The Walls of Jericho

I knew it was me as soon as the dreams started. Those came on right after my parents were killed. Here. In Crossroads. I was only nine years old.  The dream woman’s voice didn’t sound like me. She was older than me, with bigger hands and a woman’s body. She has long golden hair and mine’s chestnut brown. She has blue eyes and mine are the color of amber in sunlight. Her name is Mia and mine’s Jericho.  She’s still me, just from before there was me. Maybe. It’s hard to explain.  I know her thoughts because I think them. I know what she’s going to do, because I did it. I know she came from the east to Crossroads. To the place where she would die.  I know things followed her. Crossroads is an odd place. A literal point where two roads meet. One runs up and down, north and south. The other runs east, backwards. The only thing west is the ocean. A dead end. This is where a monstrous city sprang up. It’s been here ever since. Before he died, my dad used to tell me there was nothing west because that’s where things went to die. The sun sets that way, dying at the end of the day. The moon sets that way, dying at the end of the night. The hungry ocean gobbles everything else. He could be dark sometimes.  Not that he was wrong.  I miss him and my mother.  I pick the lock on the door that traps me in the closet. What can I say? Life in foster homes sucks. It’s worse on the southside of Crossroads where I live. I’ve always known how to pick locks. That probably sounds strange, but it’s true. This particular closet door squeaks if it’s opened too far so I have to be careful otherwise my foster parents will hear me. I’m thin, so it’s not too much trouble to sneak around it.  Locks are a form of simple technology, and technology’s something I understand innately. I grab my backpack. It’s old but sturdy, plus it belonged to my mom, so I like it more for that. I keep an old blanket in the bottom. A couple changes of clothes.  Autumn’s come to Crossroads, turned the leaves on the trees to bright yellows and reds, and eventually they all turn brown. Since it’s colder at night I pull my favorite red hoodie out of my backpack and tug it over my head. There’s nothing else that belongs to me here, so I zip the bag closed.  The window’s even easier to open than the closet door. Then it’s a few quiet steps along the sloped roof towards the street to the giant oak at the corner of the roof. Its so old that its branches are easy to walk on, plus they’re big enough to support my weight.  Not that I weigh much. I already said I was thin.  I give a sigh of relief when my feet touch the ground and my breath frosts the air in a gauzy white puff. I’m free.  At least until someone from Social Services comes to find me. As I hit the street, moving silently, I wonder if they’ll bother at all. I’m not nine anymore. I’m sixteen, and the social workers have already told me they’re tired of trying to find me a new home.  I’d prefer if they didn’t bother.  The southside of Crossroads is the oldest part of town. Ramshackle and run-down. And dangerous. It’s where the poor people live. The ones who can’t afford the shiny new areas on the north side of town. The sidewalks here are cracked and uneven, but my feet are sure. Most of the streetlamps are broken and the ones that aren’t flicker eerily. They don’t bother me. They’re technology.  I worry crossing the filthy mouths of the dark alleyways. Even this late at night, someone’s always there in the southern section of Crossroads. But the same gloom that hides them from my sight hides me from theirs. Plus I’ll be at the park soon.  “Hi Eric,” I call softly, waving to the park bench. It’s mostly hidden against the overgrown landscape in the shadows. No one’s there, of course. I call it ‘Eric’ because that’s the name someone carved into its wooden surface years ago, along with other graffitied initials and a few obscenities. Most of the paint has peeled off its rough wooden slats, but the name’s always there.  Some things never change. There’s comfort in that.  “So, you mind if I crash here with you?” I shrug out of my backpack, then toss it on the bench and sit down beside it. I breathe in the dark and the cold and my freedom. I pat the bench fondly with one slender hand. “Just tonight. Maybe tomorrow,” I say out loud, as if Eric the park bench had asked me. “Just until I can find someplace more permanent.” I unzip the outer pocket on my backpack and pull out my blanket. Like everything else I own, it’s old, torn at the edges, faded, but it’s mine. And somehow, it’s always enough, which is all that I ask. I shove the backpack to one end of the bench to use as a pillow.  Tucking my legs up, I cover myself with the blanket and stare up at the dark sky. Crossroads is so big that the city lights drown out most of the stars, but a few twinkle above me. It’s not safe to sleep on park benches, but somehow, here, with Eric the park bench, I always feel safe. As if someone’s watching over me.  I like to imagine it’s my mom or my dad, looking back over the hungry ocean from the west. When I think about it, really think hard about it, I know it’s not true. If something watches over me, it’s come from the east. It followed me here when I lived in the blonde woman’s body. From that time when I learned how to pick locks and control simple machines.  Yawning, I let my eyes drift closed. Tomorrow, I’ll look for work. Try to find someplace else to stay. I hope I’ll have something to eat.  “G’night, Eric.” As I slip into my dreams of living as the blonde woman, I wonder what followed her and what it wants with me.  *Five Years Later* Bing! Bing! Bing! “Order up! Jericho! Get your smartass over here before the food gets cold!” Esteban shouts in a gruff rasp. He owns the diner where I work and does all the cooking. If ‘cooking’ is what you call what he does to food. He whacks on tiny service bell on the sill between the kitchen and the dining area whenever an order is ready. As if I can’t hear him yelling at me from two steps away.  I pivot in place and give him a bland look. “Long as you took fixing it, there wasn’t anything on that plate to get cold.” He smashes two sizzling burgers down on the hot griddle with his metal spatula. Hot grease squeezes out of them before he flips them over. Esteban points at me with the spatula, spattering grease all over the kitchen floor and the wall between us. “You watch your wise mouth, missy. I should have fired you after you started those classes,” he mutters to himself. Gross. My lips curl up and my nose wrinkles in disgust. I’m glad I don’t have to work back there with him.  I snatch the plate off the sill. “Nobody wishes that more than me, Esteban,” I retort. “I said watch your wise mouth.” He flicks the spatula at me.  I flinch feeling another spatter of grease hit my neck. With a heavy sigh, I carry the plate down the bar and grab a pitcher of iced tea with my opposite hand as I do. “Here you go, Jimmy. Double cheeseburger. Side of fries. Extra greasy on the house.”  Jimmy is an old regular at the diner. He actually eats here every day. Voluntarily. Something must be wrong with him.  He gives me a toothy grin and cackles, then he looks at the plate. He turns it a few times, like a dog trying to get comfortable on its bed.  “There’s no good-looking side to it, Jimmy, if that’s what you’re hoping for.” I refill his glass from the pitcher.  “Don’t let him get to you, Jericho. You’re the only reason Esteban’s still in business here. Nobody would come to eat this slop unless there was something real nice to look at while you do it.” Esteban shoves his head over the windowsill between the kitchen and the dining area. He glares at Jimmy, but he’s not really mad. "That's rich coming from you. You’ve been eating three meals a day at my counter since your wife died." "Reminds me of her," Jimmy retorts. He waggles his graying bristled brush eyebrows at me. “I didn't marry her for her cooking, if you know what I mean." I have to admit, I didn’t see that comment coming. My stomach heaves and my face reflects my nausea. "Ungh," I groan, unable to stifle it, then shake my head in disgust. "Still got it where it counts, missy." Jimmy pats the counter in front of me, just to get my attention again. I lean back and prop a hand on my hip. “That’s real sweet, Jimmy. If only you weren’t nine-hundred and eighty years old.” Another regular customer sits at the table by the diner’s front windows. When Jimmy cackles, he joins in with the laughter. “Ah, come on now, Jericho. Old geezer like Jimmy is exactly what a pretty young thing like you needs.” I bustle down the counter so my back’s to them. I roll my eyes, mouthing along with the tired song and dance.  “Marry yourself one with a nice fat pension and one foot in the grave,” Mr. Chancy tells me like he always does. “Soon as you take off your robe on your wedding night, you’ll become a rich widow.” Jimmy and Mr. Chancy burst into new cackles.  “Neither of you have a foot deep enough in the grave or a fat enough pension,” I snap without looking at them. “I guess you’ll have to settle for me delivering this de-licious food old Esteban makes and keeping your glasses full.” I set the pitcher aside and wring a rag under the hot water in the dining area’s tiny sink. I load all the dirty dishes left by a previous customer onto the plate, then pick up the change he left me for a tip. Lifting the dishes, I wipe the counter clean. When I turn my back to sort the dishes from the trash, the bell at the diner door jingles as it’s opened.  Disappointed, I heave a heavy sigh. I was hoping there’d be no more customers for a while. I drop the waste in the trash bucket behind the bar and sort the dirty dishes into the bussing tray. “Just take a seat wherever you like. I’ll be right there,” I call over my shoulder to the new arrivals. I wash my hands with the watered-down soap at the sink, then dry them on a stained towel.  I snatch a couple menus from the rack behind the counter. Turning I check to see how many I’ll need. Spying the new customers, I gasp and the menus slip from my fingers, fluttering to the floor.  Embarrassed, I squeeze my eyes shut, ducking behind the counter. It gives me time to hide my blush and pick up the mess I just made. The dilapidated southside of Crossroads isn't merely a slum. It’s a dank and festering cesspool of sleaze, crime and gang violence. Even the police avoid it at all costs. Instead, they leave the streets mean, keeping innocent citizens poor and trapped here using labyrinthine regulations and social prejudice. Eventually, they figure the gangs will sort themselves out. The three men who’ve come in are some more of Esteban’s regulars. They’re leaders of the deadliest gang in the slums. You’d think after five years of them eating at the diner, their effect on me would wear off. I struggle to soothe my ruffled composure and try not to hurry. Let them wait, I think, but I’m quivering. I collect the menus on my lap, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.  “What’re you doing down there!? Takin’ a nap?” Esteban barks. “If you want to get paid, then get your sweet ass out there and get the customers some menus.” I startle when he barks, my embarrassment becoming irritation. Getting to my feet, I glower at Esteban and he chuckles, returning to the grill. Plucking a third menu from the rack, I hurry around the counter to the table where the three men have taken seats. “Here, you guys. What can I get you—to drink?”  “Dr. Pepper,” Damien shoots off first, zipping through applications on his phone. Of the three of them, he’s the smallest. If that’s what you call it. At six foot tall, he’s still a big guy. Especially compared to me. He’s scruffy-looking, but cute. About twenty years old if I’m any guess. Mousy-haired and mousy-eyed behind his spectacles.  He’s just not as—well, muscly as his companions. “I’ll take a Dr. Pepper too, please,” Ferdi says politely. He’s always nice to me, despite how tough he looks. He’s good-looking, like Damien, but built like a linebacker and covered in intimidating tattoos. That, plus his ice blue eyes and a shaved head should scare me, but I think Ferdi’s sort of laid back and cool.  You know, for a guy who's probably a stone-cold killer. Still, I have to admit, he has a cute smile. “Sure thing. And for you, Channing?” I drawl and my eyes flick up to meet his. A heavy rock falls into my  stomach. Channing Stark looks every bit the playboy type. He’s square-jawed and a little rough around the edges, with deep blue eyes and a cleft in his chin. He has this well-molded mouth I can’t take my eyes off of when he talks, and even when it curls, asserts his fierce determination and low tolerance for bullshit.  Unlike Damien, who’s sort of dirty blonde, and Ferdi with his shaved head, Channing has thick dark hair in a shade somewhere between a leather bomber jacket and a bottle of cheap beer. His eyelashes and brows are the same shade, and one brow is split towards the outer edge with a long thin white scar.  The deep blue t-shirt he’s wearing is stretched to its capacity, molding to the width of his broad shoulders and well-muscled arms. It clings to the visible lines of his abs as it tapers to his narrow waist. He’s sitting backwards on his chair and it’s impossible to miss the perfect shape of his posterior or the gorgeous way his thighs fill out his fitted jeans. For a brief instant, our eyes lock, then he smiles with a deep dimple in one cheek. “Hey Jericho. How’s it going?” Is it so much to ask that Mother Nature makes him  just a little less unbearably gorgeous? And, you know, not leader of a gang. But mostly that he’s not such a tempting hunk. “Jericho gives you any lip, you let me know. I’ll dock her pay,” Esteban shouts through the cutout window into the kitchen.  Channing hits me with another of his knockout smiles. “Thanks, Esteban, but I think I can handle her.” I curse in my head.  It’s the same every single time, damn him. Channing lays out that ice cream smooth tenor and shoots a jolt of entirely inappropriate, totally out-of-place raw s****l awareness through me. Then I have to deliver his greasy food. What a letdown, you know? What’s worse is tomorrow, he’ll walk by out front of the diner with a supermodel draped over one of those tree-trunk arms, just to crush the spirit out of me. Sometimes, I have to hate him, no matter how beautiful he is.  “You didn’t tell me how it’s going.” I shrug, trying to keep cool. “You know, my usual rock star life. Trapped in a dead-end job working for Prince Charming and serving a bunch of old geezers who come in to ogle me. I know you’re jealous.” Gah! What’s wrong with me!? He's a gang leader and a customer. I need to stop antagonizing him. Channing gives me a sly smile that’s almost my undoing. “About that last part, absolutely.” I hate when he flirts with me. It’s so damn callous. “Old Jimmy and Mr. Chancy can’t really see all that well, so if you need a boost for your ego, I’ll lend you my apron and you can go take a twirl.” When both Ferdi and Channing laugh at my snide comment, Damien’s head pops up from his phone, just long enough to determine they’re not laughing at him.  “When are you going to give me your number, Jericho?” Channing asks, polite as can be in that voice that makes me melty.  I tuck my arms across my chest, shifting my weight onto one hip. He asked for this one, after all. “Maybe when you run out of supermodels. You want a Dr. Pepper too? Or are you drinking something else?” “An iced tea will do, please.” “Be back in just a sec.” Patting Damien on the shoulder before I go get their drinks, I warn him, “I’m coming right back, Damien. Best pick something off the menu.” “No need,” he shoots back. “All tastes the same when Esteban fixes it.” Well, he’s not wrong. As if he jinxed me, the loud, Bing! Bing! Bing! comes from the bell, followed by Esteban’s gruff shout. “Order up!” I sigh coming around the bar. Just a few more months and my hard work will pay off. I’ll kiss this misery good-bye and be on my way to the Crossroads’ north side.  ** “Bacon double cheeseburger, side of fries for Mr. Damien. Hot Philly sub, no onions, extra cheese, side of seasoned fries for Ferdi, and a double cheeseburger, hold the mayo, side of rings for Channing.” I make a point of repeating what people order because the way Esteban cooks, you can never be sure.  I slide the dishes across the table to each of them with smooth efficiency. I can’t help but grin when they all stare at their plates with grim faces.   “One of these days, this stuff is going to kill us,” Ferdi says under his breath so Esteban can’t hear him.  “Seriously,” Channing agrees. Damien tries the plate-turning thing like Jimmy does. “Thanks, Jer. This looks—especially greasy today.” My head swivels towards him and I give him a wry look, my brows shooting up into arches. “And this surprises you because…?” Across from Damien, Ferdi dunks one half of a stuffed sandwich covered in melted cheese in some oily brown liquid that Esteban calls au jus. “Thank God I lost my sense of taste years ago,” he laughs, taking a big bite.  “Don’t let Esteban hear you say that, Ferdi. There’s not much hope for the rest of us if you do. More Dr. Pepper?” I point to his glass, then to Channing’s when Ferdi shakes his head. “More tea?” “These were supposed to be sweet potato fries,” Damien whines, holding up a limp french fry that doesn’t look any different than what’s on Ferdi’s plate.  Not that I can blame him— Esteban’s not known for his gourmet fare. Nearly everything he cooks is greasy. The meat he uses is questionable at best and bears a remarkable resemblance to wet cat food. Any bread served is soggy and the fries are an open invitation to finishing your day with wrenching gut pain. All in all, I’d say regular consumption is a fast track to a heart attack, inflammatory bowel disease or some painful and likely disgusting combination of both. Swiping Channing’s glass without waiting for his answer, I lean over Damien and rest one hand on his shoulder. I give him my best cute smile and a pert nod. “Those are sweet potato fries.”  I can feel eyes on me as I zip around the corner to refill Channing’s tea and know who they belong to. You’d think after five years trying he’d get bored and find somebody else. Maybe he’s one of those stubborn ones who takes rejection as a challenge.  “Food’s on the plate, Chan, not behind the counter,” Ferdi says just loud enough that I hear.  Damien chokes and snorts Dr. Pepper up his nose, grabbing at his napkin to cover his face.  I tuck my head down as I refill Channing’s tea, but in my periphery, I can see him slather an onion ring in a thick coat of ketchup, then pop it in his mouth. I can still feel those blue eyes of his on me. “Aw come on. I think I’m getting to her.” Ha! In your dreams. I return to the table with the refilled iced tea, reaching around Channing to set it down. He turns towards me as I do, his nostrils flaring as he inhales. Mortified, I wonder suddenly if I stink. Esteban’s fry grease can leave a lingering odor.  “Anything else, guys?” I ask, backing away and hoping I haven’t offended them. ** When they’re done, I see Channing leave a tip under the edge of his glass on the table. He collects the bill and heads to the register, with Ferdi and Damien piling up around him. I take the ticket when he hands it to me and ring the sale up on the quick tablet register.  Modern technology. It’s a lot of fun.  “Two Dr. Pepper. Iced Tea. One bacon double cheese. One Philly sub extra cheese. One double cheese side of rings, and three cookies ala mode.” I read off the ticket, my fingers flying without looking over the tablet screen.  To avoid drawing attention to myself, I make a point to actually hit the right spots on the touchscreen, but it doesn’t really matter if I do. The command the tablet takes corrects when my fingers make errors. It comes from somewhere inside me as I read the words.  Most folks are so self-absorbed they never notice when it happens. Today, for the first time in five years of them coming here, I realize these three aren’t like other people. The same instant the tablet fixes my finger’s error, Damien stiffens. Beside him, Channing draws a sharp breath. “Twenty-three fifty-seven.” My eyes flick up as I read the total. Immediately I can tell something is going on. In a huff, Damien shoulders Channing angrily, and my eyes follow him as he and Ferdi go outside to wait. “They stiff you with the bill again?” “Always.” Channing hands me a twenty and a five. “You can keep the change if you give me your number.” Fat chance. The cash drawer pops open and lightning quick I’m  handing over the dollar and forty-three cents. He drops it in the tip jar anyway.  “I’m not giving up,” he tells me with his best lady-killer grin.  Behind the register, I slam the cash drawer shut and nearly knock his socks off with a smile of my own. “I’m not giving in. Have a good afternoon, Channing.”