Helpless

When I was a child, my mother told me that the world can turn its back on you, but whatever challenges life throws at you, only you can choose how that shapes who you become. I used to believe that; it seemed perfectly logical at the time, but as you grow older, you view the world through a different lens than when you were little. As you grow older, the world ceases to call out to you the way it did when you were a kid. The sun doesn't shine as bright, your smile becomes an empty mask for the agony within you, and your dreams become a burdensome reminder of the life you can no longer have; or at least, that's what I believed.

The world must have hated me; I was convinced it did, because why else would I have ended up on the streets at only fifteen? Why else would my family have had to disappear, leaving only me as a relic of the dreams my parents once had?

I looked down at my frail fingers, which were caked with a mixture of dirt, spit, and a strange brown goo that had a disturbing tint of green.

“Martin?” Otto asked, looking slightly concerned at me.

“Yes, what?” I said, snapping my head up and wiping my hands on my overside trousers, which were hardly any cleaner than my hands.

“Are your hands alright?” he asked.

“I don't see a reason why they wouldn't be,” I said, slightly embarrassed to have been caught staring at my hand in such a moody way.

“Whatever you say,” Otto mumbled.

Otto was a year older than me, or that's what he told me. He said he was born sometime in the winter of 1864, though he claimed not to remember the exact date. I was able to remember how old I was rather easily, since I had ended up on the streets of New York City not too long after the last time it had snowed for that year. So all I really had to do was remember the winters. That wasn't hard since I had only been on the streets for one winter. And, forgetting the month that I almost froze multiple times is a hard thing to forget. The sole good thing the winter had done for me was to allow me to meet Otto. I doubt I would have survived without him.

“Otto, who's that?” I asked, noticing a person walking in our direction from a distance.

Otto squinted his light blue eyes, trying to see into the distance.

“No idea,” he replied, “They sure are wearing a funny blue coat though.”

“It looks awfully warm,” I noted, slightly envious of the coat.

“Forget warmth,” Otto said, continuing to look at the man who was coming closer to us, “I wouldn't be caught dead wearing something so ridiculous. Who does he think he is, a police officer?”

Otto smiled at his comment, enjoying ridiculing the man from afar. It was at the same time, though, our smiles drained. Otto realized the truth behind what he had just said.

“Otto,” I said cautiously, “I think he might have a reason for dressing as an officer.”

Otto had mentioned a few times how the police officers had sent his brother off to jail for stealing a watch from a member of a gang that had bribed that district's police.

Whenever he spotted a policeman, his eyes would betray his sadness for a split second, before he masked it with anger. Every other time we had seen a policeman, we walked the other way. We hadn’t done anything wrong. The police simply detested us street Arabs. That day, Otto looked at the police officer differently, as though he could not contain the anger he held within.

“I’m gonna fight him,” Otto said, regaining his composure and replacing his worried expression with an overly confident smirk that anyone could tell was fake. I stared at him with a combination of shock and horror.

“You do realize that's possibly the stupidest thing you have ever said?” I replied.

“I’m not stupid. I’m brave,” he retorted.

I was almost certain that he knew how unreasonable he was being. Then again, Otto had done many other less-than-intelligent things before, though this was undoubtedly one of the stupidest.

I wasn't sure why he was always rushing into fights or how he was still alive despite his addiction to asserting dominance over anyone who could throw a fist.

“Otto,” I said in a warning tone, “There is a very thin line between brave and stupid. Fighting a policeman is far past that line.”

“What do you know about bravery?” he asked.

“Not much,” I replied, “I know my fair share about stupidity.” The police officer was getting closer, and I could see the all-too-familiar stick that hung around his waist. His broad shoulders were twice the size of mine; his fists seemed disturbingly large. It didn't take much imagination to see us both being hauled off to jail, or simply being left for dead on the streets. And, if we did survive, we could risk being at odds with one of the largest gangs that bribed the police.

“Otto, please,” I begged, already knowing it was a useless endeavor.

“I’m not keeping you here,” he said.

“I know, but I’m not leaving you here,” I replied.

“So then stop begging me to leave,” he said.

“We don't even know if he wants to fight,” I said, trying to think of some way to prevent a fight.

“Fine, you talk to him if you’d like. Then we do it my way.”

I nodded, doubting that I would get a better deal.

As the officer approached, I straightened my posture so that I could speak as close as possible to eye level with him.

By the time the officer approached, Otto's hands were twitching uncontrollably with adrenaline. Mine, meanwhile, were frozen in my pockets.

“Good morning, Officer,” I said, trying my best to sound polite, and hoping I didn't sound too polite.

He looked at us coldly.

“Can we help you with anything?” I asked.

The officer paused, contemplating his reply. Then his cracked lips turned ever so slightly into a smirk.

“Yes,” he said. “I am trying to rid the streets of anything disturbing the peace. ‘Know of any poor scum who could be a liability to society?”

Otto's breathing became loud and quick. I clenched my fists inside my pockets, preparing for the worst.

“I don't think so,” I replied in the nicest voice I could muster.

“Funny,” the policeman said. “You see, I am staring at scum.”

“Where would you like us to go, sir?” I said, trying to be diplomatic.

“Off the streets,” he replied, as though we were the least intelligent people on the face of the earth.

Getting off the streets was as likely as becoming a king. It was not improbable, but impossible. Right after my family died, I believed I could work my way off the streets and surpass the immigrant families I had worked alongside. I truly believed that I could change my life. It was hard work, not luck, that allowed people to rise above, but not anymore.

“Okay, that's it. I’m gonna-”

“Not yet,” I said, firmly pushing Otto back.

“If you two didn't look like walking corpses, that might have seemed cute, you trying to control your friend and whatnot,” the policeman taunted.

I looked back at Otto, jaw quivering, fists trembling. His heel tapped against the ground frantically. I watched silently, feeling a deep sense of shame for letting my friend be so reckless. But when trouble forced its way into my life, it became a matter of being the problem or avoiding the problem, and I almost always chose the latter.

I watched Otto raise his fist to strike the officer. Time stopped. Then Otto was frantically dodging the officer's attempts to grab him. I desperately wanted to help, but at the same time, a large (and much more reasonable) part of my soul screamed at me to leave him and save myself.

The officer struck Otto across the head with his Billy Club. Otto stumbled backwards, tripping over a pebble, and falling onto the cold floor. To my horror, I stood, dumbfounded, terrified, and frozen, watching uselessly as the officer pinned Otto to the ground and secured cuffs onto Otto's trembling hands.

Otto stared at me with a look of terror and betrayal. His hands had been cuffed, and that was the end; there was nothing more I could do, unless I had the keys, which was impossible.

“What are you staring at?” the officer barked.

If I had been smart, if I had been strong, or brave, or anything besides what I was, I would have been able to walk away. Instead, all I could do was stand there, staring at the person I was supposed to protect. Otto had saved me from freezing; he had shared his meager meals when I was starving, he had made me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry, he had convinced me to keep trying when I felt like giving in, and what had I done for him in return?

“Scram!” the officer said, staring at me in disgust.

“No,” I said quietly.

“What?” the officer asked.

“No,” I repeated, my voice cracking as I tried to sound louder.

The policeman sighed, then reached for another pair of cuffs, ready for a fight, but to both his surprise and mine, I simply held my hands out.

“Martin, what the heck are you doing?” Otto exclaimed.

All I could do was stare up at him with blank, empty eyes. I knew full well that what I was doing was unintelligent and irrational, but thinking seemed to be outside of my control. It was as though my brain had subconsciously decided to temporarily shut down.

As Otto and I trudged down the streets, I cursed myself for letting myself get into that mess. As I stared at the dirty stone road, still shocked from the recent events, all I could think of was how helpless I was in this world. It seemed pointless trying to fight a world that only ever pulled me down. My family had started over in America. They had placed all their dreams in the hope that they could become something more than they were in Ireland. My entire childhood, I was told that I would be the one with the bright future, that our family's poverty chain could end with them, but then everything burnt to everything burnt to the ground, leaving only me behind. After that, I had thought that maybe I could continue my parents' dream, but hope died when winter came. All I could focus on was not freezing. Once I met Otto, I was foolish enough to believe that if I couldn't be rich, at least I could be free, yet there I was, being led to jail.

When I finally looked up from the ground, we had arrived at a weathered building that seemed to tower over me. A strange smell leaked from the building, and I could have sworn I could hear the sound of men yelling in the distance.

I wanted to believe that I was different from the criminals that surrounded me, but that was simply a lie. I had never hurt a soul, but I had stayed and watched as my old tenant burnt to the ground. I could have been a hero the day my family died. I could have run back into the building, could have at least tried to save them, but instead I watched from the charred ground below, listening to the screams of people that sounded far too familiar. I hated myself for being so powerless, but what could I have done? Life had chosen to turn its back on me, and all I could do was watch as it fell into disrepair, just like it had done to the people who surrounded me.

Otto and I decided to settle down near the door, where we sat silently for hours.

It was night when the cell opened again, and a middle-aged man with a polished cane and a clean suit stepped in. Otto and I scooted ourselves back a few feet to create space between the strange visitor and us. The man stood in the doorway, surveying the room, until his eyes fell on Otto and me.

“Hello, boys,” he said with an overly positive air to him.

I looked around, making sure he was talking to us before I responded.

“Hello,” I said cautiously.

“What's your name?” he asked warmly.

“If you stay quiet, he might let us be.” Otto, who had been refusing to make eye contact with the strange man, muttered into my ear.

“I’m Martin,” I replied, ignoring Otto’s suggestion.

“I’m Mr. Lanson,” he replied. “Is there any chance I could talk to you outside?” he asked.

I looked at Otto, hoping for advice, but instead, he simply shrugged.

“You're in jail, Martin, I’m not sure you have much of a choice,” Otto said with a frown.

“Of course I will,” I replied to the man, hoping to sound as though I had more control than I really did.

The man opened the cell door for me, and we exited. We walked down a hallway and into what appeared to be an office, where he motioned for me to sit in a chair.

“What do you want?” I asked bluntly.

“I want to help you,” he replied.

“I’ve heard that before.” I chuckled grimly.

“No, I really do,” he replied.

I gave him an unconvinced look, but he continued, “Listen,” he said. “I am from the children's aid program, and I am looking for kids who are willing to go something called the orphan train, where,” he paused, considering his word choice, “Where less fortunate children,” he continued, “are sent away to the country where you can work for a caring family until you become an adult. It's like a second chance at life.”

I looked at the man for a long time, considering how to respond.

“Sir,” I said, “While your offer is tempting, I have had my fair share of second chances at life, and if I have learned anything, it's that I should accept my life for what it is, instead of trying to force it to be better.”

“Well, that's an awfully grim thing for someone your age to say,” the man replied.

“It's the truth, Sir,” I said, “Life can throw whatever it wants at you, but if you try to fight your fate, it'll only get worse.”

“So you think it's your fate to be poor and on the streets?” the man asked.

“I don't think I have much control in the matter,” I replied.

“With all due respect, Martin, I’d like to differ,” he said.

“How,” I asked, though I said it to be polite, and had no intention of actually listening.

“Well,” he said, “How did you end up here?” he asked.

“I was arrested,” I replied, slightly confused by the seemingly random question.

“How exactly?” the man pressed.

“Well,” I said, not certain why I was telling him, “A police officer approached my friend and me. My friend wanted to fight him, and so he got arrested. I couldn't leave him, so I got arrested as well.”

“So you chose to get arrested?” the man asked.

“No, of course not,” I replied.

“But you chose not to abandon your friend?” the officer asked.

“Well,” I sighed, “I suppose you could put it that way.”

I could see the point he was making, but that couldn't have been true. I had never chosen for the fire to burn down my family's tenant. I had never chosen for my parents to die, I had never chosen to be on the streets. I had no control over any of that. My identity was shaped by what happened to me, which, in my mind at the time, proved my theory that my life created itself without me having any say in the matter.

“You don't have to agree with me now,” the man said, as though he was reading my mind, “But promise me you will think about it,” he said.

“Fine,” I replied honestly.

“Now,” the man said with a sigh, “If you were to join the Orphan Train, we can give you new, clean clothing, as well as food. You won't freeze in the winter, and you will have a roof over your head. There's really only one logical answer here, so what do you say?”

“If Otto can come,” I replied.

“If he agrees, I think we can arrange that,” the doctor replied.

Otto did agree, and together we were sent off on the train. We were among the lucky ones who managed to find a kind home that took us both in. It wasn't until years later that I was able to find the courage to think back on what the man had wisely pointed out. When I did, I remembered something my mother had told me a long time ago. She said, " The world can turn its back on you. But whatever challenges life throws at you, you are the only one who can choose how that shapes who you become.” Looking back, I had not chosen for my family to die. I had not chosen to wind up starving on the streets. What I had chosen was to believe that I was hopeless (not that I wanted to). I had chosen to be a loyal friend and stay with Otto. And I had chosen how I allowed what I had and had not chosen to shape me.