Blackburn

Liverpool

All was silent on the morning of February fourteenth in the town of Liverpool, England, other than the steady drip of cold rain on the pavers. There was no movement, no early risers, no hint of human presence. Seagulls didn't dare perch atop the imposing smokestacks arising from the factories, caked in layers of black ash and coughing up smoke in sickly billows. The heat leaked from under the blast doors of the smeltery, creating thick clouds of steam in the icy air that seeped from every hole in the walls and windows. Roger stood with his body curled around a cracked pane of the smelter warehouse. He looked around; all he could think about was how it was eight in the morning and still considerably dark. It was unnatural.

Winter in England was always miserable. The cold, he could handle - some days. But the temperature tended to hover just over zero degrees Celsius; practically freezing but just warm enough for a slushy downpour; the perfect conditions to worsen one's day. It was only after Roger regained the feeling in his fingers that he braved the wet world that lay just past the lip of the roof under which he stood. He dashed out into the shower, water collecting in his shoes and splashing on his trousers as he ran. He hated the rain.

A mighty horn answered his question. Roger whirled around - he felt it in his feet before he heard it, as though a giant had lumbered into the harbor. The ocean liner that stood before him blocked out what little sunlight drizzled through the rain clouds. Two massive persimmon smoke stacks stood erect atop the vessel. Roger skimmed over the countless windows that lined the ship's sides. One of those windows would be his on his journey across the Atlantic. He stepped over the slick train tracks that had carried countless shipments, craning his neck to see the top of the ship. There was a gangplank across the way - Roger hurried over. He flashed his ticket and boarded the ship, the planks creaking with each step. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and brine.

The deck was full of people. He had to push past so many bodies to get to the bow. The final blow of the horn indicated that Roger had just made it on, and the gangplank was drawn down by dock workers. He found himself at the very front of the ship - he leaned over the side of the railing, his eyes darting from house to house, ship to ship, as Adriatic shoved off into the Irish Sea. He didn't know if he'd see Liverpool again - or Blackburn. It was all he could think about as the ship lurched forward and out into the blue vastness ahead of him.

~~~

"Mind if I join you?"

Roger's hand seemed to freeze as he reached for his beer. A kind, older voice rang in his ears. A gentleman stood fitted in a raggedy suit and a scruffy gray mane. His demeanor was welcoming, although his breath hinted at a few drinks.

"Of... course." Roger permitted. He hesitantly slid his elbow over to make room for the stranger. The ocean air had proved too cold and the interior of the ship was bustling after they had left the docks; Roger had been seeking peace at the bar... apparently, he would have to ration this peace with the stranger sitting next to him. The man spoke with a hardy Scottish cadence.

"So, whatcha lookin' for in the States, eh?"

"... Greener pastures, I suppose." Roger held his beer and swirled it by the neck. The man sauntered up to the bar, slumping into a seat beside him. "You think you'll find better work in the States? We're barely scrapin' by here while they're livin' in Hell on Earth!" He laughed, a noticeable wheeze present in the back of his throat. Roger chuckled hesitantly. The old man was right, in a way.

"There's got to be something more: one new opportunity... Why are you on this boat?" Roger cocked his head to the right.

The man breathed in deeply, put his elbows on the bar, and declared, "I ain't bound for America: that place is just as ravaged by the Depression as anywhere. I'm disembarkin' at Holyhead -" He moved in his seat, reestablishing his posture. Roger turned his body to face the mellow bar. Men young and old puttered from place to place; chatting; smoking; drinking; forgetting. "- and after that, this ship's tyin' up at New York. You sure are goin' far, eh?"

"I suppose... yes," Roger murmured. He took a swig of his beer - it was bitter. He liked it bitter. It shot down any thoughts that might be swirling around in his skull, good or bad. Feeling the alcohol hit his stomach reminded him of street cleaners chucking pails of water onto a befouled cobblestone road, washing away the gunk that would settle between the bricks.

Roger peered at the man. "How long will we be on this ship for?" He asked. "Four... five days," his companion answered. Roger looked at his hands. He slapped twenty-three pence on the counter. "One for him," he called to the bartender. He took another drink.

~~~

WOOOOOOOOSH!

- or a conveniently unlocked box car on a train bound for Philadelphia. Where is the station, he thought, desperate to not miss this golden opportunity for a free ride. After all, it's not like his train rides back in England were exactly 'paid for' - how else could he have had enough money for Adriatic?

Roger's eyes skimmed over the wide streets. No sooner did his gaze lock on to the white 'X' of a railway crossing sign than he rushed across the street towards the tracks. With luck, the engine would pass right through here with its cars. He slunk past the sign and off behind a building, awaiting the train's arrival. And right on queue, the earth below Roger's feet vibrated as a mammoth 4-4-2 Atlantic thundered by. Even though it was going about fifteen miles per hour, the pressure and excitement of the moment made Roger perceive the steam engine to fly by with blazing speed and unimaginable force.

This had to be quick and flawless. One wrong move could end him: he had to get in one of the cars and secure a hiding spot before they trundled over the railway crossing. It would be tricky, but he knew it could be done. He looked left down the line of cars, all coupled up and following the engine like a mother duck. He picked the one that was three cars from the caboose. He started running, gaining speed until the car was mere feet behind him, at which point Roger broke into an all-out sprint. He adjusted his speed to that of the rapidly approaching box car and propelled himself forward with all his might, his arms outstretched to the workman's ladder. There was no sound; there was no movement. Time itself stopped in that moment when his sweaty palms found purchase on the rusty rungs.

Roger tightened his grip triumphantly, flexing his fingers around the ladder, daring himself to not let go. "I made it," he announced aloud to himself. He climbed further up the ladder, onto the roof, and sat cross-legged in the wind. The world hastened around him, and his senses were once more obscured by the sights and smells that whisked by him as he sat on top of that train.