Roof Second Floor Lobby Back Door

Inkblot Jacobsen 'ey kid, watcha name? *looks up distractedly from frantically scribbling on a scrap of paper* ...Oh, hi. Sorry. I'm Riley. Riley Jacobsen. *sticks out a hand* Charmed. 'ave you been blessed wit a newsie nickname yet? Inkblot. Gypsy, calls me that. Where'd dat come from, anyway? *smiles quietly, with a note of pride* I'm a poet, so I'm always getting ink on myself when I write. When's yer birthday? Know how old ya are? January 17th, 1887. That'd mean I'm... *furrows brow and silently mouths counting* Seventeen. Whatcha look like? *runs fingers back through dark brown, slightly wavy hair, leaving ink smears on his forehead* I've got my dad's hair-- except I'm not going bald, like he was-- but my mom's blue eyes. I'm about five foot nine, or so... average weight, I think. *shrugs* I'm pretty average-looking, I guess. And wadda ya like, huh? Got mucha a personality? Well, I'm kinda quiet, but I also ramble on and on if no one tells me to shut up. And people always tell me I've got my head in the clouds. Gypsy, says I'm a hopeless romantic. So... where'd ya come from an' watcha doin heah? I came here from New Jersey with Gypsy, kind of followed her here. We just kind of ended up working here... Don't s'ppose ya got any friends, do ya? Um... Gypsy, mostly. Don't know anyone else very well. What about a, uh, signifigant othah, hmm? *wink wink nudge nudge* *blushes scarlet* Um, no... Waddya do 'round heah? Sell papers, write poetry, stuff like that. I'm trying to get this magazine editor to publish some of my work, but he keeps throwing me out of his office... If ya emptied ya pockets right now, what'd be in 'em? My pen, some paper, some crumbs, and probably no money at all. Anythin' else we oughta know? Nothing I can think of.... Back to the bunkroom