Another Dead End

Griffin Reilly, Francisco Leventhal, Lucas Craig Darkness sets over a bustling city, and for once, hushes the constant noise of commerce. A slight knock can be heard from a distance. Followed by silence, then another knock, resembling a reply to the message. Moments go by, and the door quietly creaks open, showing the first signs of life. Two thin, dark figures slip into an old worn down building and out of the open. The figures progress down the nearest corridor, and a loud high-pitched creak breaks the silence. Keep yer steps quiet, boy! whispers a gruff, middle-aged Irish man. The figures slink down the dank, tight hallways, and finally come to an abrupt stop. A lone hand slowly reaches upwards, revealing a doorknob, then carefully turns it as gently as possible. Inside the room, two small cots lay across the floor along with 10 or 12 mice, who quickly scatter into the shadows. Were lucky that deyll let us stay here for the next couple of days, so keep quiet bout et, ya hear me? says the gruff voice again. Yessir, mumbles a smaller voice. The door creaks closed, and the sound of a lock is heard, all motion ceasing. The city, once again, has been returned to its rare state of solitude. A young, 11-year old Will OMeara opens his eyes suddenly, to the sound of his father coughing. I cant miss another day o work, my boy, and you cant miss school anymore, so git dressed and git ready dont just sit there!, declares Thomas, in his gruff, gravelly voice, whilst slowly ascending from his cot. The man quickly puts on an old, faded jacket littered with patches, and quickly exits their closet of a home. Will is left to sit, letting his ears listen to the sounds of New York waking up. Cars honking, people shouting, babies crying, and the smell of smoke and haze prominent in the air. The boy gets up, and puts on his jacket, picks up his pack and looks at himself in a small puddle in the corner of the room. A mere boy, living in the unfitting suit of a man, expected to leave his childhood behind without even starting. Without wasting another second, Will runs out the door, and down the hallway. The street bursts at the seams with people, all with the same dream: the American dream. Filing themselves tightly one-by-one into dark factory buildings, hoping to make their daily dollar, simply to put crumbs on the table. Will, not built for the harsh slums of New York City, has dreams of an education, of leaving home, of starting anew. Other kids think of him as crazy, and for good reason too. Despite trying so hard, Will barely makes it to lunch alive, as other children fight each other, most jealous for Wills slight spark of intelligence. So little man, I hear yer pops is a dying man, eh Willy? says a taller boy, backed by multiple goons. Shaddap, hes a good man, yer just wishin you had a daddy ya coward! replies Will, with an obvious hint of false bravery.

The boy punches Will across the face, who instead of fighting back simply runs, looking at teachers for support. An older American teacher grins slightly, and sharply turns his head in the other direction. Will runs home that day, straight to his cot, and bursts into tears. After a minute of despair, Will stops and notices his father laying on his bed, paler than a full moon. The boy shakes his tears away and puts on his mask of manliness. Whats wrong father, did you get hurt at work today? asks Will, timidly. Im fine, dont worry, you brat, *cough* but I got something I need ya to do, boy, replied Thomas, hiding his pain. What do you need, father? asks Will, his eyes trailing off. HEY! Dont you get smart with me, you call me SIR! hollers Thomas, grabbing Will by the collar, I need you to stop goin ta school, I dont care about you thinkin yer smart, cuz yer not! But father--, er I mean, sir, I want to learn and become someone important someday! replies Will, with a sense of resistance and sadness. I dont care! yells Thomas, I need you to take the job at the factory full time now! Im getting sick, and I know it. I cant work every day now, so its yer responsibility to work! Moments of silence pass, and Thomas lets go of Wills shirt, noticing the pain in his eyes. Yessir. I will ask Mr. Maxwell if he will let have a leave of absence, so you can still git paid, says Will, hopefully. You can try, but that lump aint gon listen, boy. replies Thomas, chuckling, then coughing. Im gonna try anyways, sir, says Will quickly, in an attempt to end the conversation. Will attempt succeeds, and the two succumb to nightfall. Will gets up, puts on his fathers working clothes and sets out for work, before the sun is even up. He rushes outside, and runs down the avenue, sprinting past multiple street fights, finally reaching his destination: a tall, poor smelling structure with a line of tired people leaking out the front doors. A long, sleek, black car approaches the crowd, and a large, seemingly regal man steps out. The man, factory owner Benedict Maxwell, strides past the people and into the building, the minions following him in. Mr. Maxwell, I need to ask you an important question! shouts Will to Benedict amongst the noise. Cant you see Im busy, boy! yells Benedict to Will, Now get to work, and you may see me during your break today if you get yer work done. Will nodds quickly in agreement, pauses, and then darts up the stairs to his post. The bell for 12:00 rings, and Will carefully leaves his station, pausing to look at the work he had done, bringing a smile of pride to his face. He made his way to Benedicts office, overhearing many conversations in foreign languages which he could not understand. At last, he opens the large doors to the office, revealing Mr. Maxwell, sitting in a relaxed position and smoking a rather large cigar.

Um, Mr. Maxwell, may I speak with you? asks Will, not daring to look the man straight in the face. Yeah boy, but make it quick, *puff of cigar* I got some-- uh-- reports to get to! Benedict says, pointing to absolutely nothing on his empty desk. Okay, sir, my father, Thomas OMeara is sick today, and you know how good of a worker he is, so Is wondering if you could give him a leave of absence? I may, Thomas is a good worker, *puff of cigar* but youre gonna have to double your work to make up fer him not bein here *puff* ya know? Dont make it an excuse to get extra money, Benedict responds, putting his feet down and staring Will straight in the face. Oh yessir I will, you can count on it, sir, answers Will, nodding his head profusely. Yeah, and boy, you better git that work done, or youll be outta here, *puff* ya know? yells Benedict to Will as he exits. Eight hours later, Will leaves the building, slowly making his way home. He makes sure of notifying Benedict that not only did Will do his and his fathers work, but he did more than that, he produced another 20 pounds of candy more than he is required to. Benedict pretends to nod his head at the little boy, and goes on his way. A job at a candy making factory might seem like a dream job for an 11 year old boy, but it truly was the most awful job. Wills job was to take large boiling pots of sugary batter and pour in the specific amount of color dye, then pouring the sample into small molds. The more molds he makes, the more work he gets credit for, as if anyone really pays attention. As Will stumbles into his room, he greets his father, still remaining in his sickly position. Pop! Guess what? Will cheerfully asks his father, in an attempt to warm his spirits, Mr. Maxwell said that he would give ya the leave of absence, an all Is got to do is do twice as much work to make up fer yehs! Thats great, boy, now keep your god damned voice down, Im *cough cough* tryin to git sum sleep, boy! yells Thomas angrily. ...yessir, replies Will, his shoulders sinking in disappointment that his father doesnt acknowledge his determination to help him. Another coughing and wheezing filled night goes by, and Thomas health seems to deteriorate by the second, despite Will giving him all of the food they earn, leaving barely any for himself. Once again, Will hurries out the door and down the streets towards the factory. As Will makes his way up to his post, Benedict stops him. Mr. Maxwell! says a surprised Will. Yes, boy, so Ive decided not to give yer father that leave of absence...unless hes here today? asks Benedict. Well, sir, hes not but I promise you I will continue to do more than twice my normal work-- Thats not going to work, said Benedict, interrupting Will, I dont really like the idea of payin a feller who aint even hear, ya know? Sir, please! begs Will.

No boy, dont talk back to me! roars Benedict, The mans fired! Now git to work bfore I make you leave, too! All he could do was what he was told.

An angry Will sits at his post, thinking of how mad his father will be at him, despite trying so hard to help him. Still being an ignorant child, Will does not understand why Benedict must do this, even for logistical business reasons. Tears welling up in his eyes, Will picks up a rather large pot of candy batter, and his apron catches fire by touching the pot. He throws off the apron and puts the fire out. His protective gloves arent there, and before he can also realize that the heat protective part on the pot is gone, he has already dropped the scalding pot, the batter burning his hands and spilling onto his exposed right leg. AAAAAHH! yelps Will, quickly shaking himself to try to nullify the pain. A nasty third-degree burn mark is revealed on his leg, many of the other workers staring in awe and empathy at the crying boy. Will asked for help but no one was brave enough to leave their station to help, fearing that they could risk their job. He quickly found a nearby rag and wrapped it around the wound, and proceeds to limp quickly upstairs to Benedicts office. Grimacing in sheer agony, the boy opens the door to the bosss headquarters. I told you that I will fire ya if yer gonna beg to me! yelled Benedict with fury. Thats not what Im here fer, sir, Will utters quietly despite the pain, Its fer this, revealing the wound. Ya did that just now? Benedict asks in disbelief. Yessir, Mr. Maxwell, my gloves were not at my station and I burned my hand on the pot, even though it is supposed to be coated rubber so it dont burn meh, explains Will. Yer not tellin this to anybody, ya hear me boy? says Benedict with a hint of fear in his voice. Well I at least need to see a doctor, sir-- NO! bellows the large man, interrupting the small boy, If you report it I will fire ya and make sure that you never work another day in yer life, ya hear!? Silence. DO YOU HEAR ME, BOY?! he shouts at the boy once again. ...yes, whimpers Will, as he slowly walks out of the office, beginning to cry. The insufficient cast continues to rub against Wills leg, causing further pain. Will, however, refusing to quit, keeps his pace up, extracting more precision to each movement; making sure not to mess up again. Will stands in front of the door for almost 10 minutes contemplating what he would say to his father and how he would explain it. Finally, he summons the courage, and opens the door. His father lays on the cot, sweating profusely and coughing again and again.

Boy, is that you? asks Thomas, weakly. Yessir, father. Do I still have my job? asks Thomas, this time with a strong sense of vulnerability in his voice. Well, no sir, despite me tryin to convince Mr. Maxwell to-- says Will before being interrupted. What happened boy?! Thomas wonders while turning to face his son, You said he would let me keep it! I thought he would, but all of a sudden he changed his mind says Will, his voice trailing off. Cmere boy, Thomas said, leaning in, You are no help to me or to anybody! yelled the man, harshly punching Will across the face, instantly drawing blood. The boy winced in pain, feeling utter despair for himself and for letting down his father. Thomas lets out a troubled sigh, as if he had just expended his last morsel of energy. Im sorry, sir, says Will in an attempt to apologize to his father. Well thats not good enough, is it? yells Thomas at Will, wishing for him to feel his full wrath. There was a pause, as they stare each other straight in the face, one filled with fury, the other with shame. All of a sudden the door slams open, and a man appeared with a police officer telling the two that they had to leave. Whats the meaning of this, father? asked a startled Will. We arent allowed to be here, we snuck in here illegally, now follow their directions, boy. says Thomas, with a pained voice, trying to scold his child. So, they get up, Thomas requiring the help of Will, collected their things and left. Will looks back at their tiny little room with a sense of sorrow, perhaps thinking that this might be his last home. The two settle down next to a pile of crates in an alleyway and set up their makeshift camp. This is your fault, now were livin on the streets with the rats! yells Thomas, this time appearing to almost burst into tears, he knows its his own fault, he just cant handle any more pain. Im sorry sir says Will, which was all he could manage. As the sun floods the barren streets with warmth, Will dashes down the sidewalk as fast as he can go, but suddenly stops in front of a large building with metal bars over the windows. POLICE STATION reads the sign. Will enters and begins to explain to the nearest officer what had happened and why Benedict Maxwell is responsible for the lack of worker safety. The two men look at each other with a clear sense of doubt, and ask Will if he is crazy. They both know Mr. Maxwell is one of the most powerful men in New York, and they wont dare defy him. Looky here, kid, yer just some punk Irish youngling, why should we listen to you? asks one of the cops. Bcuz of dis! Will yells, revealing the grotesque scar on his leg.

The two cops wince at it, and look at each other, as if for a moment they believe the boy. Will thinks they do too, a glimmer of hope shining in his eyes. Look kid, we cant believe ya, we have real work to do, now scram! says the second cop. Will cant understand why they dont believe him, and he storms out the doors. Stopping, Will overhears the cops saying that they are going to report this to Benedict, to make sure he has control of his workers and to avoid strikes. Suddenly realizing what he has done, Will charges after the police car, trying to stop it, to no avail. He cant keep up with it, and soon collapses in the middle of the street crying. He knows that he made the mistake of starting a war he cant win. A month goes by, and Thomas quickly loses his battle to smallpox. Will walks the streets, death staring him in the face, searching for food or a job. He passes Benedicts factory, where he used to work. The boy thinks of entering, but he knows that path will lead him to another dead end. Will spots a bread shop around the corner, and proceeds in that direction. A mans basket containing multiple items of food is left unattended, and Will does what he has to do. He runs over, snatches a loaf, and runs as fast as he could, stuffing the bread into his mouth. Will has about half a second to enjoy the sweet taste of the sourdough before he is viciously tackled by the man, who then snatches the bread back, cursing at Will as he leaves. Will lays motionless on the pavement, chewing the bread with delight, but the burning pain in his infected leg, now unbearable. That night, the young boy gives in to the torture. Will, like he was doomed to, loses his war too. Dreams end, even though as he just now realizes, they were never meant to be in the first place. Two years later, Benedict Maxwells company is shut down, and the building is made into a department store. Multiple reports of poor working conditions lead to the fall of the franchise, as many new bills are put in place regarding worker safety. Benedict soon makes a new company, which becomes instantly successful, therefore keeping the man in the same social status, despite all of his crimes. Somewhere in Ireland, a woman is opening a letter that she received from America. It reads: Dear Mother, We are extremely happy to tell you that both of us have jobs and are making money for you home in Dublin. We will continue to send checks like this one as we continue to prosper here in New York. We hope you are all safe and well as we are. - Will and Thomas OMeara