The Factory

Steel

My Pa always had a saying . . .

“Andrew Carnegie took a fragile world and reinforced it with steel. That steel also helped clean up this town of garbage.”

He always told me that when I was a young boy. I never quite knew what he meant at the time, but it seems I was unfortunately destined to find out the night I went to the factory . . .

Now, I’ll be the first to say that steel sure helped my Pa increase production on his farm. He wasn’t the only one, either. More folks in town benefited just like him. This was a good thing because where I lived, it wasn’t about an individual’s triumph but the town's. In fact, my Pa and Ma named me, Andrew. They thought I was bound to prosper in life with a name like Andrew. It was kind of like those folks who tend to name their children after the Apostles of Jesus Christ . . .

“A good Christian name will make a good Christian man.”

My Pa often said that, too, especially on Sundays at church. I guess that was why they named my older brother James . . .

I’ll tell you, though, strange things started happening the day all that steel rolled into town. Many other kids in town took notice, too, especially after a few disappeared. When my best friend, Timothy, disappeared, his Ma didn’t talk for weeks. His Pa just kept on working.

I think it had to do with the factory where all that steel was held. I don’t know what they built in there, but all my senses told me it wasn’t good. Once, I’d heard the grown-ups around the town talking about it. I think they called it The Machine, or maybe it was The Monster. I couldn’t make out exactly what they said.

At night, I’d hear the factory groaning in the darkness outside my bedroom window. It would roar like an angry lion, squeal like a pig, and sound like an out-of-control freight train derailing right off the tracks.

Timothy

Timothy and I, before he disappeared, snuck up to the perimeter gate one afternoon, call it curiosity. We crouched behind some barbed wire fence and lay hidden behind a wall of tall wheat grass. We watched the factory walls shake and tremble like a scared dog. Sometimes, the walls would expand as if something was trying to get out. The Machine, perhaps. Or maybe The Monster. That factory breathed. It was almost as if it were alive, just like me.

Before Timothy disappeared, he said he kept hearing the scariest noises under his bed at night. It was the sound of greasy, grinding gears. They’d squeal and clink together right underneath him. I told him to look under there, but he told me he was too afraid. I don’t blame him. Eventually, though, I talked him into it . . .

That night, when he looked under his bed, I couldn’t believe what he said he saw. He said he saw his Pa working gears in a furnace under his bed. He said he called down to his Pa, and when his Pa looked up, his Pa’s face was made up of a bunch of tiny, greasy gears spinning, jamming, and sputtering. He said when his Pa smiled, oil spilled between his teeth.

Garbage

The night before I went to the factory, which was not long after Timothy disappeared, I woke up from a dream covered in spent oil. I remembered hearing the sound of those greasy, grinding gears squealing and clinking together underneath me. I wanted to look, but I remembered what Timothy had said he'd seen, so I didn’t.

The following night, the night I was brought to the factory, my Pa came in and scooped me up while I lay in bed sleeping. I was still in my jammies. I woke up and asked him where we were going. He told me it was time for me to go to the factory. I was nervous but excited. Finally, I thought. I’ll finally get to see what’s inside. Maybe I’ll see Timothy there, too! I wasn’t sure why I was being brought there, but like I said earlier, I was destined to find out.

When we arrived, I quickly saw I wasn’t alone. Other kids were being brought to the factory just like me. They walked us in single file through the main door. Upon entering, I finally saw The Machine or The Monster the grown-ups talked about. It sounded like a machine, but it moved like a monster. Gears rotated in its eyes, steel beams moved for arms, and fire spat from the furnace of its mouth. It groaned and squealed. It looked mad. It looked violent. It looked hungry.

We walked upstairs. I was first in line. I could see my Pa down below. He was turning some gears. I hollered down and waved. He looked up but didn’t wave back. There was something about his look. It was dull—almost empty. For a second, I thought his eyes were spinning gears.

“Andrew Walker?” a man asked. I turned back around.

“Yes, sir. That’s me.”

The man was sitting at a table. He continued reading from a sheet of paper he was holding. His voice was stern. It reminded me of my Pa’s voice when he was mad at me . . .

Name: Andrew Walker

Charge: Stealing gumballs from Mr. Addison’s store last Monday

Punishment: Disposal

He signed at the bottom and pointed toward a slide beside him.

“Do I just go down?” I asked.

He nodded.

I walked over, sat on the slide, and put my hand on the rails. I wondered where it went. Was Timothy down there? I didn’t hear anything but gears squealing and grinding. It was loud, sounded a lot like metal teeth chomping away. I looked back at the other kids. They looked scared. This made me scared a little bit too, but I turned back around, and after a moment, I let go, and into the darkness I went—my Pa’s voice echoing in my head . . .

“Andrew Carnegie took a fragile world and reinforced it with steel. That steel also helped clean up this town of garbage.”

I never quite knew what he meant at the time, but I do now. The kids like me were the garbage—the ones who lie, cheat, and in my case, steal.