I slung my bag over my shoulder and looked around. As I scanned the city, I took a deep breath in an effort to calm the excitement that I could feel about to take over. The fact that I choked on an excessive amount of dust and soot from the train I had just exited did nothing to discourage me. I was in New York City! A city I had heard about, dreamed about, and longed to see for my whole life – or at least since Pete, my next-door neighbor, had come home bragging about his adventures in the big city. I smiled as I recalled the condescending way in which Pete had told his stories, the neighborhood children gathered at his feet. He seemed to think that traveling to the city that had become legendary in our eyes, if only for a week, made him superior. Although, the way he told it, he just about owned the city. He was beating folks up when they caused a ruckus, sweeping pretty girls off their feet, and hobnobbing with the best of them. And all this in only one week!
I wasn't fool enough to believe everything that Pete said, but some of it had to be true. And even if it wasn't, I was sure that in a city like New York, something exciting was bound to happen. The streets might not really be paved of gold, but there was something else just as great lurking in them, or else why would so many people flock to them?
My thoughts were disrupted by a huge, muscular man who grabbed my arm and growled in a thick German accent, "Thomas Pickens?"
"Yes, sir," I replied, refusing to allow his intimidating appearance to, well, intimidate me. "And you must be my new boss."
He eyed me for a moment, rather looking as though he didn't like what he saw, then exerted himself enough to growl, yet again. "Follow me."
The man, who I assumed must be Lars Tanner, the blacksmith I would be working for, turned and began plowing his way through the crowds in the trainyards. At first I had a hard time keeping up with him – my instinctive Southern courtesy slowed me down by insisting that I apologize to everyone whose elbow I jostled – but, after one hard look from him after I dropped behind, I gave up all attempt at politeness and just focused on following in his wake.
After what seemed like an impossible number of turns and people, we arrived at a tiny, shabby building that I probably would have overlooked had I been looking around. Which I hadn't. At all. For a moment my excitement wavered, but I quickly grinned cheerfully. No matter, I had all the time in the world to get to know the city. Later. Right now, I had a job to get familiar with.
As we entered the building, Mr. Tanner glanced back once to make sure that I was still dragging behind him, then flung the door open like he owned the place. Which, I suppose, he did. Still, did he have to be so ostentatious about it? But I digress. I gazed eagerly around the building which I would come to know as my home in the future, and I felt my heart sink within me. Instead of the ten or twenty mischevious, hearty boys whom I had envisioned myself working with and befriending, the tiny, dim room was filled by two. One of whom, in fact, didn't even look up as he shuffled by to the forge. The other, however, glanced up briefly from the fire when we entered, and I thought that I detected the shadow of a grin before he bent back over his work. I stared around the shop, taking in the fire, the soot that seemed to coat everything, the constant ringing of the hammer and anvil, and, most of all, the spiritless work of the two boys who would be my constant companions.
"Show him around," Mr. Tanner grunted to the boy kneeling by the fire, then he stalked out of the room, seemingly desperate to avoid any situation which might require any more talking than he had already done.
After carefully placing his tongs out of the fire, the boy got up, wiped his forehead, and stuck out his hand. "Brett Lesbit," he said. I took in his appearance, the sweaty brown hair, broad forehead, and wide, spread-apart brown eyes.
"Thomas Pickens," I replied, in what must have been a slightly dazed voice, because Brett responded with a grin.
"Ah, it ain't as bad as it looks, kid," he chuckled in a New York accent that covered another accent, one that I had never heard before. "I mean, ole Tanner there got a bit of a tempah, an' the woik is rough, but I'se seen woise, ya know?" He turned around and gestured to the other boy. "That there is Mat'tew. He's been here I dunno how long. Longer 'n me, at any rate." He lowered his voice to a whisper, "'E ain't got much spirit, ya know what I mean? Street's kindah pounded it outta him. Tanner takes out his tempah on Mat'tew more'n anything, an' Mat'tew just takes it and takes it. 'E don't got much fight in 'im, an' I t'ink dat boddahs Tanner, ya know?" I stared at the tall brunette, wondering just what had given him that hopeless look.
I continued to look dazed. I didn't know nearly as many things as Brett seemed to assume I did, and I wasn't sure that I wanted to.
Brett grinned again. "Jesus, kid, you look like ya just been hit on da head or somet'in'. Here, lemme show you 'round." Brett proceeded to give me what he called the grand tour of the blacksmith's shop, briefly explaining and demonstrating how to use each tool. He finished with, "The main thing is to stay outta Tanner's way. Like I said, he's gotta tempah, and he follows it wit' his fists, ya know? Lucky fer us, the ole man spends most o' his time up in da front, takin' orders an' whatnot." He paused, then glanced quickly at me. "So, what's yer story, kid?" He knelt down to the fire again, then, looking up, added quickly, "Unless you don't want to tell me."
I was still slightly bewildered, but Brett's comfortable way of talking was putting me at ease. I dropped down next to him, and, as he began demonstrating the forging of metal, I shared what little there was too tell. "Well, I was raised in Grove County, and –"
"Where's that?" Brett interrupted.
I grinned. "Nowhere." He smiled back, and I responded, "Well, North Carolina. But no one really knows where it is, and it doesn't really matter. Anyway, my Mother and Father and I lived in a little house in this one-horse town, and my Dad was a farmer. And we lived pretty good – just everything was boring as hell. But pretty good, still. Then, about a year ago, my Dad died. And, well, I tried to keep the farm going, but there wasn't too much I could do, so we sold all the land and just kept the house. We got by a while on Mother's sewing and my odd jobs, but there ain't a lot of jobs out in Grove County, so I convinced Mother to let me come up here and earn some money. We talked to some people and got me this job lined up, and now I'm s'posed to send some money home every week for Mother to live on."
Brett nodded. "That's a damn good past you got there. You'll see, kids on da street, most of''em don't have it so good." He paused. "How old are you, kid?"
I rolled my eyes. "I'm fifteen, and you can't be much older, so drop the 'kid' stuff."
"Alright...kid."
"Brett, I mean it."
"Whatcha gonna do about it...kid." He was taunting me now, hurling the word at me like some kind of weapon. We glared at each other for a moment, then I sprung. In seconds, we were rolling on the floor, wrestling for the upper hand. Finally, I pinned him.
"Who's the kid now, huh?" I asked smugly. Before he could answer, I heard Matthew, who I had forgotten about, give a strangled cry. Brett jumped up, and I was quick to follow.
"So," Mr. Tanner muttered in his guttural accent, "This is what I hire you for. To leave the forge and the metal and play around. Get to work!" Then he stalked out.
Eyes wide, I looked over at Brett, who shook his head. "Well," he offered cheerfully, "at least we didn't get beat, right?" I glanced at Matthew, who was already back to work, then shrugged and began learning how to hammer horseshoes.