Coffee Shop - A Newsies Fanfic (SPRACEE)

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!!! TWS - Swearing, Homophobia !!!

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December - 1908

9 years after the strike

Antonio "Racetrack" Higgins

The thin layer of snow crunches under my shoes as I round the corner. I pass two more shops before finally reaching 'Marigold's Coffee House & Bookstore'. I turn on my heels to face the front door and pull my keys from my coat pocket. I take a second to find the right key, then push it into the lock.

Once I am inside, I flick the light switch. I look for the box of matches, stowed somewhere behind the counter, and yesterday's newspapers. I leave my coat on a chair near the woodpile and kneel to light the stove.

After I give the floor a quick sweep, I work on grinding the coffee beans. Bells jingle as the front door swings open and I look up to see my co-worker, George, blowing on his hands in the doorway.

"You're twenty minutes late, George," I say in my most monotone voice.

"Calm down, Ant," he says smugly. I hate him.

"Don't call me 'Ant'." I continue grinding the coffee. "And close the damned door."

"A bit touchy today, huh?" He finally closes the door.

I glare at him. "Just wipe the counters."

"Yes, sir." He salutes. Of course he does.

I finish grinding the coffee beans and dump them into the espresso machine. I listen as the grandfather clock in the bookshop begins to play a steady 'dong, dong, dong...'. It's seven o'clock. I hate morning shifts. I hate George. (I hate a lot of things.)

Five minutes later, I open the cash register and gather about 60¢ in dimes and nickels. I watch a couple of boys around the ages of twelve and fourteen come up to the door. Newsies. I used to be a newsie. And though there were good memories, it wasn't exactly fun.

So, I let the boys in, take fifty papers, and hand them the 60¢. They split the money up and stuff it in their pockets.

"Can I grab you anything? Drinks? Food?" I ask, observing how thin they are. I know it will be a rough winter for them.

They shrug and say, "We can't afford to turn down food– if it's free."

I pull a paper bag out from under the counter and fill it with a few of yesterday's leftover pastries. I hand it to them and they accept it gratefully.

"Fanks sir," The older one says, his mouth stuffed with a bacon and cheese scone.

They stay for a moment longer in an attempt to warm up a bit more. This same routine happens every day, with a different pair of newsies, but for some reason, this is the first time I am hit with a wave of anger. It isn't fair that some kids get to go out and play in the snow at the park, fully fed and clothed, but these guys still have to work all day, just so they can, maybe, afford a meal at the end of the day. I wish I could do more for them.

I watch as they stand and exit the shop. I wave. They wave back. Then I get back to work. Simple as that, I guess. I can't do anything about starving children when there are tables to wipe and customers to serve.

So I push that out of my mind and try to focus on my job. I wipe the tables, flip the open sign, and bring trays of fresh pastries from the kitchen in the basement. George makes every attempt to stand in the way.

"For fuck's sake, George!" I finally say when he almost knocks a tray out of my hands, "You are supposed to be making coffee. What the fuck are you doing?"

"You really did wake up on the wrong side of the bed today. Why are you so moody? Is it a girrrllll~~?"

The ironic thing is that I didn't wake up today because I didn't sleep at all. Maybe that's why I'm so... irritable.

"Oh yeah! You don't like girls because you're a fa–"

"I swear to god, if you finish that sentence–" I want to punch him. He has a very punchable face.

"You'll what? Kiss me? Turn me gay?" He grins, knowing he's won.

"You wish."

I turn to the counter. I am so fucking angry. I feel like throwing up. Instead, I dust the bookshelves.

The first few people come in at around 7:45. I take their orders, and George makes their coffees. The annoying thing is that if George wasn't an ass, we'd make a pretty good team. I still hate him though.