A submission entered into the nycmidnight short story competition, chosen by the jury to be the second best of its group in the first round.

New Deal

‘Get up.’

But Glen can’t, so he waits. There’s blood in his ear and sand in his mouth, his hat’s somewhere behind him, and although the roar of the train is long gone his head is still loud and busy.

‘Get up.’

There was a scuffle. Union boys were asking around for cards first. Then a kid took a jug off of someone towards the back of the boxcar, then he ran up front, then suddenly Glen was flying out of the car, mid-transit, with Burly in tow. And Burly’s blaming him for this, which is no good, because Burly always wins out when they fight. Glen spits out what he hopes isn’t a tooth.

‘Easy, man,’ he says, barely getting back on his feet now. ‘I didn’t start it, promise.’

But Burly’s got red in the eyes. He comes up and takes a swing but Glen is quick. His arm sweeps overhead.

‘Calm down,’ Glen says. ‘Relax. We’ll walk.’

This makes Burly angrier. The railroad stretches on for miles on either end towards the horizon. The air feels dry and there’s flies around that Glen doesn’t have the time to swat away. As Burly readies himself for another swing Glen spots, near the tracks as he had suspected, his hat. Something caws in the distance.

Burly misses again and Glen shuffles towards the rails. He grabs his hat and puts it on. It’s looking worse for wear, but it always is. He puts his hands up in surrender. Burly’s breathing heavy.

‘You have my word,’ he says. ‘I’m giving you my word.’

‘You want us to walk.’ The words drip out of Burly’s mouth. ‘To California.’

‘We’re going to have jobs. I have Hewitt’s word that we’re both going to have jobs. We’ll be linemen. We’ll work rail.’

Burly’s big but he’s not stupid. He’s an Oklahoma boy. He gives most people the same story – a cyclone tore down his childhood home, and his ma died in the looney bin. He’s worked on orchards, shipyards, railroads, factories. He knows his way around gamblers and cheats. He knows when Glen’s conning him.

‘I don’t believe a word you say.’

‘I promised you a job.’

‘We’re in the middle of nowhere.’

‘We can walk it. I promise we can walk it.’

The trouble is that Burly wouldn’t have fallen. He’s mean-looking enough that the other riders usually leave him alone. But Glen held onto him as he fell. When Glen gets in trouble he’s happy to lend a hand, usually, given they’re friends and all, but this time he had vowed that he would stay out of trouble. On account of his wife having fallen ill recently. Or maybe on account of his renewed sense of faith that he can’t quite place. Something along those lines.

Glen, on the other hand, has very little to believe in. He needs the job because he can’t go back to Pampa until he has some money to his name, unless his creditors decide to clear up his account out of sheer goodwill. And he needs to go back to Pampa because, well, it’s home.

Then the air clears from his lungs, and for a second he’s flying. Then he’s back down on earth, and his neck pushes up against cold metal. Burly’s got him pinned down against the rails.

‘I should kill you,’ he says through gritted teeth. ‘Son of a bitch. I should kill you.’

Glen knows he won’t. Burly does too. So they both let go. Burly walks away, hands on hips, panting. He looks out into the distance. Glen dusts his clothes off.

‘Look,’ he says. ‘I know it’s bad. But I didn’t do it. I didn’t start the fighting. I swear.’

‘Okay,’ Burly says. ‘Fine. But we’re screwed.’

‘Yeah,’ Glen admits. ‘Yeah. It’s tough. But I’ve got ideas.’

Burly scoffs. ‘We should get walking.’

-

Then there’s a camp just off towards their right.

Next to it stands a field that trails off towards the mountain range. The sun is low and is painting the view a lazy orange. Men and women pull carrots. Some have children. Some speak in loud Spanish. Some look like corpses, colour drawn from their skin, resting in the shade of improvised tents.

Shanties stand propped up on wooden beams. There’s babies crying. Glen’s always felt as though he’s above all this, in some way. Something about his character doesn’t quite fit ramshackle worker’s towns, he finds. Although, then again, he’s never seen much more than just that.

They take shelter under a tent next to a mother and her children. Glen’s fine, but Burly gets the side eye. As long as they stay quiet, Glen figures, they’ll be alright. And for a while they do. Glen doesn’t do well with silence though.

‘I promise it’s going to work out this time,’ he says. ‘Hewitt gave me his word.’

Burly’s watching plovers spin in wide circles up above their heads.

‘He works for the WPA,’ he says. ‘He’s with the state, Burl. He’s real.’

‘Where do we stay?’

‘Housing. They have public housing for workers. Loads of ‘em in California. They’ll just check the relief agency and we’ll get through. It’ll pay us better’ - he waves his hand towards the workers - ‘than any of this ever will.’

‘How do you know Hewitt?’

‘Old friend.’

Burly smiles. ‘Sure, friend. Seen your friends before.’

And he’s not wrong, Hewitt’s not exactly a friend. But Glen’s got dirt on him. They used to run cons together. One time they dressed up as sanitary inspectors and went around town offering services. They got in the houses and filched jewelry, expensive cutlery, shoes. They found a camera, once, then went out and tricked children into paying fees for auditions. And now Hewitt’s gone clean. But there’s a letter. Hewitt, asking for his share. Glen’s got it in his shirt pocket. It’ll be enough incentive, hopefully.

‘Once we get to the agency,’ Glen says. ‘You’ll see. You’ll thank me. I’ve got the strategy. You’ve got the muscle. We’ll make it.’

‘Strategy.’ Burly draws it out.

Glen’s been a planner all his life. He’s certain he knows what he’s doing. He’s what his first teacher called him: detail-oriented. He knows when to speak up and when to shut up, too. And it seems like time to shut up, now, because Burly seems more interested in the plovers.

In his childhood, Burly remembers, he had watched birds mate. He remembers going out into the fields with his father. They’d watch couples fly up and up and up then dart back down with such speed, exhilarating speed. He remembers watching plovers do it for the first time. He had been alone, and he remembers the plovers going up, as usual, like the others. But then when they’d started their descent, Burly remembers, they’d never stopped. Refusing to slow down, the plovers, entwined, had crashed down into the earth with force. He’d been too scared to go and see if they survived. But he had admired them. It made their deaths feel less lonely, in a way. The fact that they had gone down together like that.

The children are falling asleep. Their mother strokes their hair, her hands thin and veiny. But gentle, too, her hands. Soft.

As the sun lowers behind the mountains Glen ends up thinking about his mother, and finds that he remembers very little.

-

They set off in the morning fuelled by a breakfast of mainly carrots. They have other breakfasts at other camps. They eat and drink when they can and soon they’re in Gallup, where they manage to hitch another ride with little police trouble. Glen keeps his wits about in the car and avoids the bigger fights. Burly keeps quiet as usual. They show the union boys their cards, share jugs of water. Some of the men have newspapers. Some of the men in the car climb to the roof and suddenly there’s room, but when the wind has space to blow it just makes the air taste worse.

They get off at Barstow, hitch rides on cars for a bit, and then they’re in Los Angeles. They haven’t seen the sea in a long time. Seagulls peck at bits of food, men shovel down pork chops wrapped in newspaper as they rush to and from work. There’s men at the docks, men in offices.

The pavement twists and turns on every corner, and it seems like Glen might get crushed under cars that take the turns a bit too quick. By the time they find Hewitt’s office Burly’s forehead is a constellation of sweat. They push through a crowd of men and explain at the door. The guy at the door talks to the secretary, the secretary rings someone up, and before they know it they’re rushed up some stairs into an office with high ceilings and torn-up wallpaper. There’s very little furniture. A singular large window with old, regal curtains opens out onto the busy street. They’re about four stories up, maybe five. Birds chirp in the park nearby.

‘I’m sorry,’ Hewitt says. He’s grown a moustache since his time with Glen, and he’s combed his hair back with hair tonic. His neck is red and rashy from wearing shirts. The office smells of aftershave with a hint of petrol. Behind him, in patriotic red and blue, bold letters spell out Works Progress Administration across the whole wall. Underneath, in italic, as though only recently painted: The Lord will provide. Call upon him while he is near.

‘What do you mean?’ Glen bites his thumb. ‘What happened?’

‘We’ve allocated all the men we can into infrastructure. Sorry Glen, but I expected you days ago. I’ve got quotas.’

Hewitt waves at someone to bring in coffee. Burly keeps quiet. For a while, everyone does. But they all know who’s going to break first.

‘You twit.’ That’s all Glen manages.

‘Excuse me?’

Glen gets up and kicks at his chair. A measly one at first, so he puts more effort into the second and the chair topples over. It’s more awkward than intimidating. He searches, then grabs a framed picture off the wall. It’s Roosevelt.

He throws it at Hewitt. Hewitt ducks. Someone comes in with the coffee, drops it at the doorway, then runs out. Glen takes the letter out of his shirt pocket. Hewitt looks puzzled. Burly’s looking out the window.

‘Cozy government job,’ Glen says. ‘This ain’t you, Hewitt. And I can prove it.’

Hewitt gets the idea. ‘That letter means nothing.’

‘Sure does.’

‘You could’ve forged that.’

‘You signed it.’

‘It won’t hold up. You know it won’t, Glen.’

‘I’ll try my luck.’

‘It’s out of my power. I’m not sure what you expect of me give-‘

‘Fuck you, pal.’ Glen pulls his shirt up, points a finger at his ribs. ‘I’m starving, Hew. Starving.’

Glen’s not that hungry. But maybe the sight does something for Hewitt. Maybe it’s the blackmail. He gets up. He shuffles through a dark mahogany cabinet and comes out with a form. Huge serial number in red decorates the top of the page. He shows Glen a name written down in pen just underneath, the ink still fresh. Hugh Stone.

‘Fine,’ he says, scribbling over the name. ‘Here’s your favour. You’re taking his place. You better hope he don’t have kids.’

A pigeon perches on the windowsill then flutters off. Burly doesn’t like it when birds are alone. He likes it when they fly together. He likes watching big flocks of them, and he gets plenty opportunities to do so on the road. Some weave in and out of the wind with ease, their wings tense under the pressure but never giving. Others, clumsier, don’t do so well. But somehow, when they’re together, they all fly exactly the same. Like they’ve already planned and practiced their routines. Burly returns his attention to the conversation.

‘What about me?’ he says. It’s obvious, really, what’s happening.

Glen looks down at his shoes. Hewitt looks puzzled for a moment, and darts his eyes back and forth. He chuckles.

‘I’m not sure I can do another form. I’m not sure Glen mentioned another form.’

Glen picks up the courage to look over at Burly and finds him looking quiet and speculative, as always. He hates having to do this, but his bargaining chip is already out of play. He forces a smile.

‘I’m sorry, pal. I didn’t think it would be like this. I thought it was a sure shot. I thought we could negotiate.’

It’s not anger that Burly’s feeling, really. It’s something else.

‘I’ll come with you. We’ll try other agencies. I can lend you money.’

He lifts his eyes towards Hewitt, who’s gone back to scribbling down Glen’s details.

‘Please, fella. Talk to me.’

 Burly looks around the room, then at the spilled coffee and the broken frame. The shards of glass. The potted plant that’s gently moving with the breeze.

‘Don’t I always come up with something?’

The plovers. So quick, when they fell.

The Lord will provide. Call upon him while he is near.

Bits of wallpaper flaking off. Hewitt’s desk. Pen pot, typewriter.

The Lord will provide.

Little placard that says Will Hewitt.

Chief Regional Strategist.

‘So much for your strategy,’ Burly says. He grabs at Glen’s collar. Hewitt looks up.

Holding Glen close, Burly mutters a prayer under his breath. Then he puts his foot on the windowsill, and the two fall down onto the street below.