Character Analysis- Racetrack

Racetrack hummed a tune under his breath, letting the notes wander 
over the scale until he settled on something light, bouncy, that he 
had learned in his childhood and never quite forgotten. It was an 
infectuous tune, and he found himself adding an extra bounce in his 
step. He was feeling pretty good, actually- even though he lost his 
bet at the track, he had sold most of his papes to the lucky 
winners. The others he had sold on the way there and the last on 
the way back. So it was no surprise that he was in a good mood.

Until he found where Broadway crossed West 42nd, and saw the woman 
standing there.

Without his willing, his feet sped up, and he looked away. He knew 
the woman well, too well for his liking. It was his mother.

His mother, the once-star of a theater company that performed 
dazzling acts on the stage. His mother, who hadn't cared when his 
father started drinking because the money wasn't coming in, who 
chose to blind herself to her husband's glares and deafen herself 
to the gossip that said she was losing it, that the reason the group 
was doing poorly was because of the leading actress' failings, not 
bad management on the part of her husband. Race had heard, though, 
had heard his share of the rumors and even heard his father 
complaining about his mother to one of the other actresses. He 
hadn't understood what was going on, then, but he did now.

His mother couldn't help when his father had started to take his 
anger out on Racetrack. His mother didn't say a word as she treated 
his bruises and bandaged his cuts after yet another night of his 
father's all too frequent drinking escapades. His mother had been 
asleep the last time he had been in the house, the night before he 
had packed the money and the clothes that he could and set off to 
do something- only to find that a ten-year-old sometimes actor, 
sometimes musician who was good at 'games of skill' couldn't make 
much of a living on the streets.

His mother, who didn't recognize her dear son Patrick Lynbrook 
after he had spent six years on the street. He shook his head to 
clear the memories and continued towards the lodging house. Thank 
God that Jack had found him that one night - he had been twelve, 
and starving, and Jack at only a year older had shown him how his 
acting gift and training could be turned to selling papes, and 
making enough money to cover any bad investments that might crop up.

Bad investments, hell. Say it plain, Race, you mean gambling debts. 
He had skill, yeah, he had learned enough to take on the kids of 
the other actors in the company, but even the best could lose. He 
lost more than he wanted to admit, but he still won more than half 
of the time. That was worth it. And hey, he had a definite talent 
for it. It was what earned him his nickname, because he could 
always be found at the track betting on one horse or the other, 
watching the boards and calculating probabilities in his head. He 
had a good head for math.

He had been tought that, like so many other things, by his mother, 
who he couldn't even bring himself to stop and talk to. He couldn't 
bring himself to say something, to rest her fears that he had been 
kidnapped and killed, or bruised worse than his father had ever 
done. Patrick couldn't even do that much for his own mother, who 
was probably even now going back to a husband who could care less 
about her now that she wasn't bringing in money through the stage 
doors.

But now... now he had to forget about his old life. He had to put 
on the mask that he wore every day, the mask of the Italian street 
kid named Racetrack Higgins. The mask of the newsie. He could do 
it, he had done it for most of his life, or at least the part that 
counted.

"Heya, Race," a voice said to his right. Patrick glanced up into 
the face of the same friend that had saved his life only four years 
ago. The same guy who had saved him from dying, alone and freezing, 
on the ice-covered streets of New York City.

"Hey, Jack," he replied.

"How was your day at the track?"

Racetrack shrugged, sloughing off the last of the old memories. He 
wasn't Patrick Lynbrook anymore, he told himself sternly. He was a 
newsie now, a newspaper boy, not the only son of an old actress. It 
wasn't Patrick Lynbrook talking now as he said, "Remember that hot 
tip I toldja about?"

"Yeah?"

He snorted. "Nobody told the horse."

And so, another night was over, and another day would begin 
tomorrow. In the hours in between Racetrack cried himself to sleep 
silently, without really knowing why.