Chapter Text
“Marco, your sister wants to use the radio…” A woman ventured, not sure if she could commandeer the machine from her seven-year-old’s lap. “Mom, I’m just… Trying…” The boy’s voice teetered off, turning one of the dials carefully. Suddenly, he stopped and looked pointedly at her, “Wait. Tell Mina I’ve had this day marked on the calendar for months. She can wait.” He scowled, his face contorted into a baffled expression, as if he couldn’t understand his sister’s incompetence. At this, his mother threw up her hands, “Alright, alright…” She sighed before pulling a blanket off of him and folding it onto the nearby couch. “It’s July, Marco, are you trying to make your mother worry?” She pecked her son on the cheek, but he was already absorbed into finding the channel amongst the static once again.
The radio was pulled as close as it’s cord would allow it, and Marco had brought his face right against the numbers denoting the station. Suddenly there was a shout and music filled the living room. “Got it! I knew Voice of America was around there…” He hollered, his mother dropping something in the kitchen, “Sorry, mom!” He shouted, before growing deadly quiet, taking in the sounds emitted from the speakers. “I think he’s only on his second song… Oh gosh.” He whispered, afraid of breaking into the bellowing voice. Soon, his hand was tapping against his knee at a steady pace, and he was mouthing along to the words of “Fly Me to the Moon”.
Marco was always bashful when he admitted it wasn’t his favorite song, since it seemed like it was the only one of his songs the kids at school liked. Sure it was an amazing song, but there were lists and lists of songs that Marco could say he positively loved. So he sat there on the floor, waiting for some of those songs to be presented on the Newport Jazz Festival. By the sixteenth song, Marco’s interest had not faded. His sister had assumed a position on the couch, staring at the ceiling and fanning herself with a TV listing guide. Even she fell into time with the pitter-patter of Marco’s hand hitting his knee. His eyes lit up and he sat up straighter when his voice came over the speakers. Marco couldn’t recall what he was saying at first, he was so excited to hear him speaking. “… A big ‘thank you’ to The Count Basie Orchestra for uh, helping me out here.” The voice laughed and Marco felt like he was standing next to it, “I’m down to my last song, ‘My Kind of Town’, enjoy.”
Marco’s jaw dropped, and he had scrambled up, placing the radio on top of the television, and turning the volume as high as it could without distorting the sound. His voice was obviously not as well trained as the man on the radio, and still had that sound unique to seven-year-olds. But he didn’t care, as he began singing along. He had tried to avoid singing, as a way to not annoy his sister or mother, but he just had to. This was the song that topped his lists, and that made him feel instantly weightless as the smooth notes hit his ears. “My kind of town, Chicago is, my kind of razzmatazz!” He sang out, sliding over the hardwood floor in his socks. Coming to a fumbled stop in front of his sister, he smiled lopsidedly, “And it has all that jazz!” He belted, snapping his fingers and pointing to the pigtailed girl on the couch.
She rolled her eyes, but smiled at her dorky little brother. She let his song finish and for that Frank Sinatra guy to finish talking before switching on the television and yelling at Marco to cut the volume. He begrudgingly did so, even though the festival wasn’t over, he figured hearing his favorite artist was enough. After all, he didn’t want to be selfish. Plopping down breathlessly next to his sister on the couch, he closed his eyes and waited for dinner.
His mother had hoped he would grow out of this… Phase, as she called it. This obsession with music, with singing was wearing on her, and she wanted him to settle down onto a dream that wasn’t so wild. Why couldn’t he swim like all the other boys? She often thought, voicing this to Marco’s father and her husband. The man would grunt, take a sip of his beer, and say that his boy could do what he wants. If he wants to sing, so be it, if he wants be a gas-station attendant, so be it. Just as long as he was happy. He would then go back to his newspaper, or pack up and head to work for the day. Marco’s mother was sure he only felt this way because Marco was his only son out of four children, so she still tried to persuade Marco to follow other more secure options.
Marco seemed clueless to his mother’s suggestions, because as a young sixteen year old he felt he could do anything. Failure wasn’t an option, only trying over and over again till it turns out right. Following this spirit, after begging his mother to let him go with Samuel and his father to see the Frank Sinatra in person, and after his mother telling him a firm “no”, he went to his father. Knocking cautiously on the door to his study, Marco couldn’t even breathe until he heard the strong, “Come in.” Allowing himself a gulp of air, he did just that. Entering the room and looking at his father in his usual business-casual garb, Marco suddenly felt underdressed for a conversation with his father. He had words he wanted to say, but his mouth just kept opening and closing like a dying fish. He swung his hand to the back of his neck, attempting to calm down. Luckily, his father spoke before he could make a bigger fool of himself.
“This is about that show you wanted to see, isn’t it?” He questioned, but even in questioning his voice remained calm and sure, and Marco was sure this was the epitome of what it meant to be a man. Struggling for another breath, Marco attempted to be as strong as his father, following up with a firm, “Yes! S-Samuel and his father are attending, and said that I could join them… So I… I would like to do that. It’s not for another few weeks, in April, and it’s not awful far, right in Atlanta, so I figured that it—“
“Sure.” His father cut off his rambling, a slight smile breaking across his weathered face. All Marco could do was let his jaw drop, “Really?” He squeaked out, and once his father nodded, Marco nearly burst with excitement. “Oh gosh, this is going to be the best thing ever, thank you, Father, thank you so much…!” In contrast to his father’s controlled smile, Marco’s pulled his mouth lopsided and wide, distorting the freckles on his cheeks and pushing them to his eyes.
After receiving a few words of safety and some money to pay admittance and gas, his father waved him out of the room, “I’ve got some work to finish, but we can talk later, okay Marco?” He laughed out, catching his son’s excitement and nerves. But as soon as the door was closed, Marco’s mother was there. She didn’t say anything, but she shook her head and stalked away to the living room. He let his eyes go downcast, shuffling his feet along the carpet. He knew this was sort of like betraying his mother but he really wanted to go…! She would understand that, right? But soon the thoughts of the upcoming event kick started the smile back onto the boy’s face. Yeah, she’d forgive him, and he’d get to see his role-model, his idol, his living-dream in person! So he shuffled to his room, drew the blinds, and sat in the dark, imagining what it would be like being on stage, preforming. It was a thought that rattled his bones and sparked something deep inside of him. The spark started in his stomach, and slowly tracked its way up to his head. Once there, it whispered a tiny, meek, “And you can do it, too.”
He nodded to himself, assured that yeah, he really could.
That was, if he could ever get there. He sat in the backseat of a station wagon, the windows rolled down as he stared at a long line of cars. Samuel was chattering to him about how they knew someone at the pump, and they’d be out of there in no time at all. Marco was nodding apprehensively, questioning the viability of Samuel’s statement when he remembered something. “Hold up a second, Sam.” He requested, shoving his hand in his pocket and pulling out a few bills. “Mister…” He started, when he realized he couldn’t remember Samuel’s last name, “Uh, Mister Sam’s… Dad… Uh, this is for gas, and again, thanks a bunch for letting me tag along.” He choked out before dropping the bills into the man’s hand. The glasses on his face shifted as he smiled, “You’re a good kid, Marco, this helps a lot.” He said, before repositioning the frames on his face and returning his attention to the road.
And thus, the mindless chatter started again. They eventually did get to the front of the line, and just like Samuel said, the job was lickety-split and they were driving off in the direction of Atlanta in no time.
Marco could hardly hear whatever Samuel was rambling on about, he was too busy staring out the window and imagining what it was going to be like… To stand there and listen to his idol without the static of the radio, to be able to watch his mouth form words and hit notes. To see what he looked like past the record jackets and magazine covers. Just to hear him like this once was blessing enough for Marco. But then again, he wondered if he would be able to contain himself after being presented with such a tangible version of his dream.
To put it simply, he couldn’t. When he returned home, there was a noticeable change in Marco. A piece of paper in his hand, a pen in his pocket, and a dream in his heart. Collapsing on his bed, he let out an extravagant sigh. He held the flimsy piece of paper in front of his face and just shook his head. He couldn’t believe it, he read over the torn piece of notebook paper and whispered the words as if they were a secret just for him. “Go for it, kid. Frank Sinatra.”
Marco woke up with a blanket over him and the paper on his nightstand, a little frame next to it. Disoriented, he slowly sat up groggily looking over to the nightstand. After taking a good fifteen minutes to stretch, he put on a fresh shirt before heading downstairs. He could smell breakfast, and honestly considered skipping it in order to avoid the wrath of his mother. Deciding that food was little too important, he toughed it out for the sake of eggs and pancakes. Mina was pushing her eggs around on her plate and side eyed Marco as he walked by, next to her the twins were yanking on each other’s pigtails. Plopping down and staring at his lap, Marco tried to make himself as small as possible as he started on his own food. Just as he began to relax, he felt a hand brush through his hair, and a kiss pressed to his head. “How was the concert, hun’ bun’?” His mother mused, a small smile stretching her thin lips. Flashing his signature grin, Marco replied quickly, “Amazing.”
Marco’s mother stopped trying to persuade him onto a different path that day. He could never quite tell if it was resignation or a revelation that his dream was perfectly acceptable, but he was content. On the day of his nineteenth birthday, he was ecstatic.
Marco wasn’t expecting much, considering he was practically an adult. The day started uneventful, he fell out of bed at noon and mozied down the stairs in his pajamas. Upon entering the kitchen, he saw his father at the kitchen table. Mina was gone (married, actually) and the twins were at school. Marco couldn’t help but be suspicious, seeing his father lazing around during work hours. His own favorite mug was placed next to his father’s, sitting on the counter and filled to the brim with hot coffee. Hot coffee without his mother around? Well, if he didn’t already have a bad feeling, he certainly had one now.
No matter which way he looked at it, the scene was strange to say the least. “Ah, there’s the boy… Or should I say man of the day.” His father teased, motioning him to sit down. Marco kept his steps tentative, even though he wasn’t completely sure why. It was his father for crying out loud! As Marco sat down, he watched as his father turned an envelope over in his hands. Swallowing his anxiety, Marco motioned to the object in his father’s hands. “So, uh, watcha’ got there?” He asked, taking a sip of his coffee, wincing a bit before reaching to add another scoop of sugar. “Oh this?” His father laughed, pushing the envelope over to Marco, “For you, Uncle Hannes pulled some strings, and… Ah, I guess the rest is self-explanatory.” He finished before taking a swig of his own cup of joe.
Marco felt his heart skip a beat. Uncle Hannes? The uncle he had talked to about…? Nearly dropping the mug, Marco quickly picked up and opened the envelope. Inside there was a bus ticket and a letter. Placing the ticket carefully on the table, pretending he couldn’t see the destination printed so brazenly on the slip of paper. He pulled out the letter next, unfolding it. Hannes’ handwriting was chicken-scratch at best, but Marco could still make out every other word, enough to get the gist of it. The gist of he was going to New York. No, correction, he was going to be living in New York.
Trying to remember how to breathe, Marco stared wide eyed at his father. “Who knew that deadbeat friend could pull through in the end, huh?” He laughed, he always pulled jabs at Hannes, but the whole family loved him and his less-than-mature ways. “Got cushy with a family up there, last trip he took me up to visit them. They seem like trust-worthy folk, the Kirschteins. They own an inn, we’ve covered the first few months for your birthday, so you can find a job and… Marco? Are you okay?” He father stopped midsentence as his son started laughing and crying and pinching his arm. With a puff of air, Mr. Bodt found himself smiling as well.
“You’re not dreaming, Marco.” He had said, before getting up and patting his son on the head.
And yet, a week later and lost as ever, Marco wished he was. When he got off the bus, he found that he was nowhere near St. Mark’s Place. Nowhere. Trying not to trip over his new pair of shoes, he hurried over to the line for information. Taking deep breaths, he attempted to look as cool, natural, and “native” as he possibly could. Granted, the illusion would be shattered as soon as he spoke, but a man can try.
When it was finally his turn, Marco chewed nervously on his lip, “Uhm… What’s the best way to get to St. Mark’s Place?” He asked, trying to hide his southern twang as much as possible. The man behind the glass, his nametag reading ‘Dazz’, stared at him for a few moments before asking, “Where on St. Mark’s?” Now it was Marco’s turn to stare before frantically riffling through his pockets to find the paper listing the address and phone number of the inn. When he found it, he ran his free hand through his hair while scanning it over. God, this was written weird, could it be any more vague? Maybe he was just panicking, after all it was just an address. “… East Village?” He squeaked out, before waving his hand, “S-sorry! That doesn’t help, does it? Ah…” He trailed off, glancing back at the growing line behind him. He brought his attention back to the… Smudged paper. Oh god, could this get any worse? No, wait. He mentally kicked himself, that is the one sure fire way to make things worse. He never thought that. Well, at least he tried to convince himself he didn’t.
Taking a deep, somewhat-calming breathe, Marco squinted at the paper. Alright, he could make out some of the numbers in the address. “It’s in the 120’s, I’m sorry, the paper got all—“
“It’s no problem kid. What you’re going to want to do is head southwest down Broadway here, now you keep going till you hit 178th, don’t worry it sounds far but it’s not at all. From there you’re gonna want to take a right,” The Dazz fellow paused to made a grandiose “right” motion with his hands. Marco just kept shaking his head, grabbing a pen off the counter and writing down the directions of the back of the paper. “’Ter that you’re going to want to go left onto Fort Wash Ave, on that street you’re going to want to get onto the A line—“
“The A line?”
“The subway, kid. Anways, after…” He counted on his fingers, “Nineteen stops? Yeah, nineteen, you’re gonna get off at 14th street, just walk towards 8th and get on the L line, this one’s a quickie, you’ll be off in 5 minutes tops. Go down east 14th, right down avenue A and then ya’ make a right on St. Mark’s.” He finished, looking expectantly at Marco. Marco really just wanted him to go over it again and explain it in English, but at the same time he didn’t want to be a bother. He settled for just staring at Dazz like he was a deity who had risen from behind the confines of a glass and metal hell-box, ready to take over New York City using the power of complex directions and an underpaying job.
“Don’t look at me like that… I take that route home every day…” Dazz interrupted Marco’s internal monologue, motioning him away with a shoo-ing motion. “Th-thank you.” he managed to mumble before leaving the presence of Dazz’s information booth. After counting to ten and going over the directions one last time, Marco began making his way down ‘Broadway’, the only street name he had ever heard of before in the entire direction-set.
Regardless, the freckled teen managed to make it to the subway station without getting lost too many times. If he had to describe it in one word… Well, he wouldn’t know what word to use to describe it with. Shady? Dirty? Smells-vaguely-of-excrements? (Marco took a moment to wonder if that could be counted as a single word). Still, he felt completely lost. Not only did he see several signs for this illusive, “A-line”, but there were also two variants of it. Uptown and downtown. What those even meant, Marco had no clue. Not to mention the fact that there were these metal… Gate… Things that he would have to pay and walk through in order to actually get on one of the trains. Sighing, he knew what he had to do.
Once again, Marco’s hand found the slip of paper in his pocket, checking the phone number before walking over to a payphone in the corner. Slipping some coins out, he pushed them in before dialing away. Ring… Ring… Ah! “Mr-Mr. Kirschtein!” Marco nearly yelled, waiting eagerly for a response. He got a lot of silence. Finally there was a grumble, “Are you that southern kid that’s supposed to be here today? Mark?” Running a hand through his dark hair, Marco nearly hung up, but decided to tough it out. He figured that the crass voice on the other end of the line was the owner’s son. Hannes had warned Marco that he had a spit-fire personality, but to not be scared. He was more bark than he was bite. “Actually, it’s Marco… But yes, I was wondering if I could talk to your father…” He corrected before asking for the real person he wanted to talk to. “He’s out right now, what do you need?” The voice replied, seemingly a little less harsh. Marco sighed, fidgeting with the phone cord. He was suddenly embarrassed to be asking for help.
“You still there?” The voice yawned out, already bored with Marco. “Yes, I’m… Lost. I was told to take a subway but… I don’t know what to do. I-I mean I’m at the station but I’m lost here. If that makes sense.” Marco breathed out the last few words, he was unnecessarily tired and the conversation just seemed to drain him further. He was suddenly a little less concerned of being a nuisance and much more concerned about the possibility of sleeping on the street. Once again, he was met with silence. This one was much longer than the last, and Marco became concerned that he would run out of time on the phone. Suddenly there was a loud sigh that nearly made Marco jump. Nearly. “Where the hell are you?” He asked, and after several exchanges, managed to find out which station Marco was. “Just stay put, buy a ticket and wait by the booth, ‘right? And just… Don’t move from there.”
Marco held the receiver dumbly as he was hung up on, but followed the instructions he was given. After finding a spot slightly past the pay booth and settling his luggage so he could lean over it, he waited. He had plenty of time to people watch, some of them walking simply out of habit, and others looking as confused as Marco. There was one girl, whipping by and rolling a suitcase behind her, clanking and clattering louder than any of the other pedestrians. Behind her someone shouted, she looked back for only a moment before laughing and continuing on, “I’ll find it eventually, Connie!” She screamed back. Within seconds she was gone, and the source of the other voice was swallowed up by the crowd. The next thing to catch his eye was a tall boy’s head peaking above the crowd, and he seemed to be muttering something with every step. As he came closer, Marco could hear the quiet, but constant, “Sorry, excuse me, pardon, I’m so sorry…” The amount of sweat dripping off his face was unnatural.
The time flew quickly like this, Marco just watching people while leaning against his little spot on the wall. After about an hour there was someone else, no bags or luggage, just a very angry look on their face. He had a feeling this was his guy. His eyes seemed to dart around the gated area, looking at every face, possibly searching for whoever looked the most lost. Finally he just stood there, lifted his arms a bit and shouted, “Marco?” Before dropping his hands back down to his sides.
Finally sure that, yeah, this was his guy, Marco removed himself from the wall and approached the other boy. “John?” He questioned, and the angry-fellow’s eyebrows shot up, “Close but no cigar. Jean, it’s French.” He replied, jeering, and a smirk crawling onto his face. Marco fought hard not to roll his eyes. Remember, the goal was to not end up on the street, he reminded himself. “Of course, forgive me.” Marco apologized, hoping to get on his good side at least for the moment, “I’m Marco, and uh, thanks for coming out here.”
Jean didn’t resist the urge to roll his eyes, and did so blatantly, “No shit, Sherlock. Trust me, I didn’t want to.” The smirk fell from his face and he looked grumpy again, somewhere stuck between a cat and an old man. To combat this, Marco did what he did best in these situations. He laughed for a moment, choked, and then just stared at anything but the person in front of him. “Come on let’s just go.” Nailed it.
Marco followed in silence for the most part, and when Jean wasn’t looking, he allowed himself to finally roll his eyes. He kept the silence up, trying not to ask questions that might annoy “Jean: The French Boy”, but eventually, curiosity did get the best of him. “Hey, Jean.” He started, falling in step next to the other, “How far is your place from here?” Marco asked, scratching at the back of his neck as he tried to calm his nerves. After all, Marco had decided that a bark could be just as a bite. In response, Jean slowly turned his head over and up to face Marco (who ended up being just slightly taller than Jean, which may or may not have added fuel to the fire), narrowing his eyes as he stared straight into Marco’s own set of wide ones. “Listen, Freckles—“
“Marco.” Jean ignored the interruption and continued, “I spent an hour coming to pick up your lost, sorry ass, so it’s going to take another long hour to get back.” His tone made him sound like he was only half-invested in how pissed off he was, ready to just go back home and do whatever it was he was doing before he had to leave to be some southern twat’s guide. Marco could somewhat relate, after all, he wasn’t supposed to originally pick him up.
Clearing his throat, the taller brunette ducked his head, “Uh, yeah, sorry about that.” He trailed off, not sure what to say. He really was sorry, but he didn’t know how to convey that without sending Jean further over the edge, after all, they had just met. Also the sleeping on the street thing was still weighing heavily on his mind. Speaking of which… Jean did go out of his way to help him out… All of a sudden Marco felt guilty for the little eye-roll he did five minutes prior, which he really felt he shouldn’t, but still did. Furrowing his brow and fighting the battle in his brain, he let himself fall a step behind Jean, as to not lose him but also to not bother him.
The walk continued like this, they waited in silence as the train approached, and they boarded without a word. When the train jolted forward, Marco nearly fell over, grabbing a pole before his face had a chance to become planted firmly in the floor. He stood back up, adjusting his shirt, side-eying the angry French kid with a very unnatural (bleached?) undercut. Finally Jean broke the silence with a loud and exaggerated sigh. “So this doesn’t happen again…” He began, and it seemed like he was trying just a little too hard to sound disinterested rather than concerned. During Marco’s first subway ride, Jean explained to him the very basics of how to get places using it. He clarified what uptown was versus downtown, and several other things Marco had thought to ask.
By the time Jean’s discourse was finished, Marco was beaming, smiling lopsided at Jean. The confused stare Jean returned was enough to remind Marco to tone it down a notch, “Thanks, Jean.” He said simply, trying not to smile like a huge idiot with the new plethora of information he just learned. “Yeah yeah, whatever. This just means you can’t call me up next time you get lost, deal?” Jean retorted, still looking at the brunette through narrowed eyes.
“Who says I’m going to get lost again?” Marco laughed, and didn’t stop laughing until Jean recovered from nearly choking on his own inhale. Neither wanted to admit they were beginning to enjoy the other’s company.