who are primarily
interested in infants and really young kids.  There are already too many
people down here who are just 'do-gooders'.  So here I am.  Does this make
any sense to you?"

"Makes all kinds of sense to me, Tom," his companion murmured.  "If you
want a friend, as well as someone who will watch your back, you've got
one."  With that, he held out his hand for the second time.  Tom simply
grabbed it and pulled him into a bear hug.  Finally, Dross pulled back,
saying, "Speaking of 'watching your back,' this is not neighborhood where
you walk around in the dark.  Some strange things can come out of the
woodwork, no?  Better we head back to your flat."

Back on Mulberry Street, the young men entered Tom's new domicile, Tom
snorting, "Home again...home again!"  Dross just snorted...  Noticing that
Slats had piled his earlier purchases on the table - and also laid a set of
sheets, cases, and pillows on the bed - Tom grunted that he had all of the
comforts of home, save one.  "Wot's dat, boss?" Dross joked.  "Well, I'm
pretty much used to taking a bath every day, and it's not all because of
sports," Tom said.  "As you can see, Thomas, these palatial premises are
not exactly set up to make that easy," Dross retorted.  "There are a couple
of public baths in the neighborhood, but, frankly, they can be pretty rough
places and I don't particularly recommend them.  Let me speak with Slats in
the morning.  Maybe we can come up with something.  Ok?"  "Ok, friend," Tom
responded wearily.  "See you then."  "Yeah, buddy, see you then," Dross
murmured, turned, and reluctantly headed down the stairs

Not having used the sheets, Tom sat naked on the edge of the bed, looking
intently at the dirty, pockmarked wall.  He rose slowly, stretched,
scratched, and turned off the lamp.  Collapsing onto the lumpy surface, he
wondered what in hell he had gotten himself into this time.


To Be Continued