Chapter Two: The Factory

AN: There will be a graphic death scene. You have been warned. Also...BACKSTORY! Also, there's foul language, slight racial slurs, and a lot of character development. Another note: a lovely reviewer brought it to my attention that the Italics aren't showing up on mobile devices. I'll make note of that for future chapters. Thank you guys so much for reading; it does a body good to see people like what I write, even if it's about an OC. The OC Dallas is paired up with will arrive soon, if you guys are waiting for her. Just be patient. :)

He starts working after three weeks.

It was surprisingly easy; Darry had seen him and after they exchanged words Darry put in a good word for him. The employer met him, shook his hand, and said, "You're a wild one, but I see that you're an honest man under all that grease. I trust Darry that you won't be a mistake." Dallas bit his tongue and took the compliment, bent on working to prove himself to his father. He breezed through orientation, the tutorials of how machinery works and how to put in time slots for lunch breaks and off time. After the basics were established, Dallas was assigned to work in the assembly line for the toy parts.

His job is, in some sick joke, at a toy factory. A toy factory that actually manufactures toys he used to play with in his youth. As he screws on the head of yet another teddy bear, he sees his past staring back at him with sad brown eyes and fur. He resists the urge to tear that thing to pieces to bury his emotions.

That teddy bear was the last thing his mother gave him before she succumbed to her illness; it was the last thing he had left of her that was lost in their move to Oklahoma. It felt like a punishment to make the very thing he lost, a punishment for his awful behavior committed while his innocent mother looks down from Heaven.

He takes the punishment willingly.

It wasn't so bad; half the workers are within his age group and come from the wrong side of the tracks, a handful of them are drinking buddies with Buck and Tim. The older, more laid back demographic of workers are comrades of Darry's, blue collar men who simply work to feed their families; Dallas would see snippets of children's photos in wallets as proud fathers chatter about the toys they're going to get for their little Sally or rambunctious Thomas.

He, for some bizarre reason, attracts coworkers who want his friendship. He doesn't understand why; he hardly talks and if he does communicate it's in grunts or curses. He's not a very social person by the farthest stretch of imagination; outside of his Greasers, he's simply a man who prefers to not exist and to simply observe. He became known at his job as "the Mute", and the coworkers would make a game to see if they could pry information out of him for laughs. The next contender is up for the challenge.

"So, you watch the game last night?"

"Doll Number 47 needs more paint on the lips." Dallas responds, shoving the doll in his coworker's hands. He's not in the mood; the holidays are rolling around the corner and they have to work quickly and efficiently to make as many toys as possible for the hungry shoppers looking for a last minute present. If they don't meet the quota by next week, all of their paychecks are getting slashed and damn the possible Christmas bonus.

The worker, visibly amused by the response, takes the doll and applies the paint. The next one comes up.

"You know, there's this party happening on Christmas Eve. We've got eggnog." He wags his eyebrows. It's Jim, the sanctified holy man who's a wet blanket for anyone looking for a good time. Dallas knows that Jim's idea of fun is sitting around in a circle talking about Jesus and playing wholesome games with the family. No booze, no sex, no rock 'n' roll and especially no grass to mellow him out.

He'd much rather kill himself.

"Not interested." Dallas responds, assembling Doll Number 55 and working on the next one. Jim hangs his head and keeps it moving, making his way to his cubicle to fill out some paperwork. The next coworker, the newbie, saunters up to him with a confidence Dallas could associate as alien.

"You look like you could enjoy a night on the town, hombre. Name your poison."

Dallas is intrigued.

"Where you from?" Dallas asks. That sort of lingo sounds like Marco's.

"B-K-L-Y-N. All day." He pops his collar. Dallas snorts. He's definitely from there. No one in this town has that kind of confidence.

"I'm from Harlem."

"What part?"

"Miguel! Get back to work!"

"Shit, got to get back in my line. Catch me later on break, alright?"

"Yeah." Dallas grunts.

Miguel nods his head and jogs back to his spot.

It was lunch break.

Darry's busy talking to Jim and Bobby while Dallas sits at the side of the factory, smoking his cigarette and counting his money. With the remaining balance from his paycheck, he could afford a hamburger with a bag of chips. If he sneaks into the breakroom and fill up his canteen with coffee, he can get a decent beverage that'll keep him awake.

"Hey, Harlem!"

Wolf whistle.

It's Miguel.

He walks on over to him, hands in his pockets and a sandwich bag squished under his arm.

"I've been looking for you, man. Thought you bailed."

"Need somethin'?"

"Nah, I just want to talk. We left off on when you were talking about Harlem."

So he tells him.

Harlem, New York, 1955

"Hey, white boy."

Dallas whips his head around.

He'd been playing wall ball with himself for the past fifteen minutes when two kids came down the steps and seen him. One is a light-skinned black girl in an olive green dress and long brown hair in pigtails and the other a dark-skinned black boy wearing scruffy sneakers, dirty jeans and a simple white t-shirt.

"You wanna play with us?" the black boy asks.

"Who are you?" Dallas asks.

"I'm Ricky, and this light-bright is my cousin Delilah."

"Shut up, Ricky. You know you're not supposed to call me that! I'm telling Momma."

"Go 'head, tattletale. Then I'll tell her how you scuffed the new shoes she got you for church. Go 'head."

Delilah crosses her arms and purses her lips like she sucked a bad lemon. Dallas snickers.

"What you laughin' at, white boy?" Delilah saunters over to him, her fist held up to his face. Dallas laughs even harder.

"Your face. You look like you've been sucking on a lemon."

Ricky cackles.

"Boy, you funny. You got to play with us."

"What you guys playing?"

"Old Man Cricket."

"What's that?"

"Follow us and you'll see!" Delilah takes off upstairs, her pigtails slapping against her dress. Dallas got a peek of her panties and his cheeks burned hot.

"Come on, white boy. Let's go!" Ricky grabs his arm and they race upstairs to catch up to Delilah. They make it to the 5th floor, sweaty and excited.

"Where are we?"

"We need to get our boy Marco before we play." Ricky explains. He knocks on the door and they wait a few seconds before the familiar click and slide of the latch happens and the door swings open to reveal a very tan little boy with curly hair and a smirk.

"What's up…who's the gringo?"

"The hell is a 'green-go'?" Dallas fires back, feeling insulted. Is it some type of flamingo?

"It's a…nevermind," the boy sighs. He holds out his hand to shake.

"My name is Marco. Yours?"

They shake hands.

"Dallas."

"Like Texas? That's pretty cool, man. You ride bulls and shit?"

"Marco Ruiz Jimenez!" a shrill cry slices through the room. A tall, curvy, tanned woman with dark brown hair down her back rushes over to the boy and smacks him upside the head.

"Language! You will not say such filth in my house! You hear me?"

"Yes, Mama. Please let go of my ear." She grips it for good measure and eyes the three children. Embarrassed, she lets go of his ear and composes herself.

"Excuse Marco's behavior. He knows better than to say such filth in this household. Why, hello, Delilah and Richard. How's Miss Anna and Emelia?"

"Mom's doing fine, Mrs. Jimenez. She's working closer to the house and got a call from Daddy. He's coming back from New Orleans," Delilah responds.

"And Big Mama is thriving at her diner. She keeps talking about your famous banana bread." Ricky adds. Mrs. Jimenez nods in approval.

"Well I'm glad. I'll be sure to send you two home with a fresh batch. I even added the walnuts like she likes. Would you three like to come in for dinner? I just got done cooking and I don't feel comfortable letting you guys play without adults watching you guys closely. It's getting a little dangerous around here and I want you guys safe. I'll phone in your parents and tell them you're staying over." She smiles. She gestures them in, eyeing Dallas with curiosity and warmth.

"I've never seen you before. What's your name, hijo?"

"Dallas, ma'am."

"What a lovely name. Are your parents from Texas?"

"No, from Germany and Sicily."

"What an…interesting combination." She muses. She ushers him inside and closes her door.

Dallas is greeted by smells that are unfamiliar to him. He watches Delilah, Ricky, and Marco set the table and feels like an outsider.

"Dallas, can you help them with the dishes? The plates are awful heavy and I need a big, strong, boy like you to lift them." She pats his arm and chuckles. Dallas giggles and grabs the plates. After the table is set, Mrs. Jimenez is on the phone and scooping up food from her pots and skillets.

"Yes, Miss Anna. They're eating at my place and I'm sending them off with the bread I promised. Yes…yes, certainly...of course! Uh-huh…uh-huh…No problem at all…I'm sure he'd understand…I still got Delilah's clothes from last time…uh-huh…uh-huh…I'll see you in the morning after the kids go to school…God Bless." She hangs up the phone.

"Guess who's spending the night at our place tonight?" she announces the kids. The cousins cheer and applaud while Dallas looks on in confusion. Is this what kids do…go to strangers' homes and spend the night? He literally just met these people today!

"Dallas, what are your parents' phone number?"

"Uh..WInston 4-9871."

She nods her head and dials the number.

"H-hello? Hi…this is Cassandra Jimenez, the neighbor on the 5th floor. I'm calling to ask if your son would like to stay the night with my son and the neighbor's kids. I can assure you they're in great hands and…uh-huh…my son's name is Marco…he's definitely a good boy…Yes, my door is 35E…uh-huh…yes…oh, I understand…not a problem at all…would you like him to come home after dinner? I have no problem walking him downstairs and giving you some of the Lemon Cake I just made as a welcoming gift…uh-huh…Yes, my number is JImenez 4-7234…uh-huh…God Bless." She hangs up.

"Perhaps another time, I'm afraid. But your mother doesn't mind you staying for dinner. Wash up and sit down with the kids." She smiles at him, gesturing to the bathroom three doors down. Dallas makes his way in and is greeted by bright colors and a model of the Virgin Mary standing on the lid of the toilet, her dark eyes looking at him in the judgment from the reflection of the mirror. He washes his hands quickly and walks down to the kitchen and sits down. The food looks nothing like the potato pancakes and the alla ghiotta he's used to eating; this food looks familiar and foreign all the same.

The plate has vibrant looking rice, meat that falls off the bone in a dark brown, almost purplish gravy substance, with crisp salad and fresh looking avocado slices.

"Try it, hijo. It won't bite you." Mrs. Jimenez goads. Dallas scoops up his fork and tries the meat. His mouth explodes in flavor…and heat. He's hit with a burning sensation in his mouth; he sputters and coughs, reaching for the water and downing it in one gulp, only to choke on the liquid. Marco jumps into action, patting his back while Dallas tries to regain his composure.

"Hijo!" Mrs. Jimenez exclaims, grabbing his glass and refilling it with milk, "I should've warned you about the meat."

"White boy can't handle his flavor." Ricky snickers. Delilah swats his arm, giggling. After Dallas corrected himself, he tries the rice. He likes it; it evens out the spice when he mixes it with the meat. He eats the salad and it's pretty tasty; he crunches the lettuce with satisfaction and nibbles on avocado. He finishes his plate in a matter of minutes and dabs his mouth with a napkin.

"Like it, hijo?"

"Yes, ma'am." Dallas replies.

"You want seconds?"

"Yes please."

After his second plate, Dallas is walked downstairs with a mouthful of lemon cake by Mrs. Jimenez and the neighborhood kids. He makes it to the 3rd floor, his floor, and knocks on the door. His father answers, his expression stern and uncompromising.

"Hello, Mr. Winston. Here's your son, well-fed and safe."

"Thank…you." He forced out, his accent thick and obvious. He is still learning English. He guides Dallas inside and squares off with Mrs. Jimenez.

"Here's the cake I promised. I hope you and your family enjoy it. Here's my address and phone number; be sure to give us a call in case you want a babysitter for Dallas. I'm more than happy to take over for you." She smiles at him. Mr. Winston's demeanor softens.

"Have…a good…day…Mrs….Jee-mean-ez."

"Mrs. Jimenez, Mr. Winston." She corrects calmly.

"Have a good evening, you guys. God bless." She smiles before walking back upstairs, the kids following behind like ducklings. When Mr. Winston closes and locks the door, he looks over to his son.

"I can't believe you had dinner with that wetback and those…pickaninnies."

"Dad! Mom said it was okay."

"What did I say was okay?" Mrs. Winston comes into the view, arms holding a fresh pot roast. Her green eyes flicker over to Dallas and she grins.

"Hello, sweetie! How's Mrs. Jimenez?"

"She's a really nice lady. I tried some of her cooking tonight. It was pretty spicy, but delicious. She even let me have seconds." Dallas beams at her. Mrs. Winston sets down the pot roast and pulls a lock of her hair behind her ear.

"That sounds lovely. Even though your appetite is spoiled," she tickles his tummy, "I can be sure to save you some for tomorrow's lunch. You can have ice cream."

"What flavor?"

"Chocolate."

"Oh boy!" Dallas exclaims, jumping up and down from excitement.

"But first, it's time for a bath and for you to get in your pajamas for bed. After dessert, I'll read you a bedtime story. Okay, honey?"

"What story will we be reading?"

"Hansel and Gretel."

"I love that story!"

"I know. You can even snuggle with Mr. Teddy." She holds up his freshly washed stuffed animal.

Dallas holds Mr. Teddy in his hands.

"I can't believe you found him!"

"He was hiding behind the washing machine. Poor thing was stuck."

"Thanks, Mommy." He hugs her.

"It's all in a day's work." She hugs back.

"This is where Old Man Cricket lives," Delilah pants out, pointing to the last door at the end of the hall. They resumed his journey the day after, with Marco tagging along as the muscle. They're on the 10th floor, the floor very few people live in due to the height and lack of proper renovations. The smell of piss, decay, and desperation is eminent, an omen for the kids to stay away. Dallas has an awful feeling in his gut that something bad is about to happen. The quad makes their way down the hall, a pungent smell creeping from the door. The kids shield their noses from the smell, Marco going as far as fanning the air.

"Who died here?" Marco muses aloud.

"Better yet, who lives here?" Ricky adds, scanning the desolate surroundings.

"No one knows who lives here, but late at night you can hear the moans and wails. Back in the 20s, Old Man Cricket murdered his whole family and then himself. I think his old room is haunted. Legend has it that when you go in the room and say his name three times, he'll appear out of thin air and make you his next victim!" she pounces on Dallas, making him jolt. She laughs.

"She's just fucking with you. Old Man Cricket is this mean old man who never talks to nobody, only yells at you and throws shit if you walk past his door. He has the best candy in his room, though. We'd knock on his door, lure him out, and we run in, grab the candy, trip him and we book it. Think you can handle it?" Ricky asks him.

The spotlight is on Dallas.

"Yeah, I'm down." Dallas shrugs his shoulders, a move he adopted from the wise-guys that came down the avenue to collect debts. They nod their heads and knock on the door. Silence.

"Old Man Cricket? You in there?" Delilah knocks harder.

The door creaks open.

The kids look at each other.

"Something's not right," Marco whispers.

"Think we should look inside?" Delilah inquires, her eyes wide and flitting back and forth.

"The fuck we look like? Going into someone's home without the say-so, getting into some shit we have no business getting in? I'm ready to bail." He hisses back, ready to leave. Delilah grabs his wrist.

"What, you're chicken-shit now, Marco? Come on, man. The white boy has more balls than you. Right, Dallas?"

Dallas is already inside.

He assesses the damage; food looks old and moldy, the house a mess and reeking of filth and rot, and then, he's hit with a stench that's unforgettable.

Death.

His friends crowd around him, gagging on the smell. They smell it too.

"Someone needs to crack a window in here! It stinks to high hell!" Ricky groans through his shirt.

"Guys…do you hear that?" Dallas shushes them, listening sharply.

Water. Water trickling down.

"It's coming from the bathroom." Delilah whispers. They tip-toe through the hallway, the smell getting stronger with each step. Then they reach the bathroom, they're greeted by a horrible sight.

There, in the bathtub, decomposing at an alarming rate with a slit wrist, is Old Man Cricket.

Their screams could be heard for a whole three blocks.

"Some story you got there, Harlem." Miguel says through the smoke in his nose. Dallas finishes his last cancer stick, looking out into the Tulsa sky.

"Yeah, one of my many experiences in my youth." Dallas chortles, remembering the teddy bear.

"Want to hang out sometime tonight? If you're not doing anything, that is."

"Nah, I need to sit this one out. It's the anniversary."

"Of what?"

"My mother's death."