I wish I could write that I was as enthusiastic to start my employment as I was to begin my first day of kindergarten when I received a Wuzzles lunch box for my fourth birthday and had to wait a whole year before I could use it, wistfully holding it from time to time to stare at while my brothers attended classes. I can still picture the characters smiling back at me ignorantly unaware of their own implausible, chimerical inconsistencies. The rhinoceros monkey was my favorite. The glowing childhood memory helped get me to my feet as I departed one of the break rooms were I spent most of the night trying to gain sleep before the next day.

I was introduced to a good many individuals that previous afternoon upon the day I regained full consciousness, being a point of curiosity for them. But answering their questions seemed only to further confound their thoughts as the concepts I spoke of were wholly alien to their society. They soon lost interest, being burdened by more immediate concerns, namely, the company’s job at hand.

The company. Oh, the company. Such an alloying of emotions congeals in my blood recalling my fateful ventures with it. Dark Lantern Constructs & Forgery. A hybrid of steel mill, construction, mining, transportation service, and innovators of industry. They place their hands wherever they are capable of reaching. No one had doubted they would win the bid on the bridge. The Bridge as I was often corrected.

As so many needs and concerns assailed me in onslaught my first weeks, I was required, like my coworkers, to put all other scientific and existential questions aside until a time after I had procured for myself a measure of security. The company was moving quickly in their initial push, and I was forced to keep pace with them.

Living arrangements, cost of living, food acquisition and daily amenities. These all had to be learned immediately, and thanks to two or three individuals in the resource department my needs were nearer to being met. Kind, but terse, they made it clear behind their smiles and good will that I was a worker like any other, not an honored guest. I would be helped, not handheld.

With pride they spoke of the auspices of their city and the subsidies the company was allowed to gain for this momentous venture that none had yet dared undertake. I listened with interest, but had nothing with which to relate this incoming knowledge. When asking a question, the responses, “You’ll learn as you go,” or, “During your work day your fellow coworkers will, no doubt, fill you in,” were often given. The best bit of information I gained was how to walk myself to a nearby lodge administered by the company until a more permanent residence could be found.

When the sessions were ended, I had a leather folder full of scribbled notes and simplistic maps made by hurried hands—my only guidance once the doors had shut. I now had only one individual I could lean on—Karmiyl. They left it for me to locate him.

I found him carting coal, almost missing him from behind the pile. I was much relieved when I laid eyes on him. I stood out from the general populace, lacking many of the features of my new employers and fellow employees. With the exception of Karmiyl, so far they all resembled in motley array of varying degree the one supervisor who had placed his hard hand upon my shoulder—sharp toothed, horned, leaf eared. I have always been possessed of an inherent shyness around my own kind. In this setting it was augmented to trepidation not only for what I was, but who I was, and therefore, craved obscurity. Sticking to the shadows, I tried my best to espy the only familiar face I knew. Fortunate that it was unique, and fortunate that chance aided me. Witnessing the enormity of the Forge, even though I was instructed where to head, I realized that it was with a great deal of dumb luck that I happened upon his particular and ever shifting location.

“Karmiyl.”

“What’s up?”

“They’re finished with me.”

He nodded. Then staring my way, his eyes and set expression asked me to expand on that statement.

“They said you were the one who would take me around and familiarize me with what I’m supposed to do and where I’m supposed to be stationed.” “Oh? No one told me.”

“Sorry. Should I let them know?”

“No. It gives me an excuse to get out of shoveling coal. Let me just tell my supervisor. He’s probably going to yell, but who cares?” He snickered to himself. “He can’t do anything about it.”

My associate then gave me the tour, introducing me to a few characters along the way. I managed to squeak out some pleasantries as calmly as I could. A few who, I guessed, had caught wind of me and my duty, saw us standing on a steel girder compromising one of the many bones of the skeletal framework found within the mills and foundries. They started clapping and cheering down below. I waved back with an embarrassed hand, not knowing what else to do.

Throughout the day I burned to have many questions answered related to this world and my new existence in it, but with the nervousness involved in asking them, their impertinence to the job, and countless distractions, they were left for another day. When I did bring up a few points of curiosity, or had spoken too long on answering a question personally related to my former existence, Karmiyl quickly brushed my words aside or changed the subject. I was put out by this until he confided to me through a motionless mouth, “Right now we’re both still under review. We can’t look like we’re avoiding work. After the probation period we can relax and ease up.”

One subject that could not be avoided was the certainty I held that I was dead.

“You talk too much for a dead guy,” Karmiyl quipped.

I got the hint and saved the topic for another day.

Orientation consisted mostly of head nodding, calculated eye contact (enough to appear interested, but not appear to be interested in Karmiyl), and trying to make intelligent inquiries. People have said that there are no such things as stupid questions, only stupid people. Is that supposed to make anyone feel better? I would rather be accused of asking a stupid question than being called a stupid person. I am still learning the hard way that the sooner I appear foolish, the better I can learn to avoid being foolish later on.

Work was no picnic, but the longer I could apply myself to the more menial tasks, the more it seemed I would avoid what my heart dreaded. I was aware in some corner molten metal lay pooled for pouring down the backs of these creatures. I wished for it to congeal. Let this crucible pass me by. Today. Tomorrow. And ever after.

But the hour would soon come. It made me sick with worry.

Even if I acclimated myself to the burning of these creatures and they proved physically capable of withstanding every once of it, yet another thought weighed heavily on my brow. Was it right for me to help provide the means and motivation of escape from our seemingly appointed place? As I familiarized myself with them, I exerted restraint from any prejudice, concluding that they seemed not overly terrible, all things considered; as though they were at least not unworthy of trust on an individual basis. Their fair due would be given unless there was reason to withhold it. But the haunting fear that persisted was that once passions were renewed, a relapsing into past habits would follow. Maybe, they were conducting themselves as well as they were because of a certain jadedness or lethargy like cats when they are sleepy. My grandmother always

used to tell me to find a good girl (not that I needed any coaxing), and that there were lots of good girls out there; to which my grandfather would respond, “Yeah, sure, they’re all good, they all behave themselves,” adding the addendum, “when they’re asleep. Even the Devil’s a saint and doesn’t bother anybody when he’s asleep.” If such was the case, then I would be less inclined to take part in freeing unwanted members of this race upon the surface of whatever-plane-of-existence I now was part of. Freedom I desperately wanted, but had no desire to be bamboozled into it, playing somebody’s fool and tool.

Another issue was the complete failure of the project—a bridge to nowhere—the universal disappointment and ensuing chaos or rioting that such bitter rage can produce. To strive only to fail and be resented for it and blamed.

I voiced these thoughts to Karmiyl when we were working alone one day. I leaned on my shovel as he spoke, happy for the simple task of carting coal, thus far skirting my bête noire. He almost appeared taken aback that I had my suspicions about their motives of freedom.

“We don’t know if this really is going to work. But consider this: it’s the first time we’re trying it, so we know for certain it hasn’t failed before, and that’s something to go on.”

His words did not have the makings of sound logic to me, but I could not quite argue with his optimistic proposition either. I decided from here on out to try not worry too much what would happen after the work was done, but only apply my energy to the task at hand.

As trainees often will, I conducted myself with the awkward inexperience and clueless uncertainty befitting my station. If a heavy object, like a large steel girder was being set into place or a piece of equipment was being transported, and I happened to be standing watching because there was not a single inch for me to grab onto, I would awkwardly rush from one end to the other trying to find some way to help. Not unlike a little dog who tries to join a group of kids in a soccer or football game, shadowing their steps, but unable to kick the large ball with his feet or grab it with his teeth. In short, attempting to compensate for his inessentiality with a show of enthusiasm and inexhaustible energy. I would be grateful if I saw tools lying in the way and rush over to move them so no one would trip, but that only bought me a few seconds. To stand there like an idiot was embarrassing, but to walk away to find something else to do was unthinkable. I was trapped. I could imagine someone asking, “Where’s that lazy jerk walking off to?”

I looked to Karmiyl for guidance and orders, trying my best not to appear too clingy and take advantage of his own time and personal space since he was, after all, only unofficially assigned to be my “work buddy.” No one ever accused me (at least not to my face) of requiring him to hold my hand to take me to the bathroom, but I was gathering the impression that a one sided decision was made on his part to develop a healthy distance between us. I had no just cause for complaint; he played his part dutifully enough, and given the circumstances, I could not ask for better, and would not have gotten it if I did.

But even in the beginning his company and demeanor were curiously erratic. He would disappear after introducing me to an individual as though to pawn me off on another poor soul, who in turn soon might try the same, until I was left standing alone with no work to keep me occupied.

Splash some primer on me and call me Dumbo. I was a white elephant.

Karmiyl did have the right philosophy—holding my hand would not redound to either one of our benefit, as I soon was required to learn new job skills, ones Karmiyl was incapable of teaching me and would not be present during. Mining, smelting, casting, construction—the higher bosses, or princes, as my fellow coworkers half deferring, half mockingly referred to them, liked to move me to different trades and work sites to get a feel for my strengths. I was forced to learn how to swim among strange waters and different schools of fish; it would only be a disservice to me if I could do little better than spend my life clinging like a barnacle.

I gave it my best, but conversing with new people was ever a difficult task during the majority of my previous life; now made much worse in my present environment. Curious as my mind is, I have always had a natural inclination to limit my questions around those I have newly met so that I do not appear prying and nosey, or in this case, a personified reminder of what these individuals had lost. How long have you guys been down here? Eternity! Wow, that’s a long time. Does it suck? I concluded it was best to keep my curiosity and questions to myself.

Not only for those reasons, but also I was afraid to say anything that would draw attention to myself considering I was quite singular in my ancillary duty and being

bestowed deferential treatment as well. Nobody was pouring liquid metal down my hide. I knew they all must have resented me for it or would soon, so I feared to open my mouth to speak, lest I should appear like the one homeowner when I worked as a landscaper who came out of his air conditioned home on a 95 degree day with a can of Sprite for himself, sat down on the edge of a mired ditch where I was laying in stone and piping for a drain tile basin and said, “Boy, it’s hot out here today, isn’t it?” finished his soda and retired to his hyperborean palace to die (I hoped) of a carbonated bubble traveling in a main artery to his brain.

But I began to question my deliberate silence. Ever have I been the type of man who regrets not the words he says, but the words he leaves unsaid. This is why I write, but worry I retreat too frequently into the covers of a book, using them like a leathern shield, the soft pages my safety blankets. Some hold that their path of life is a racetrack full of competition, some a dance floor to be shared; mine, to my sorrow, a lawn decorated with eggshells. Too often I have mistaken them for Fabergé.

“How much did you ask for?” Karmiyl inquired later on that first day of orientation, wanting to know how well I was able to negotiate my wage with the resource department.

“What you told me.”

“Did they give it?”

“No.”

“I knew they wouldn’t, that’s why I told you to ask as much as you did. You always ask more because they will always want to give you half or less.”

I said nothing.

“Did they?”

“They didn’t budge.”

He blinked. “You didn’t make them?” More statement than question.

“I could do nothing to convince them.”

“Except tell them to take their job and shove it.”

“Is that what you did?”

“I didn’t have the same leverage as you do. Listen, I’m only going to tell you this once, then after that too bad, so sad for you. The minute you start letting people know it’s alright to push you around, they’re going to start becoming alright with it. If you try getting tough later on, they’re not going to like the change, then accuse you of having a bug up your ass. They will go from disrespecting you to hating you.”

I considered his words well not having any other’s.

“I know you’re afraid to do the job you were hired to do, and think that if you get paid less to do it you won’t feel as guilty or think that other workers won’t resent you as much if they find out the company’s throwing scrap change on the ground for you. They still will. They don’t care what you’re getting paid, or if you’re doing it for free. Minds don’t analyze or care about little details like that, and nobody feels sorry for one another here.”

Maybe that is what helped bring us here.

__________________________________

My hand was moving with nervous agony—for the very first time to muscle the floodgates and release the molten mess held behind it. There was no hand to force mine, no hand to guide it, no hand to soothe and excuse it afterward. A miniature sun exploded in supernova. Ceramic discs riddled with holes dispersed the liquid raining like a fatal Fourth of July. Tiny globules fell eager to quench themselves on flesh. From my higher elevation, behind iron damming walls, my ears heard muted screams.

They echo in my skull even as I write this—an event I take no pleasure in recording. Eventually I learned to distinguish those voices; my circle of acquaintances widening each day. Something I am eternally grateful for.

Next Chapter: Chapter 3: A City of Cinders