An alley in New York City
October 1933
Baron limped down a dingy alleyway, leaning heavily on his cane for some much needed support. His fine gray silk suit, normally so well cared for, was dirty and slightly torn. His face was covered in alley dirt and his right eye was slightly swollen; while one of his ears was badly torn. It was bleeding sluggishly. And it wouldn't take a doctor to notice that one of his legs was bent and twisted at an odd, extremely painful looking angle.
Things had not been well for Baron Humbert von Gikkingen as of late. Indeed, they had not been well since his maker, Josiah, had passed on two years earlier, leaving him to the cold mercies of a Depressed New York City.
Despite the fact that Baron knew Josiah had not meant for this to happen and indeed, would have horrified by Baron's state if he were still alive, Baron found that he could not help resenting him. Just a little. For if Josiah were still alive, he would have a roof over his head. If Josiah were still alive, he wouldn't be grievously injured and limping down a filthy alley. If Josiah were still alive, he would still have someone who gave a damn about whether he was fine or not. If Josiah…
Baron shook his head at himself and snapped, "Enough of this! I cannot blame Josiah for the way things worked out. He was a good man and he did his best for me."
And this was true. From the day Josiah had learnt that the figurine he'd crafted was alive, he had treated Baron like the son he'd never had. The black man had taught Baron everything he knew, from whistling and woodcraft, to the fine art of widower cooking. Which really wasn't all that different from bachelor cooking, except you had fond memories of how much better your wife's had been. Josiah had even gone so far as to instill in him a love of jazz and blues, though that had taken a while. Life with the old man had been wonderful, but then, the Great Crash had come, and ruined everything.
Baron hissed at the memory, gloved hands clenching his cane tighter in desperation and the determination to live another day. For Josiah, if nothing else. Someone had to remember that wonderfully kind and sweet old man. If Baron died then there would be no one to do so and that was just unthinkable. So he just kept on limping along, for Josiah's sake, because if there was one person who deserved to be remembered, it was him.
And though he was battered, bruised and had a broken leg, Baron just kept telling himself to keep on going; and that things could only get better when they were this bad. As he was about turn the corner that would take him out of the alley, Baron suddenly remembered something that Josiah would quote at him whenever he complained that things were too hard. He could practically hear him now,
" 'Life for me ain't been no crystal stair. ', boy." He'd scold, wagging a finger and frowning. " 'It's had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor -- Bare." Josiah would then go on to say the rest of the poem and when he'd finished, he'd shake his head and tell Baron to try again at whatever had frustrated him.
Baron nodded firmly to himself, wincing as his bad leg brushed up against a bit of rubbish. He then gave his usual response to the phantom Josiah's scolding. "Alright, Josiah, Langston. I'll give it another try."
He turned the corner.
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A.N: Credit for the poem goes to good ol' Langston Hughes. After all, he wrote it. (grins) Also, sorry 'bout the double NYC thing, ffnet is acting funky. Again.