The evening sky was darkened with slate clouds that promised a storm. The trees clawed at the glass of the warm room. Well worn books were strewn across the floor open to various pages. Mechanical trinkets he had designed over the years covered every inch of his desk. Copper springs, tin scraps and blueprints to future projects covered his bed. Some of them would never be finished. He paced past them from window to bed and back again.
Heart racing he strode to the door, sweaty fingers yearning for courage. Once in the hall he made his way to the kitchen. Standing in the doorway for a moment he watched his tiny mother grow red faced over the soup pot. She stirred the food on tip toe, her dark reddish hair fell over her bright eyes.
Flipping the hair out of the way she looked up, “Almost ready, mijo. Your father should be home soon.” She struggled to lift the pot from the stove burner.
“Ma, I got it.” He said rushing over to her before she dropped dinner to the ground. He took the towels from her and set the soup on their decaying dining table.
“Thank you, Memo.” She sighed falling into the nearest seat.
The clock chimed 6:00pm as the front door closed with a heavy thud. Muffled footsteps made their way toward the sweet smell of dinner. Memo's mother quickly straitened her self up, fidgeting with her hair and scrubbing the specks of food from her cheeks. A stocky man with sandy hair entered the doorway, his smile weak from the long factory day. He kissed his wife on the forehead and took a seat at the head of the table. She began to dole out the soup ending with her own bowl.
“Leo, dear. Do you want any water?” His wife asked before she sat down. He shook his head allowing her to finally take a seat.
Memo looked at his father nodding good-evening but was ignored. He looked away hiding the twinge of rejection. Silence, except for the clanging of spoons against brownish grey ceramic dishes.
“So?” Memo questioned with his spoon midair dripping broth onto the table. The faded wood turned a darker sepia with every drop.
No response from the pudgy man across the table. Suddenly, wheezing steam and clamoring metal came crashing into Memo's legs. It was his pet dog, Bebot. He leaned over playfully and patted his tin head.
“What did I tell you about that....that THING?!” His father grunted disdainfully.
“Bebot, Room.” Memo scowled and pointed to the hallway. It scurried half way to the door. “GO!” Bebot disappeared into the dark hallway. He sighed frowning into his dinner.
His father went back to eating and the kitchen was drowned in silence once more. It had been three days since he brought it up. Memo took a spoon full of the soup, ate it and decided to ask again.
“Well?” He persisted looking at the gashes and stains in the table as he poked at them with the dull spoon.
“I don't see any reason you can't just get a job here.” He said flatly taking another gulp of soup. “Didn't I tell you? We have an opening since Escobar lost his hand on the line.”
“Yes, Memo. You really should conceder-” His mother was quieted by a stern look from her husband.
“But I can do more in Grim city.” Memo argued digging the spoon deeper into the wood. He looked up at his father, brow furrowed.
“Go and do what? Become a derelict begging for scraps and s**t rags?” His father scoffed pushing around a large piece of potato in his bowl.
“NO!” He raged back, the spoon made a large gash in the table. Looking down he replied softly “I'm going to become an apprentice.”
The teapot on the burner fizzed steam. His mother brought it to the table with mismatched cups, setting each one before it’s owner. Bebot came galloping out crashing into Memo’s legs again. He looked down at Bebot then gaped into the furious eyes above him. His father’s face darkened with anger as he rapped on the table violently.
“Dammit Bebot!” He pushed the dog away with his foot towards the hallway. It skittered away into the dark. Memo sat up strait taking the blue tin cup into his hand. He stirred the tea leaves around in a tiny tornado never letting them settle to the bottom.
“You're not going.” His father said going back to his dinner.
His heart almost pounded out of his chest. Memo abandon his cup and stood to push his seat in. “I'm seventeen. I can't work in the factory. I need more than that.”
Leo rose pushing his chair aside. He was almost eye to eye with his son. Bebot ran into the kitchen once more, yipping and spouting steam. The two men looked down at the mechanical critter scampering around their feet. Memo could feel the heat boil from his father’s face. Before he could move his father had Bebot by the hind legs. He blanked out as a brass and tin blur swept past his face. The table crashed to the floor in a heap.
“Adela, I'll take the rest of my dinner in the living room.” He said leaving her to clean up the wreckage.
The kitchen air was thick as if he were submerged in mud. He watched for a moment as the petite woman cleared the mangled table away. There was nothing left to salvage.
Memo gathered only what he needed into a small side bag; a writing pad, some quills with ink bottle, and the little money he managed to save. A glass sphere glittered from the rubble as he walked through the kitchen. It was the only thing left of his friend. He dropped it into his coat pocket.
“He didn't mean to. Really.” His mother said in a small defeated voice behind him.
Brownish grey ceramic crunched under his worn boots as he stopped short of the exit. He swallowed hard chocking his hate and sorrow. More glass broke as she moved toward her son. She came just under his shoulders clinging on to the wool of his coat sleeve. Memo sighed good bye and made his way to the front door.
“Don't come back.” his father slurred taking a sip from his tumbler of scotch, feet perched on a tattered leather ottoman. Memo walked into the inviting cold never stopping to look back. Adela trailed after him to the door grasping for one last memory of her only child.
Grey clouds began to smother the half moon. He pulled the coat collar higher around his neck as it started to drizzle. With each step his mind wandered back to the life he had left. Right about now his mother would be refilling that man's tumbler and fluffing his pillow. And if only he had trained Bebot more he would still be scampering around in his room. His past was gone in the blink of an eye.
It was nearly 10:00 PM as Memo entered the stuffy train station. His boots echoed as he made his way to the ticket booth. Vagrants filled the oak benches with their musty smelling bags and liquor permeated clothes. As Memo walked further a scabby wrinkled hand grasped his dark coat brining him to a halt. His chapped lips curled into a smile reveling his blackened gums and yellow teeth.
“Have any change boy?” the man wheezed, his breath smelled of fresh vomit and cheep bear. “Only a dollar maybe?”
Memo's nose hairs cringed and his eyes watered. Looking at the pitiful face drunk with a lifetime of regrets he pulled out a crumpled bill. The man released the coat and stuffed the bill beneath the tongue of his shoe. He rolled over letting out a rather loud fart as he curled into the wall of the bench.
Memo staggered to the center of the station gasping for air and looked up at the stained glass ceiling. Rain fell away from the center of the dome streaking the glass. The dim golden light of the ticket booth shone against the iron bars painting a dark smile on the marble floor. A shadowy figure that acted like a tongue in the iron mouth beckoned him to the window.
“What can I do fer ya tonight?” asked the booth man in a sleepy voice. He was as disheveled as the company on the benches and floors of the musty station. Matted blond curls were tied back into a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck.
“Can I get a seat for Grim City?” Memo asked digging in his pockets for some fare. He pulled out two bills and a few coins of copper and silver.
The ticket man looked down his crooked up-turned nose at the pile of change on the counter. He counted it quickly. “It’s gotta be an even three. You only got two and a quarter.”
Memo looked franticly for any kind of change that might be caught in his pockets. Nothing but lint and crumpled paper fell onto the floor. He’d given his only way out of Mill Town to the sleeping hobo. His face grew hot with panic and hopelessness. He turned around about to crash into a station bench but the grizzly man called to him again.
“What are ya doin’ out so late? You don’t look more than 15, kid.” The ticket man croaked
Memo looked up, tears almost in the corner of his eyes “I’m heading home.”
The ticket man looked him up and down suspiciously. He sighed and waved him over to the window “Hey, ya look like a nice kid. And it’s only one way right?”
“Yea, only one way.” Memo nodded.
The ticket man punched the rusted brass keys of the wooden register. The drawer popped open and he cranked out a faded olive ticket. He placed it into Memo’s hands patting them in the friendliest manner he could muster. Memo nodded and grinned widely shaking his hand back.
“The train wont be here 'till 5am. Ya best get some sleep.” Yawned the ticket man.
Memo trudged over to an empty bench close to the lights of the ticket booth. He threw his bag to one end of his bed for the night and laid on his back looking up into the dome ceiling. The icy rain glittered from the train stations dim gold lights. He rolled over on his side facing the wall of the bench.
“At least it's warm.” He muttered closing his eyes turning his bag into a pillow.
Pale sunlight sparkled down from the stained glassed dome warming Memo's face. He groaned and covered his head with his wool coat. It was 6:30AM and the station was still relatively quiet. Most of the residence had gone out into the town for their daily begging. A large woman draped in silks of aqua, turquoise and emerald made her way down the narrow isles. Her equally bulky luggage slammed into the bench startling him awake. He sat up quickly almost falling onto the floor.
Memo gathered up his things rubbing the crust from his eyes. Groggily he went in search of the Grim City platform. Mill Station was still warm and musty as he walked along the corridor to the trains. Silver clouds from the skylight filled the space making the papered walls glow. Finally he looked up seeing the entrance to the platform. It was a tall archway with a faded wooden plank that displayed the words “TO GRIM CITY” in chipping gold plated letters.
He stood there amazed at what had just happened that night. Leaving was the only thing left even with the dreadful consequences. He shook the memories from his head and they blurred away like images on rippled water. He didn't know what was waiting in Grim City but he knew it was better than where he came from. The steamer screamed and he went flying up the hallway toward his desteny.
