by SF Benson
“Your grandparents on your back again?” Mark slurred.
I tugged on the joint and closed my eyes. “Yeah. They caught me as I was leaving. The old man was ready to beat the crap out of me.”
“And you still left?”
“Yup.” Mark never mentioned his parents getting on his back. Maybe they were open minded concerning his activities. But, then again, he spent most of his time at Griffin’s. Maybe they didn’t care.
“Don’t worry about it. You’re welcome at… Shit. Lose the joint.” Mark shoved the beer bottles under the seat along with the bag of weed.
Blue and red lights lit up the car’s interior. I glanced over the seat. A pair of officers walked toward the car. Panic set in, and I threw the joint out the window.
“What the hell, Asher!” Mark yelled at me.
A tall, lanky officer tapped on the driver’s side. Mark cut his eyes at me before lowering the window. “Evening, officer.”
“You realize it’s after curfew?”
Mark cleared his throat. “Just getting my little brother home from soccer practice.”
My stomach sank. Mark was an advertisement for “not doing drugs.” There hadn’t been a soccer practice or any other type of sports practice in months.
“Step out of the car, son.”
We slowly opened the doors and stumbled out. The officer quickly discovered the beer and weed. His partner picked up the smoking joint off the asphalt.
Busted.
“Problems of the World comin’ home.
It’s time to take back the power from those who abuse,
Hybrids, the future is in our hands.”
—from “I Can Dream” by Ice Pimp, 2018
Mark made his phone call, but Griffin wouldn’t come to the rescue. So, Mark was remanded to his parents’ custody. He was the lucky one. Grandpa refused to bail me out. I got to spend time in hell until my arraignment the next day.
An officer escorted me to a narrow holding cell with cinderblock walls in the juvenile detention center. There was a bench attached to one of the walls, and a metal toilet occupied a corner. I wasn’t the only one locked up. I shared my tiny space with another guy.
“Whatcha in for?” the voice rumbled from the bunk attached to a wall.
“Possession,” I said and settled myself on the bench.
A shadow blocked the solitary bulb hanging from the ceiling. My cellmate was at least six feet tall and nearly as wide. No amount of light, though, would have helped me see the guy as dark as pitch. He stopped in front of me.
“People call me D. La Rent. I rap and thangs.”
“Cool.” A sudden chill wrapped itself along my spine.
“Keep to yo’ side of the room and we be cool. Feel me?”
“Yeah. I feel you.”
Voices from other cells drifted toward me. I listened to the electronic doors buzz open and shut. The sharp scent of urine mixed with some sort of cleaner brought reality home. I was in real trouble. I could only hope my grandparents would look past my mistakes.
Twenty-four hours later, I walked into a juvenile courtroom behind my lawyer and Grandpa. The room was full of other people waiting for their moment with the judge. One figure caught my eye—a young woman wearing one of those headscarves. She sat alone in the back row. Her eyes, so impressive, captivated me.
“Mr. Jones, we need to keep moving,” my attorney said. The man resembled an escapee from boot camp. His dark-gray suit fit like a second skin while the buttons on his white shirt were ready to hit the ceiling. He sported a buzz cut and a bad disposition.
We took our places in the front of the room. As the judge addressed me and spoke of my crimes, I glanced over my shoulder. She was gone. For some reason, my heart sank.
Stupid.
Why would I want her to hear what I’m guilty of?
My lawyer pleaded my case and got me off on probation.
“You’re lucky, Asher. Judge Beck just lost his younger brother to the virus and was feeling sympathetic. You reminded the judge of him,” said the attorney. “There’s some paperwork to wrap up, and then you can head home.”
The attorney left us in the hall outside the courtroom. I exhaled and started walking toward the exit.
“Not so fast.” Grandpa’s cold voice stopped me in my tracks. I faced him and he set my tattered duffle bag, a symbol of my decrepit life, on the floor near my feet. “You’ll find all your belongings inside.”
My mouth slackened. When I saw the bag earlier, I assumed there was just a change of clothes inside it.
“You’re not welcome in my house.” Grandpa’s voice was as firm as a rock.
I swallowed hard. “Grandpa, like, where am I supposed to go?”
“You seem to have all the answers. Figure it out. Get yourself cleaned up and you can come back.”
“I’m just a kid,” I whined. I was four months short of my fifteenth birthday.
“Now you’re a kid? Just last night, you wanted to be an adult.”
“I learned my lesson,” I pleaded. “I’ll, like, do better. Let me come home.”
My grandfather’s chest hitched. “It’s for your own good, Asher. You don’t want to live with us. Maybe you can stay with Sibley. Call her. I’m sure she’ll be happy to take care of you.”
Grandpa stumbled backward toward the door. Halfway down the corridor, he turned and picked up his pace.
“Is this what you Americans would call a tough break?”
I whirled around and saw the girl from the courtroom behind me. “Something like that.”
The scent of roses and musk hit my nose as she came closer. “I do not mean to intrude, but it was sort of hard not to witness that.”
“Understatement. Do you, like, have someone here today?” My eyes flickered all over the lobby, looking for someone who might be with her.
“No. I am alone today. I had a personal matter to handle. Just thought I would discover what happens in an American courtroom.”
“Nothing good,” I told her.
“What will you do now?” Her eyes landed on my bag.
“Not sure.”
She nodded. “May Allah guide your path… I am sorry, I did not catch your name.”
“Asher. Asher Jones.”
“I am Rihana Fakhoury. Once again, may Allah guide your path, Asher Jones.”
I watched her walk through the double doors and down the stairs. Under different circumstances, I would like to know more about the girl behind the scarf.
But, right now, I was struggling with the fact my grandfather abandoned me when I needed him. A small voice reminded me it was what I’d been pushing for, a reason to go live with my favorite grandparent. I called Mama Sibley.
“Hello?” Her voice sounded sleepy. Damn. I should have checked the time.
“Mama Sibley, it’s me.”
“Asher? What’s wrong?”
All of a sudden, calling her seemed like a bad idea. Did I really want to saddle her with my problems? “Checking in with you. Making sure you and Steve are okay.”
“We’re good. How are things with Edward and Bernice?” A little contempt edged into her voice.
“Fine. I might need a place to stay for a while.”
“You’re always welcome here. You need money? I can send you a ticket.”
I leaned against the wall and the mysterious girl entered my mind. Having my grandmother come to my rescue no longer interested me.
“I’m good. I’ll give you a call in a few days and let you know how I am.”
“All right, Asher. We’re here for you no matter what you need. Understand?”
I understood more than she knew. It was time for me to unravel the mess I called “my life” for myself. We said our goodbyes and I headed to Griffin’s.
“Where are the winners when there’s a war?
People die, families pull apart.
Skies turn gray, the land perishes
Darkness covers the land when countries go to war.”
—from “Spoken Words on War” by Civic Minded, 2018
May 2020
The Pandemic did have one good result—the war ended. Avoiding the virus occupied everyone’s thoughts and killing each other no longer held an interest.
The end of the war also marked the rise of the New Order and a demise of democracy. A group of scientists and technologists assumed management of the country. Our new leaders made plenty of promises—an end to disease, poverty, and unemployment. They even offered a solution to the virus.
After Grandpa kicked me out of the house, I moved in with Griffin. Mama Sibley’s offer was still good, but I’d have to explain myself. Instead, I told her I had a place to go. She didn’t press the issue.
Fortunately for me, Griffin didn’t turn me away. He didn’t seem to mind my living there as long as I cut the grass and did whatever chore he didn’t want to do. I had a choice: do the work or hit the streets.
“Another thing, Asher,” Griffin said from his semi-permanent spot on the sofa. “No more trouble. You bring the law down on me, and you’ll wish you never met me.”
A smart kid would have rejected Griffin’s proposition and begged the Devil himself to go home. But I wasn’t so smart. My choices seemed clear-cut—put up with Griffin’s rules or go live with my grandmother in New Mexico. Going to live with Mama Sibley, however, meant confessing all the shit I did. The woman said she was proud of me, her only remaining grandkid. I didn’t want to shatter her image of me. And shame kept me from going back to my grandparents’ house in Taylor. So, I endured my parole and lived with Griffin.
June 2021
A year after the government takeover, the New Order formed the Riza Corps. It replaced JROTC. Personally, I had no interest in the military or any other organization. Rumors began spreading regarding a group of political extremists known as the Alliance. For some reason, the group irked Griffin.
Shit hit the fan one morning after breakfast. Griffin stormed into the kitchen and started banging cabinets, leaving them open in his wake.
“Dude, what’s the problem?”
He slammed a bowl on the counter and filled it with cereal. “Doesn’t concern you.”
“Well, I live here and keep this place clean. So, unless you plan on, like, picking up behind yourself, spill it.”
Griffin haphazardly poured milk on the cereal and the counter. “Someone I know got picked up by the police.”
“Who? Your dealer?” I smirked.
He narrowed his eyes. “No, smart ass!”
“Okay. I’ll bite. Who was he, and what did he get picked up for?”
“He knew your brother. Cops picked him up on suspicion of treason.”
“Treason? Why?” I wiped up the spill Griffin left behind.
“Jarrod was hanging with a group called the Alliance.”
“That rebel group?”
Griffin nodded and shoved a spoon in his mouth. He spoke with his mouth full, “They’re not just rebels. The Alliance is a bunch of traitors pissed off at the new government. They think they can overthrow the New Order.”
“So how did Jarrod, like, end up with them?” I placed my bowl in the sink.
“You don’t need to know. Just stay away from anybody talking crap about overthrowing the government.”
“I’m not—”
“Planning on doing anything stupid. Remember, you’re on probation.” He left his half-touched bowl, sitting in a pool of milk, on the table.
I didn’t know it at the time, but the Alliance would become a part of my life.
August 2022
Mark and I grew closer. We were more like brothers than friends, but then his absentee parents made a lifestyle change. They insisted he move back home, putting an end to our days of running wild.
I was busy washing Shiloh’s car when Mark came by Griffin’s house to help me celebrate my sixteenth birthday. “What’s up, dude?”
“Came by to see what you wanted to do tonight.”
“Nothing special. Guess we could, like, just hang.”
He leaned against the wet car. “I have to get home in time for curfew.”
“Since when?” The entire time we lived at Griffin’s, we stayed out as late as we wanted. Before that, I couldn’t remember Mark ever having a curfew.
“Since I moved back home. Guess the folks decided to be parents.” Mark shrugged and a far-off look crossed his face like he missed our wild days.
Truth be told, I had a self-imposed curfew. After finishing my probation, I followed the law as much as possible.
Mark sighed. “My parents signed me up for the Corps. First meeting’s tomorrow.”
I dropped the sponge in the bucket. “Are you, like, serious?”
He nodded. “Wanna come along? I could use the distraction.”
“I don’t know, Mark. JROTC dismissed me. Plus, I’ve got a record.”
“Not a problem. They’ve got this lawyer who nixes any criminal record. Eventually, we have to join Riza.”
“Why? I don’t want to be in the military.” The military took Shiloh from me. They weren’t entitled to my life, too.
“There are benefits with this new government.”
“How so?”
“Rumor has it the New Order will start classifying people. Those in the military will get all the privileges. No curfews, man. We will be the law.”
As much as I didn’t want to be a part of anyone’s military, what Mark said intrigued me. If I enforced the law, I could be above the law.
I grabbed the water hose. “What time do we, like, need to be there?”
Mark got a copy of the forms for me. I went to my grandparents’ house, a place I hadn’t been in a long time.
Grandma came to the door when I rang the doorbell. It wasn’t long before my grandfather appeared at her side.
“I’ll handle this, Bernice,” he told my grandmother, and she walked away from the door.
He opened the screen and allowed me to enter the house. Things hadn’t changed much in my absence. Grandpa pointed to the vinyl-covered sofa, and I sat down.
“Why are you here?” he asked gruffly.
I fingered the envelope in my hand. “I…uh…I want to, like, join the Corps.”
The man placed his elbows on his knees and leaned toward me. “Now why would you want to do that? After what happened, the last place you should want to be is the damn military.”
His opinion had drastically changed. This was a man who use to praise the military. Hell, he supported Shiloh enlisting. “Grandpa, I’m trying to clean up my life. I don’t drink anymore nor do drugs. This is a chance for me—”
“To do what? Get yourself killed?” he snapped. “No. If those are forms in your hand, I won’t sign them. I won’t sign your death warrant.”
My grandfather jumped up and stormed out just as my grandmother entered the room.
“Grandma, please,” I pleaded with her.
Her eyes glistened as she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Asher. I agree with him. You don’t need to do this. Move back here with us. We’ll find something else for you—”
“No, thank you,” I declined and stood up. “It was good to see you two again. I’ve got to do this…for Shiloh and my parents. I hope you understand.”
I did the next best thing. I called Mama Sibley and told her I was getting my act together. She accessed a digital copy of the paperwork and signed it. In a matter of minutes, I had the forms in my hand.
The next day, I took the forms to the lawyer Mark told me about. Imagine my surprise when the guy was the same attorney who got me probation a couple of years back.
“Asher Jones.” He glanced up from the stack of papers. “Never thought I’d see you again. Glad to see you’re turning your life around.”
“Wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t, like, help me, sir.”
“Word of advice?” He dropped his pen.
I stared at the man.
“You’re doing a good thing. Keep your nos
e clean.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’ve been having some issues with new recruits. Some group called the Alliance has been filling cadets with a lot of nonsense. We’ve actually lost a few to these militants.”
The man piqued my interest. “Can’t you do anything about it?”
“We’re trying to learn their identities. Just stay away from anyone talking nonsense. Taking over the government ain’t happening, kid.”
“Sure thing,” I lied. Curiosity took over. Alliance rumors swirled through the streets. I convinced myself I only wanted to know the truth and then I’d leave it alone.
“We’ll look back and wonder why.
Because nothing good ever comes from war.”
—from “Spoken Words on War” by Civic Minded, 2018
I left the recruiter’s office with my head in the clouds, actual ones not man-made ones. Enlisting with the newly-formed Riza military was my second chance. Mama Sibley signed my paperwork, but it was conditional. I had to keep my feet pointing north—no more trouble. Unfortunately for me, trouble and I were good friends.
I heard the shouting before I saw what caused it. Up ahead two guys cornered an Arab woman against a wall. I couldn’t stand by and do nothing.
“Take your hands off her,” I yelled.
The guys backed up, looked over at me, and took off. Odd behavior from a couple of attackers; I expected more. I looked over my shoulder and noticed the lawyer turned recruitment officer behind me.
“Remember what I said about keeping your nose clean,” he said and walked back toward the building.
I didn’t give much thought to what happened at the time. Instead, I checked on the woman.