THE AMERICAN DREAM

1.06 ▫︎ SEPTEMBER, 1930 ↦ HOWARD

The morning light, grayed by the smoke in the air shone palsy through the dirty glass windows. Though the day was brand new, Howard had been awake for hours. What did a thirteen-year-old boy have to do for hours so early in the morning? Nothing. Most were sleeping or waiting for school. But not Howard, no.

He was at the library. Every morning he was. Every morning, about four hours before sunrise, he would climb over the garage bins, up the brick wall, and pull himself in through the window at the back of the library. He would then immerse himself into every book he found interesting.

Rocket science. Thermodynamics. Classical and statistical mechanics. Condensed matter. Electromagnetism and electronics. Quantum mechanics. High energy and atomic physics. Inorganic and physical chemistries. Even finances.

Howard has had one true love his entire life: machines. He loved to build and tinker and learn. The problem was that he didn't have the tools to do so.

As he burned the laws of physics into his head, his alarm rang 5:30. That was his cue to leave. He hurried the books back into their spots and hurried back out the way he came in. He sprinted down the sidewalk. As he went, the concrete began to crack, and mold. The alleys got darker and the smoke got thicker. No one was awake yet. Howard continued through the back way of the Lower East Side of New York City. Soon, he passed the clothes factory where his mother worked, then the empty market where his father sold fruit. Finally, he reached his building. He used the grooves in the side of the building that he beat out himself to climb to his window.

He quickly changed out of his pants and shirt and into his pajamas so that his parents would not catch him and went to sleep. It wasn't long before his mother beat on his door.

"Up, Howard," she ordered. The young boy was startled out of his nap. It did not take him long to get dressed. He came out of his room and went into the bathroom where he combed his hair with the brush he and his parents shared. He then brushed his teeth and washed his face and came out. His father was sitting at the table, reading the paper.

"Why don't you come with me today, son?" His father asked with a sniffle.

"He's got school, Walter."

"I didn't ask you, goddamnit." Howard's mother didn't seem surprised. She continued to scramble the spam and eggs in the scratched skillet. Walter turned his attention back to his young son who sat across from him easily at the table. Howard didn't say anything until his father raised his eyebrows in expectancy.

"I do have school, Pops," he told him. Walter school his head.

"What good is school gonna do you, son?" he asked, his eyes squinting. "You can read a write just fine. It serves you no further. Your mom and I can't pay to send to college. I need you in the stands. We can bring in double the pay."

Howard felt bad. But he wanted to go to school. "They are picking representatives today. I have to be there. I'm the smartest kid there, Pops. They've gotta pick me. If they pick me, I might get a scholarship to go to a really good high school and subsequently college."

"Did you just say 'subsequently'?" His mother asked from the stove. Howard looked to her, not knowing the problem. His father only sighed.

"They aren't going to pick you."

"Why not?" Howard asked. "How could you know?"

"I just do, son," he said. "Your better off staying with me."

"You can't jump to conclusions like that," Howard told his father.

"Goddamnit, yes I can!" Walter barked, slamming his fist on the table. The cheap china jingled against the wood and the floor even shook. Howard flinched. Walter's black eyes stared deeply into his son's reflective ones. "I am poor. That means you are poor. Do you know how America treats poor people?"