Junkyard Boys

It was my usual place to sit. Same rusted, fold-out chair leaned back against the wall, on the farthest side of the room I could be, tilting it on the two back legs like I was testing fate. My legs had lengthened a few inches in the past six months, so it felt good to lean the chair back and rock it forward and backward. It eased the growing pains. Familiar faces of the other boys, most of them the same age as me, were huddled around tables visiting with their own families and company in the main hall of the London Boys Home. It was anything but cozy for a family reunion. Metal tables and brick walls was all the place had to offer. Some of the boys were crying their eye’s out to family members. Other kids were hugging tightly, holding hands, and secretly passing goodies with their people. The lounge area was an oversized room in the main entrance of the hall filled with circular tables bolted to a concrete floor. A few chairs were scattered around the room. No homey touches. Us inmates referred to the boys’ institution as the ‘The Junkyard.’ It seemed fitting. The visits were all the same. Some of the boys were crying and sobbing, but trying to hide it. A few of the older kids having their visits had self-satisfying glares fixed on their faces, pissed at the world, but showing off their durability in their current situation. I saw through it, at any moment they probably would snap. Most of the loners were too proud to admit they liked contact with the outside world. They adopted the tough guy, eat-my-shit-and-die act early on in the place. I never wanted to be like them. But it’s an aggressive world. You have to adapt. Denver, one of the senior staff guards, walked over and stood in front of me. “You know, Danny-boy, you’re wasting time here you little freak. Nobody cares about you.” “Whatever,” I answered with a shrug of my left shoulder. I pretended it didn’t bother me. I heard him chuckle as he turned to walk back toward the entrance, twirling his keys around his finger. “Jesus,” I muttered under my breath, letting the front feet of the chair fall to the floor. “What an asshole.” On this particular day, a commotion started. Staff members, and lots of ’em, started scrambling around in a frenzy, running to the main door like it was gonna bust in. After they were all gathered together at the front of the room, we heard the loud, familiar clunking noise of the front double doors as they swung open. I couldn’t help but stare. I wasn't the only one, either. Everyone in the room was just as curious as me. Two of the biggest guys on the staff were waiting at the door to receive whatever was being dropped off. Denver, the prick, was naturally at the front of the line. They were dragging some new kid in. Probably some new kid needing an intake evaluation, is what I was thinking. “Jesus, looks like he'd been living in a damn sewer!” I heard a random voice say from across the room. I mean, the whole place was in hysterics and the drifter looked beaten and unconscious. God only knows what else was wrong with the guy. The bastard’s head was hanging down and his body was slouched. Limp arms stretched around the shoulders of two of the guards. At that point, the other boys in the waiting room were up on their feet, crowding around the kid and the staff, doing their own inspections while laughing and chanting “Fresh fish, fresh fish.” I stayed glued to my chair, which I’d previously dropped firmly on the floor. Lifting and turning my head and neck in every direction, I struggled to get a straight view. From what I could make out, they were holding the kid completely under his shoulders, his feet dragging, supporting all of his weight. I could hear Denver making fun of his clothes and stench. I swallowed back hard the harsh words I wanted to scream at him. The bile was nearly impossible to keep in my stomach. It’s always like that when Denver was around. Give him any opportunity to act like a total dick and he’d always take it—the guy’d never let you down. This kid’s head was flopping up and down with every slight movement and his feet were dragging across the concrete floor like someone had tied weights to his ankles. Finally, I got a good look at him. It only took a split second, the kid lifted his head up just long enough to show off a confused, bloodied, and bruised mess. My mouth dropped open and I nearly fell off my chair. I couldn’t believe who I was looking at. I smiled ridiculously wide. My only friend in the world. It was Zeke.