The Advantages of Being Disadvantaged ❂ h.s.

chapter one

It was five in the morning, and Harry was out. Unusual for someone who was not in the work force, but his father was on another one of his drunk tangents. He rubbed the side of his face momentarily before having to avert his focus back on the wheels of his wheelchair. He ignored the stickiness of his middle and index fingers after pulling them away. When his father got drunk, he got angry. And when he got angry, he threw things.

He wondered at what it had been this time. He couldn't even remember. Though he wouldn't exactly call his father abusive, it was saddening that this had become the norm. However, he quickly reminded himself that his father had never seriously injured him, and that he should be grateful for that.

After checking to make sure there was no one behind him, Harry stopped rather abruptly. He had realized that he didn't really know where he was going. The last time his father had lost it after one or two too many glasses of scotch, staying at the house had proved to be a bad idea, making things even worse. So he had left this time. And he had nowhere to go.

Again, he checked behind him. The large city was eerily empty. Besides a few sparsely distributed businessmen, all appropriately dressed in their suits and hats, like Harry himself, the sidewalks were clear. The street currently directed about six trollies on their way. Compared to rush hour in the big city, that was nothing. Of course, Broadway Street was no Times Square, but it was strange nonetheless.

His gaze wandered from building to building, desperately seeking some familiarity. Suddenly it locked on the Boreel Building, not very much ahead. Not only was his father friends with the owner, Mr. Andrew Boreel, but his friend Tom worked there as well. Having his heading, he quickly began wheeling himself towards the large, aureate building.

Harry stopped at the entrance of the one hundred by one hundred-fifty foot skyscraper, a prized jewel in the crown of the Big Apple. The impressive office building housed four hydraulic elevators, Otis Standard, and the first group of four in one building known. He whistled under his breath as he entered, admiring the dramatic central light court that already held many working men, though not as many as it would in a few hours. From the main stairways to the elevator shafts to the entrance hall, no expense was spared. However, he forced himself to stop admiring the decor and focus on wheeling himself up to the secretary desk instead.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he said, mustering as much poise and confidence as he could.

The young woman heard him, and tilted her head down slightly to meet his gaze. She smiled, but seemed to catch sight of his handicap, and the warm expression faltered for a half second. When she composed herself, he could detect a note of pity in her voice. "How may I help you, sir?"

Though he maintained an unwaveringly collected and pleasing quality to himself, he felt a pang of disappointment, and even shame. "I'm looking for Tom Taylor? He works here."

"One moment," she said cheerily, unaware that she had upset the man before her so. She reached over to snatch up a clipboard, flipping through a thick stack of papers quickly and with precise expertise. She stopped after a moment, running her finger down the page she had stopped on. She looked up. "Office ninety-two," she said. "That's on floor four."

"Thank you," Harry offered genuinely, bowing his head with a tentative smile.

"You're quite welcome. You can ride up on one of our four luxury hydraulic elevators, or you may take the-" she quit speaking abruptly when she realized her mistake, Harry's face dropping. "Oh- oh, my. I'm so sorry. I really am, I-"

But Harry was already beginning to wheel himself away. "Don't worry about it."

"No, really, sir-" she protested, but he cut her off again, craning his neck around to face her again and give her the best smile he could salvage.