The space
is huge, and definitely not a place I’ve been before.
I see it’s a train station before
anything else. To our left there are boards showing places like New Haven, Poughkeepsie,
Harlem. Places I recognize from a life of watching American sitcoms. I’m in New
York, Grand Central Station. I have been here before, but I was very young at
the time. The place is alive with New Yorkers bustling back and forth, on
phones that look old to my modern eyes.
I have
always wanted to go back. My parents were wealthy enough to cart me on their
travels with them. I don’t have a memory of this place but there are countless
pictures of me in a photo album with a picture of the Statue of Liberty on the
front that my parents like to get out every now and again. I remember them
getting it out the first time Penny came round. I resented them for it a
little, they knew Penny’s parents weren’t able to go on such extravagant
adventures.
‘Where are
we?’ asks Yates sniffing, trying to hide his face. I can only guess that the
younger Yates gets, the more he revisits traits of his youth. His teenage self
had been moody. Now though, he hides like he’s just old to not cry so much
anymore and he knows it.
‘Grand
Central Station. New York City,’ I add when I receive a blank look.
‘Oh, the
Fly protects New York City, and the Iron Captain.’
‘You read
comics?’ I ask, more than a little surprised.
‘Yeah!’ he
says excited. ‘Not any more though.’ His face loses all emotion, adopting the
snootiness I’ve come to associate with Yates. The change is sudden, but
momentary. Instantly he reverts to his childlike self, wiping his nose on his
sleeve so he turns it up, like a pig.
I shake off
the peculiar sight of a child visiting his adult self and look around. If this
is my memory then my parents are here somewhere with me. Curiosity grips me and
I start searching for them, I’ve always wanted to know what they were like as
young parents, not influenced by the good behaviour world of home videos.
‘What are
they?’ Yates points up at the ceiling with his cuffs hanging over his hands.
I look up
and see something I’ve always wanted to see with my own eyes, the
constellations carved in gold in the station’s duck egg blue ceiling.
‘They’re
the stars,’ I say, my voice lighting up as I try to keep the boy interested.
‘But they’re backwards. In the sky, the minotaur over there is on the other side
of the room. Some people say that’s how God looks down on us from above.’
‘I don’t
believe in God,’ says the nine-year-old boy, stopping me in my tracks.
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