Origin Story

M.J. Downing

Ed came in from work, grabbed a cup of coffee and the paper, and sagged down on the sofa.  His small, brown-haired son played on the floor with quiet energy, doing something with his little trucks and cars, making them follow the circles in the rag rug.  Ed patted him on the head before he balanced his coffee cup on the arm of the old sofa and opened up The Times to read what the idiots in DC were doing.

            “Dad, watch this!” the boy called to him amidst his motor and tire screeching noises. “They need one of those metal things that keep them on the road, don’t they?”

            “Um hmm. Sure do,” Ed murmured from behind the paper.

            “What are those things called, Daddy?”

            “Hmm? What things?” Ed replied, concentrating on some bleeding heart’s editorial on the need to help immigrants find a place in the economy. Ed hated that sort of thinking. He chewed over the old notion that no one ever helped him “enter the economy.” He was always in it, working, doing whatever he could to make a buck.  Never help from anyone, not even now.  Management was always laying people off. But you work because you want to eat.  That simple.

            “Those metal things that keep the cars and trucks on the roads, keep them from, you know, sliding off the road if they go too fast or, or, if the road’s slick with ice,” the boy asked from the other side of the rug.

            The mention of roads made Ed think of the likelihood of his taxes going up when the city came out and put down new asphalt on his street. About damned time, too, though they would gouge him for the improvement.

            “Huh, Dad?”

            “Oh, uh, guardrails? That what you mean, son?” Ed asked behind the paper.

            “Guardrails! Yeah! That’s it!” the boy cried. “I need me some guardrails! They’re made of steel, right Daddy?’

            “Um,” Ed mumbled, lost to his son. The city, Ed read, wanted to set up shelters and kitchens for the homeless, as if the bums would appreciate it. Ed knew that no one values the things they are given for free.  He’d seen the garbage the homeless leave behind when they pushed on to wherever they go.  Blankets, coats to keep them warm, food given to them–good meals, too, not cheap crap—turned into so much garbage, which people like him had to clean up. Keep the city from becoming a pigsty, and here the city council and the mayor want to make it worse.

            Ed’s eyes drifted over the page in front of him.  He flipped from one page to the other, dimly aware that the boy had left the room, making no more sound that a soft breeze. Ed flicked the paper aside and glanced down at the trucks on the rug highway.  They had spilled off the far edge. The boy had placed toy soldiers around the wreck, little green emergency workers—with automatic weapons and pistols raised, pointing at the tumbled truck. He grunted at the mess the toys made.

            “Maybe that’s what we need, more armed response,” Ed mumbled before he turned to the sports section.  Its pages were full of overpaid athletes giving excuses for their poor performances. In every article, there was mention of the sport star’s salary, many times the amount that Ed brought home every week. Just for playing a game!

            Through his resentment and the paper’s thin veil, Ed saw the boy’s shadow pass in front of him. There was a clink of metal as the boy said, watch this, Dad! I’m making guardrails! Look, Daddy.”

            “Um hmm,” Ed replied as he always did, concentrating on the crucial things in life. He sniffed because the acrid scent of raw, cold metal came to him, an odd, out of place smell.  Still, it wasn’t strong.  “Just be sure to get all that stuff picked up before supper, okay?”

            “Yes, sir,” the boy said softly. “I won’t make guardrails for the whole thing, just this turn, where the road is, ugh,  more dangerous,” the boy said, grunting a little. Ed heard the subtle screech of metal.  It was an alarming sound, like something expensive getting broken, and Ed dropped the paper.  He glanced at his son and drew in a sharp breath.

            The boy had pieces of iron rebar in his small hands, bending them, twisting them together, making them match the outer contours of the rag rug. Ed had to stare again at his son’s actions.  The boy was careful about his work, making it look as though the rug road had always had guardrails.  He had two done and was bending the rebar in his tiny bare hands for the third and final one.

            “Son?” Ed said, shock making his mind numb.

            “They were extra, weren’t they, these metal things, from when you poured the new sidewalk, out back? I thought, since they were left over, I could just use them. Don’t worry, Daddy. I’ll put them back if you want me to.”

            In a hushed voice, Ed said, “B, but you can’t do that.  It’s…impossible.”

            The boy hung his head, dropping his gray-eyed glance to the floor. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I, I won’t do it no more.”