Forum
Part IX: 1917- War on All Fronts
"I cannot say," Galdamez shrugged, his bleeding apparently coming to a stop. "For if I knew what the tragedy was, I would not need you to bear witness to it. Trust that once you have, the cosmos will be in order and your visit to the past will come to an end." He paused. "Now I know for a simple Costco worker such as yourself, this is a lot..."
"Okay, you don't have to get snooty about it," Marco muttered, "I was at MIT. Things just...went a little sideways."
He wasn't sure if it was the high stress nature of the situation, his general need to compensate, or his long-abiding desire for positive paternal role models, but there was something about Galdamez that compelled him to want to talk about himself.
He didn't like having to talk about himself.
"Well, if I'm here, it's for a reason then. I mean...things do happen for a reason, after a fashion. I'm not sure if World War I did, but...in general," he bit his lip, "Is Anne okay? Like, you didn't send her to Neanderthal times or something? Can women vote, at least?"
Somehow, he felt better knowing Anne wouldn't be worse off than he was.
-Marco
"Anne is fine," Galdamez assured her. "She is a capable woman, mon ami. You need not fear for her." He tilted his head, curious. "You care deeply for the good sister, don't you, Marco?"
"It's not like that!" Marco protested, feeling like a child, "We're friends. Well, we were. We lost touch. Things got, uh...a little difficult for her in high school."
They'd been difficult for him too, he supposed, in a different way.
"Things have been hard for her," he paused, adding somewhat unconvincingly, "I guess."
Not wanting to dwell too much longer on this topic, and feeling more and more put off by Galdamez by the second, Marco asked, "So...can you give me any hints? About what I'm supposed to do next or...something? Because I don't want to upset D.I.K Smith. He gave me a job and he didn't even ask for my social security or something. Which might be because they don't have those yet. I wasn't a history guy. But still."
-Marco
"I cannot," Galdamez said somberly. "The only guidance I can give is of the heart and of the soul. But in solving the mystery, I am as blind as you. Trust that when you'll need me, I will be by your side. You'll need an ally in this, A WAR ON ALL FRONTS!"
A trolley rushed between them and Galdamez...didn't vanish. But he was on the floor, writhing in pain. "OHHHHHHHHHHHHH! MY FEET! THEY RAN OVER MY FEET! OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
"Oh God!" Marco cried, wondering at the remarkable reliability of early 20th century public transportation, and also horrified at the sight of a man being crippled feet away from him, "Are you okay? Can you stand? Is there anything I can do?"
-Marco
Galdamez ignored the excruciating pain and pointed in no particular direction, urging the time-traveller, "GO! GO FORTH ON YOUR QUEST! SURVIVE THE WAR AND SOLVE THE MYSTERY OF 1917! GO! GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"
"Wait...survive the war? You mean...the world war? Now, I did not sign up for that. I was getting excited about the candy factory! You can't just show up and take that from me. I don't even..."
But Marco stopped, "Wait, where am I going?" he looked over his shoulder, "Because the place D.I.K. Smith said was right down the str..."
He turned back, only to find Galdamez had vanished as if he'd never been there.
"...eet," he blinked, "Whoa. I am in the presence of sorcery."
Stupid sorcerers.
-Marco
Some trashcans clattered in the distance, along with the cry, "MERCIFUL VOODOO, OHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
So much for sorcery.
"You alright?" Marco called in the general distance of the trashcans.
-Marco
"GO FORTH!" Galdamez feebly cried, his voice echoing in the abandoned street. "GOOOOOOOOO!!!...ow."
"Uh...okay," Marco nodded, "I'm going. Forth. Thanks,"
He turned his back to the suffering Galdamez, shuffling the rest of the way toward the hostelry Smith had indicated, "...for nothing."
***
The hostel proved to be a ramshackle, three-story lodging set aside primarily for immigrants and their contemporary cousins: the poor. Marco was one of those things, so he figured he'd blend in fine.
The check-in process, or what passed for it, consisted of introductions ("Hi, I'm Marco,"), statement of intent ("I hear I can get a bed here...oh you're already going,"), and some ground rules ("One bathroom? In the whole place? No kidding.") before he was escorted to a room shared by approximately 10 other people sleeping in bunks, cots, and on the floor.
"Um...thanks," he turned to bid farewell to his host, but the door had already slammed shut.
Marco found himself missing Dr. Galdamez, which was hardly a sustainable position.
He could tell some of his new roommates were only feigning sleep, watching him through half-opened eyes, the way kids on the schoolyard judge new arrivals.
Actually, not at all like school. What, was he crazy?
He gingerly sat down on the grimy floor, realizing he had no blanket.
Oh, well. He'd slept in worse places.
Not that he'd ever gotten much sleep in them either.
***
It was the sound of singing that jarred Marco from his sleepless stupor.
"Estaba el señor Don Gato/Sentadito en su tejado..."
He sat up, feeling a sheen of slick sweat on his brow: a side effect of the fusty humidity of the summer, compounded by the close quarters of the dormitory. At first, he'd thought the song had been imagined, a conjuring of the dead heat.
But it was real. Distant, but present: a woman's voice, singing a tune Marco recognized, the way you might suddenly be reminded of an old story from your childhood, after letting it fade into the back of your mind for long years.
"Marramiau miau, miau, miau/Sentadito en su tejado..."
"Don Gato," he whispered.
His mother had once sung it as a lullaby, in Spanish and English, tweaking his nose at the end of each verse.
"Ha recibido una carta/por si quiere ser casado..." and then the switch to English, as if to keep him on his toes, "There was not a sweeter kitty/In the country or the city/And she said she'd wed Don Gato!"
Marco suspected the others could hear the song too, but only one of them was on his feet. He saw a figure outlined against the waning moonlight, leaning out the window. Marco tentatively got up...
"¿Conoces la canción?" he asked softly.
The other man turned to him. He was some years younger than Marco, with a shock of dark curls and a lean face. He was shockingly thin.
"You speak with a terrible accent," he said at last, in English.
"Wow, okay, thanks."
The other man turned back out the window, "She sings every night. It's always a different song."
"Con una gatita blanca/sobrina de un gato pardo..."
"Always in Spanish?"
"Why not?" he shrugged, "It's the Latin Quarter."
"Oh."
Marco hadn't known there was a Latin Quarter in Lakewood, certainly not in this neighborhood which, almost 100 years later, was among the poshest parts of town, as the district around St. George's had been for as long as he'd lived.
He wondered when that had changed.
"Where did you come from?" asked the stranger, "Not Mexico. You sound American."
"I, uh..." Marco paused, "I am. I mean...I've been here a long time. But not here. But my family's from Juarez."
Which was the truth, give or take a few generations.
"Marramiau, miau, miau, miau/Sobrina de un gato pardo..."
"I came from Guadelajara. It was that or be butchered like a dog in Carranza's armies."
Marco didn't know enough of the (ongoing, he guessed) Mexican Revolution to make a statement that wouldn't immediately mark him as a moron, so he nodded, "You're not worried about being picked up by this war?"
"If they want to draft us, they'll have to recognize us first. They're more than welcome."
They stood side-by-side for a little while more, the mysterious woman's singing continuing. The words were different in Spanish, yet Marco couldn't help but recall his mother's English translation.
"But in spite of everything they tried/Poor Señor Don Gato up and died/Oh, it wasn't very merry/Going to the cemetery/For the ending of Don Gato..."
At the other man's expression, Marco shrugged, "And then he comes back to life when he smells fish in the market. I guess it's supposed to be a happy ending, but it always creeped me out. Zombie cats, yanno."
"You never had a pet you wished could come back from the dead?"
"Not after I saw Pet Semetary," he paused, "But I digress."
The man chuckled in the back of his throat, "It must depend on what you've had to lose," he sighed, his shoulders relaxing for only a moment, "Danilo Marquez."
He extended a hand to shake. Marco accepted it, "Marco Silva."
"Bueno conocerte," he greeted with a dark smile, "Welcome to Lakewood, brother."
***
Marco didn't get much sleep. Also, without a watch or a phone or...anything, he had to rely on his circadian rhythm to ascertain which part of the dolorous predawn was the right time to get up for work.
But his circadian rhythm seemed to still think it was the 21st century, so that didn't work either.
Erring on the side of caution, Marco got up at what felt like 4:00 AM. He wasn't the only one. The other men were all on their feet, stretching, yawning, and reaching about for clothes.
Nobody seemed to have a closet, and sharing seemed encouraged. Marco muttered a few pleasantries in Spanish, surreptitiously grabbing a shirt and some trousers. He decided to donate his Costco polo to the community closet. If someone wore it, maybe the inventor of Costco (or his ancestor) would be inspired, and Marco would be responsible for the corporation he worked for in the present.
Or not. He wasn't sure how time travel worked.
"Uh, hey," he greeted his new friend (?) Danilo, who was currently clad in slacks and suspenders and nothing else, which was really manly but Marco wasn't sure he could pull it off, "What's up?"
Danilo nodded, "Going to work?"
"Oh, yeah, I got this gig at a candy store. Didn't even have to give a resume or anything..."
Danilo let out a sharp whistle to get the other men's attention, "¡Atención, idiotas!"
Instant silence. Marco realized everybody was staring at him, not Danilo, and began to wonder if maybe a more polite term of address could've been used to better ingratiate him with the community.
"This is Marco. Es de Juárez."
"Well, technically."
"Treat him like your mother would've wanted. Porque si no."
Danilo must've commanded some level of clout because nobody challenged this. Still, he wasn't sure all the eyes on him were friendly.
"Uh...thanks," he said at last.
"Don't worry about it," Danilo threw him a belt, which Marco scrambled to catch, "You said you work in a shop?"
"I will be," he paused, "Something wrong with that?"
"Might want to keep quiet about it around some of the boys. Jealousy, you know. Most of us were lucky to get hired as pickers."
"...uh, pickers?"
"Sugar," Danilo held up his hands, which were marred with ugly scars and callouses, presumably the legacy of...however sugar was harvested, Marco didn't know, "There's a plantation north of town. About the only job of any size who still hires without questions."
Marco thought of Burt, "What about the factories? Don't they need people?"
"With the draft on, they may get desperate enough to want immigrants making their boys' weapons," he shrugged, "Who knows? For now, we have no choice."
No choice, Marco thought darkly.
"There's always some choice," he said halfheartedly, as if looking to be validated on this himself.
Danilo, consciously or not, obliged him, "Maybe. It isn't always a good one," he nodded, "Good luck, Marco."
-Marco and Danilo
The southeast quarter: derelict and running amok with rodents, human filth lingering on every street corner, smoking, gambling, maybe even conspiring...
Nathan Teague was disgusted by it, to say the least, as he walked alongside his younger brother. "What a waste," he clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Would you believe this town used to be filled with people from the old country? Dignified, hardworking folk. Nowadays, the only Irishman you'll see here is the poor officer breakin' up fights, cleanin' up their messes..." He spat out of disgust. "Never felt good about you workin' in this cesspit, Freddy. War effort be damned, slavin' away in that factory ain't worth it."
"It's honest work for honest pay!" protested Freddy defensively, "Anyways, it beats workin' for Pop," he gamboled down the street at his brother's side, stepping casually around the spot where Nathan had spat, "Anyway, nobody bothers me if I can help it. You're not the only tough guy in the family."
-Freddy
"Oh, a tough guy, eh?" Nathan smirked, tussling his younger brother's hair and playfully pushing him away. "Workin' for Pop ain't so bad. Ya learn the ways of being a man, keepin' order and peace. More so than you would in this neighborhood." He shook his head, his mind suddenly growing nostalgic. "If only Dougie could see you know, playing 'patriot' while he dukes it out in the trenches. He'd be proud, I reckon."
"I don't do it for nobody's pride," though Freddy looked quite self-satisfied at the thought, smiling transparently, "But I guess it's nice to be useful."
Truth be told, he liked working at the factory. It was hard work, and dangerous too, but it felt like a very grown-up thing to be doing. He was 17 this year, and overdue for feeling grown-up.
"What chance I end up makin' the shell that saves Dougie's life?"
It was a lofty fantasy, but heartening, especially in the mire of this grim summer.
-Freddy
Nathan smiled, hands in his pockets, ready to provide some encouraging comment when out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a familiar and unwelcome face. "If it ain't the Kaiser himself," he called Bert Schmidt from afar, not losing a step. "Supporting the war effort like the good American he is." The brazen Teague sneered. "Lest you're replacin' those bullets with your pop's hard candies now, eh? Would be a doozy of an inside job."
Bert looked towards the voice and then back to the building.
"Just trying to make my wage Nathan."
"Just so long as you don't make trouble, you hear me?" Nathan didn't want to pay the punk any more mind and pulled in Freddy for a goodbye hug with his left arm. "See you home for dinner. And be careful with those machines. That Rooney boy lost a few fingers in one of those conveyor belts in the Worshire factory on the other side of town because he lulled for just a moment. Stay alert." He smiled and playfully slapped his kid brother on the cheek, turning on his heel to leave. But not without glaring once more at Schmidt, as if to further warn him to keep to himself.
"Schmidt's are never the cause, only the solution."
Bert said, before making his way into the building. He had a hard days work ahead of him, and he wasn't going to let a man born in softness disrupt that.
"Oh, don't worry about that," Freddy's attention lingered on Bert, "I will be."
He took a few steps over to the Smith youth. Though Bert Smith was quite a few years older, indeed closer to Nathan's age than his own, Freddy was nearly as tall as him.
"Keeping your hands clean, Smith?" he asked, in the wavery tones of a youth trying to seem older, more confident than he was, "Wouldn't want any taffy stuffing up the works. Put a real damper on the war effort."
-Freddy
"Always clean, always precise."
Bert said, looking at the youth.
"I take great pride in contributing to the brave men fighting in battle. One none of us asked for, despite how some might feel."
Freddy glowered in transparent distaste at Bert's display of overwrought decency. He felt an irrational tug in the back of his gut, a sort of silent indicator he was letting himself be pushed. He knew this, on some level, but that didn't make the impulse easy to ignore.
"Well, I guess that's just the word," he raised his eyebrows, "How some might feel."
The whistle sounded over the yard, harsh and blaring, to signal the start of the work day. Freddy quickened his pace, not looking back at Bert as he headed on into the factory. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, shaking with rage that would not be easily loosed.
Maybe it was senseless, directionless, and infantile.
But his brother was gone, fighting another man's war on another continent an entire world away. And he was here, at what passed for home, feeling nothing if not senseless, directionless, and infantile.
***
"Heyo!" Marco rapped pleasantly on the frosted glass of the Smith's Sweeties' door, "Reporting for duty."
"Michael!" DIK Smith greeted him from behind the counter.
"Marco, actually..."
"Yes, yes, Willkommen!"
"Bienveneu," Marco joined in, "I'm cabaret, au cabaret, to cabaret!"
This seemed to go right over the old man's head, which of course it did. The musical wouldn't be a thing for 60 years, and the historical context depended on the end of a war that was still a year and a third from being over.
And now it was stuck in his head. He really did it to himself, didn't he?
"I must extend my most heartfelt appreciations to you, my young brown friend..."
"Oh, wow, yeah," Marco paused, "Thanks, white buddy."
"Here is an apron for you," DIK handed Marco a starched monstrosity of fabric done up in candy stripes, "You may find it a little tight about the waist. It was Bertie's when he worked for me."
Marco again tried not to pry, given this was obviously a sore subject. Still, he couldn't help but feel bad for the old guy. Bert didn't seem like a bad person, but he could sympathize for not wanting to work your old man's popsicle stand (such as it was) all through your best years, not that these years were particularly better than anything else in this particular century, but even so.
"I guess you're pretty protective of him."
"Hm?" DIK cocked an eyebrow, "Well, of course I am. He is my son. Even in his fits and tempers, his high ambitions and low sulks, he is mine. One day, young Marco, you will have children, and you will see that great gift...and that great curse too."
Marco smiled, "Children...I don't know."
"Neither did I. My Grete had to get me quite drunk first."
"Wow, okay."
"I filled her head with dread worries of my own. Germany was changing fast, even then. The world was moving faster, nations creeping and crawling about Europe and elsewhere, setting up petty fiefdoms and whispering of foreign wars. The rich became godly in their wealth, the poor more mitelike than ever. Carriages lost their horses and torches lost their flames. It would be cruel to bring a child into such an unpredictable and dangerous world. And now, here we are..." he spread his arms wide, "The world is at war, the armies of darkness march along the face of the earth, and destruction waits ever at the door. But do I regret my son?"
Marco wasn't sure this was a trick question or not, "...no?"
"No," DIK agreed, "I regret only that I could not make the world a little bit gentler for his sake. That is all we can do. Now," he indicated the counter, "I shall show you the toffee puller! Put on a pair of gloves, just there, and we shall commence..."
-Freddy, Marco, and DIK
Helmut Fitzgerald was sorting yet another box of shells when his good friend finally arrived to work. "Bert! My fellow man in arms, there you are!" He firmly grasped Bert by the wrist, giving it a good shake or two. "Thought I'd be slaving the day all on my own. Now instead of suffering in silence, you can provide live commentary to my toiling and suffering. It'll be great."
"Hello Helmut, I see you're as lively as ever today."
Bert greeted as he stood next to the man, ready to work the line for the day.
"Yes, watch as I criticize these shells how only a German can."
Helmut chuckled at that as he continued his work. "I see you arrived with royalty, the Irish prince himself." He chinned towards the younger Teague, who was shuffling off to a belt on the other side of the factory. "He give you any trouble?"
"Boys playing men is all."
Bert said, not looking up from his work.
"Smaller hearts and bigger heads."
"Ah." Helmut tilted his head knowingly. "I suppose so. Though from my experience, it's bigger mouths and smaller schwanze." He refrained from saying "penises" in English after that last incident with the supervisor. "No profanity unless you're caught in a horrible, godless accident. Back to work you go, Fitzgerald!"
The mother tongue certainly had its benefits, he couldn't deny that.
"Guess we should go easy on him," Helmut considered. "With his older brother out in the trenches and all." He paused. "And his less older brother being a big dummkopf but he seems to have come to terms with that."
"I suppose we should. Though we must be on our toes anyway. There's growing resentment for us, they do not see us as Americans."
Bert said, tossing a defective shell in a bin next to them.
"How is your mother?"
"You don't need to tell me that," Helmut assured him, gravely aware of how the other workers eyed them, monitored the faintest hint of a an accent. "Eh. Gout. Been having to help her around home, cook for her. Haven't had a good meal in days." He turned the question around on Bert. "How about your father, the solve purveyor of Smith's Sweeties in the province of Lakewood?"