Interlude A: The Walls

He stares at the faint reflection of himself in the counter’s glass pane. The man looking back at him is a haggard one, beer stains running down the length of his old sweater, his face scarred and bruised, the discolored flesh still not fully healed from that fight a month ago. His eyes—he only sees a glimpse of them in the glass—but they look bent out of shape. Worn.

He sighs as the man behind the counter squints at the paperwork, looking at the little card of plastic in front of him and wrinkling his nose. He’s long since come to terms with his homeliness; it’s a natural consequence of homelessness. But still. It’s been a long time since he’s seen himself, and he didn’t expect to look like this.

“So let me get this right, Mr. Najbreit, you prepaid for this rental car with your Visa card at 4 am this morning.” The clerk behind the counter sounds tired. Probably the end of a long shift for him.

“Ya not likin’ something?”

He was told by the man with wicked dreads that he just had to play along with this crap, and he would get paid. The man said that the paperwork was all in order. To be honest, he doesn’t even know if he believes that Markus is really behind this. The poor man’s got too many enemies and not enough friends.

“Have you got the card with you?” the clerk asks, blearily. The man’s slowly tapping Markus’ driver’s license on his linoleum desk now.

He stuffs his hand down a back pocket. It’s where he carries all of his own IDs. Most of them are old, expired things, his little defiance to the government that has denied him so much. He won’t be theirs. His hand reaches past the aged plastic and brushes against a hint of something metallic. Something buried deeper. He flinches a little, and then notices that the clerk has been staring at him, waiting for a response.

“Thought tha point o’ prepayin’ was so I didn’t have to bring it,” he says quickly.

“Yeah, sure. Just warning you that if there are any additional fees, you’re going to have to cover the difference then too,” the man shrugs. He signs and stamps a couple documents, and shoves the bunch through the slot beneath the counter. “Uh… do you want to sign up for our rewards program?”

“Nah,” he says, picking up the papers. He gives them a cursory glance, and then holds them by his side.

“The cars are in the garage on the first floor,” the man at the counter says. “You can take any of the ones in Section A, and uh, Eric should be on shift if you need help”

“Thanks,” he says, flashing the man behind the counter a toothy smile. The man does not smile back.

How many years has it been since he’s been behind the wheel? He almost rear-ended the SUV in front of him the first time he hit a red light, but after a couple hours on the road, the feel of it has come back to him again.

Take a drive down to D.C., return the car there, and if you show up at your corner the next day, I’ll be there with another grand for you.

It sounded too fucking good to be true. But the man had already gave him the upfront grand, and they were clean, new bills, too, so Jericho knew that this man had his crap sorted out. Black men that talk pretty are a scary kind. It was common knowledge that you didn’t mess with guys like that. Jericho had taken the money without question—odds are he wouldn’t have even if it had been his dead mother herself bringing the bills—but now that he’s been on the road for this long, questions start bubbling up in his head.

He silences them, just as he’s been taught to do, just as he’s used to doing.

A bright young man such as you should know better than to question a colonel’s orders, he hears a voice saying, but it’s nothing, just the wind whipping by.

The I-95 is quiet tonight. The minivan he’s driving was one of three in the garage when he pulled out. He’s not sure why he’s driving such a big car. They didn’t even give him any luggage to transport.

A biker approaches behind him, blaring some kind of heavy metal loud enough to match the scream of his exhaust. Jericho, in his minivan, is not listening to any music. The night sky is heavy and the overhead lamps are a dull yellow blur. He tries not to swerve as the biker roars past him, his hand suddenly gripping the wheel tight.

He tries not to remember, but the sound of that guitar, that blare, it takes him back to that helicopter flying low over the jungle, the conversational gunfire, the conversations ended by gunfire… Old faces, old friends, old screams…

His hand jerks on the wheel, and the van spins to the side. He panics, the car in his rearview mirror breaks sharp, he nearly goes off the road, the horns that sound behind him has him panting; things get fuzzy but he must have hit the breaks, old instincts, the car is now cruising at 30 on the road’s shoulder, he’s breathing slowly, steadying himself. He just has to get to D.C. and drop off the car, and then he can buy a train ticket home.

Home.

Home?

The world can be a cruel place sometimes.

He slowly pushes his foot down on the accelerator, rejoining the other drivers making the long drive home. He only hopes that he is doing the right thing.