Just Before Dawn

by Joshua Hernandez

  “But I have no shoes.”

  “Don't I know it. Maybe you'll get to where you're going. Maybe not. Still, maybe you should lose the suit. White is a hard color to pull off, especially if you haven't earned it. When you're ready son, just call for Old Gabe and I'll be back.” The old man slammed the door and drove off. The dust from the tires jumped out at Charles and enveloped him in a choking cloud of brown. As soon as Charles could breathe again he tried to look for the old truck, but all he could see was the cloud of dirt from its departure. Charles looked at where he was not at all surprised. Nothing but corn as far as he could see. He swore at the old man under his breath and sat his hat down on an oddly shaped rock near the side of the road.

  Then Charles waited.

  “The sins of the father are not the sins of the son,” Charles said for the umpteenth time as the sun beat down upon his brow. “The sins of the son are his own to make.” He wiped at his brow and a smear of brown appeared on the arm of his white suit jacket. Cursing Charles quickly tried to use his hand to wipe away the mark but he only made it worse. The sweat on his palm spread the dust into a near black stain that was steadily growing larger.

  Charles took of his jacket in a fury and threw it down at his feet. He stomped on it and swore and cursed until his mouth went dry. Dust billowed out around him in his fury and Charles couldn't help himself. He was just so damn mad. The dirt would not relent and Charles began to cough. His throat was so dry that it ached with thirst; his stomach rebelled against him even standing. He fell to his knees and anger filled him at the idea of the dirt all over his nice white pants. Then he saw the ground rising to meet him with no clue as to why.

  His face began to burn from the heat of the dirt but there was nothing Charles could do even if he had the strength to. Charles had passed out.

  The floor was wooden and as close to falling apart as it could get before the city workers would begin to call it condemned. The heat of the summer made the place a sweat box, but in the winter it took blanket upon blanket to stay warm in the least. But it was home. In the spring it smelled of the flowers his sisters would pick and put all over the house. In the summer lemonade was to be had from the bright yellow fruit growing in the back. There was always the smell of bread baking or meat cooking and even in lean times they had plenty to eat. Always. Nine of them there were in that little house down the way; three brothers, two sisters, mama, daddy, Auntie Jackie and Nana. Two bedrooms was all they had, one for mama and daddy, the other for Auntie Jackie and Nana. The little ones shared the family room, or the “couches turned beds” as daddy called it.

  None of the kids knew they had nothing. They were too busy running about in the woods out back, playing in the yard, or fighting amongst themselves to notice that their clothes were shabby and their house dirty. Daddy worked, mama cooked and Auntie Jackie read her books. It was Auntie Jackie who taught the kids because daddy didn't trust the schools. Mama didn't care as long as the kids learned to read and do their math, and that they did when they weren't running wild. Auntie Jackie taught them everything they would need to know from the schools.

  It was Nana that taught them the book.

  Almost every night she sat with them, reading them tales of Jesus and his Disciples, tales of the kings and judges. Tales of the Bible. She taught them right from wrong, taught them love and more. She sang them the old hymns and never ceased the praising god. She was their lifeblood, the whole family's. When she went, still praising God even as the fever held her for days in pain and delirium, it was hard on them all. Too hard. Though Nana told them not to worry, that she was in God's hands and was going to a better place they still worried. Nana went to heaven and everyone cried.

  Then daddy went, though whether he died or just up and left the kids never knew.

  Auntie Jackie left them for a white man, a teacher who promised her college and a better life. She never looked back.

  So it was mama who took the kids to the city, all five of them young and impressionable without any experience in a place as wild as the one that lay new before them. Big Brother was the oldest and he took to the streets with ease. Now they knew they were poor, all six of them in a one bedroom apartment, and Big Brother wouldn't let that sit. So he ran with people that knew how to use him. He got his family money; if it came from places he couldn't quite tell them about, so what? They ate well enough. The kids got shoes and clothes and mama, well mama was never home. She had to work more than her fair share just to make enough for the rent. Big Brother took care of them though. He saw to their needs. Sometimes people got hurt in order to feed the family. Sometimes things got broken, people had to be told to shut up, and sometimes the police came for the people Big Brother called his friends.

  Sometimes it was an ambulance that came for his friends.

  It was the shoes that did it. The two little ones were to start at the public school and their shoes were too small. So Big Brother went to get them shoes. Only he didn't see the blue and white parked on the corner as he went in with the rag on his face. He didn't see the guy come from behind. He didn't know where he shot as the gun went off in his hand. He never even saw the girl that got hit. Or the clerk.

  He ran, afraid of it all, until the blue and white opened up and the cops came running. He saw them lift their guns, but he never understood a word they shouted. They lifted their guns and

  “Blessed are those who wash their robes, that they may have the right to the tree of life and may go through the gates into the city.” Charles opened his eyes, feeling his heart thumping in his chest a mile a minute. He looked around, unsure who had spoken, until he realized it had been he. He knew that verse, though he couldn't place from where. John? Revelation? It could have been Genesis for all he knew, he just knew it was from the Bible. It was one of Nana's favorites, always had been she had told him.

  But he had never known what it meant.

  Until now. Somehow all that did was irritate him more than he already was.

  “I never did anything wrong,” he said aloud, startled at the grating quality of his voice. “Never. The kids always got what they needed. Always. It wasn't their fault we were poor.” He sat up and tried to wipe the dirt off, though what good it did would be debatable. “Wasn’t my damn fault we were poor neither.” He picked up his jacket from the floor and put it back on, doing up the buttons enough to hide the red-blotched and dirt covered shirt underneath. “Should have never gone to the city. Never. Kids couldn’t take care of themselves so I had to. What was I supposed to do?” He adjusted his coat and tried to make himself look fancy. He would have to look presentable for the next person that came along. He just wished he had some shoes.

  When he was little having no shoes never bothered him, but now, as a man, it seemed more important. Damned important. “Can't go nowhere without shoes,” he muttered, looking down at the dirt that covered his dark skin. He crossed his legs and looked at the soles of his feet. They were dry and cracked and covered in dirt. A thorn stuck in one and Charles wondered how he hadn't felt it before. He pulled the thorn out and watched as a drop of blood came from the puncture it had made. The blood ran down in a thin line across his foot. Everywhere it fell it picked up the dirt leaving a clear streak on his sole. Charles gingerly put his foot back down and winced as more dirt ground into his fresh wound. Already the pain had helped to remove his former irritation, replacing it with a more current, more easily faced affliction. “What was I thinking about?” he asked himself aloud. No one answered.

  The sun beat down with more intensity than Charles thought was proper. Even the corn, which crackled and fell in the field behind him, looked parched to the point of death. “What I wouldn't do for some water,” he said aloud as he laid back in the dirt. He hummed an old tune, one he had long forgotten the words to, the best he could. His suit was near blinding, even dirty, in the high sun. He loved how white it was. How nice it was. If only he could keep the dirt off of it. He closed his eyes and thought of sleep. Perhaps when
he awoke the sun will have gone. Perhaps.

  Almost instantly the sound came to him; the rumble of an engine. Charles jumped to his feet, a slight twinge reminded him of the thorn, and did his best to wipe as much of dirt as he could from his white suit. Then he snapped up his hat and placed it on his head. He wanted to look his best, otherwise the car might just pass him by. In moments the owner of the engine had rumbled to a stop before him. It was an old Ford pickup the color of rust and primer. An old man sat behind the wheel. He leaned over and opened the door. Charles was hit with the smell of peppermint, cigars and sweat. His hungry stomach turned over and he had to fight to keep his feet. “You look like you need a ride, son,” the old man called.

  “I do,” said Charles cautiously.

  “Yup,” the old man said, “you do. But you're a bit dirty. Not what I was expectin' at all.”

  “How could you have been expecting me?” asked Charles. “I've been out here roasting in the sun all day and I've never seen you before in my life.”

  The old man shook his head and closed his eyes. “Sorry son,” he said finally, “nothing I can do for you. Maybe a good walk will set your head straight.” He went to shut the door but Charles grabbed at it, holding it open. “But I have no shoes,” Charles said, his voice cracking with despair.

  “Don't I know it son. I'll be seeing you around then. Maybe next time you can even ride.” The old man pulled the door shut, gave a nod and drove off leaving Charles choking in a cloud of dirt. After catching his breath Charles cursed his luck. He pulled his hat down lower, hoping to hold off the sun's killer heat even a bit, and dusted himself off. Then, trying to ignore the dirt that bit into his feet without remorse, Charles turned north and began to walk.

  Just Before Dawn

  He wished the handcuffs weren't so tight, but he figured that's what happened when you hit a cop. If he had known, he probably wouldn't have hit the guy. Then again, he might have anyway. Who knows? Now he sat in a barred facility, stinky with the smell of drunks and drug addicts, wondering what was next. Anxiety was building up; he often felt it quite profoundly before a “jump”; it made him want talk and talk and talk. The guy across from him was one of those biker types, cut off jean jacket and a Harley shirt that said “If you can read this...” on the front. Mike knew how it would end on the back. His pants were ripped and cut off, kind of like if he had done an Incredible Hulk style transformation just recently. Only this guy was nowhere near Hulk-status. His face was cut in several places and one eye was swollen shut. This guy looked like he had come off on the losing end of a bar-fight even though Mike had seen cars smaller than that guy's biceps. Mike knew he wasn't someone to mess with. But, dammit, he felt like talking. “When it first happened,” he said towards Biker-Hulk, “I had no idea what was going on. One second I was eating a hot dog about to take a short-cut back to my apartment, the next I was about a half step from walking into traffic in a place I had never been before.” Biker-Hulk grunted and shifted so that he was less likely to appear interested in what Mike was saying. Mike didn't much care.

  “That's how I know I won't be here tomorrow. Hell,” Mike laughed, a little too manic sounding to his own ears, “Come sunrise I'll probably be in L.A or even Honolulu.” Except for the buzz of the air conditioning nothing remarked to this odd claim. Mike didn't care. More often than not he didn't believe it either. There was a window outside the bars, a small one that was maybe six inches high, a foot wide. It was frosted, so seeing outside was not an option, but it was dark. There was no clock in the jail, but the dark was clock enough. It was the only clock Mike even noticed anymore.

  “I haven't seen the sun in seven years,” he said with a stark finality. It was like pronouncing someone dead; it was an absolute. Biker-Hulk grunted, laid down on the bench and turned away from this crazy guy that he was locked up with. Mike didn't mind. “You know, just a while ago I was in London and it was almost sunup. There was the slight tinge of pink-gray that is just so much of a tease...” Mike drifted off, his mind trying to call up memories that now seemed to be another life. He snapped too when a loud, very dramatic (and obviously fake) snore sounded from Biker-Hulk.

  “I don't blame you guy,” Mike said with another of his sardonic laughs. “I'm cursed. Talking to me will probably get you killed. You know I've been present for 2582 deaths? That's one for every night, if you want to call them nights, in over seven years. I've counted. The first one was right here in Chicago. I think it's the reason I'm here now.” Nothing. Mike didn't really expect anything from the guy. When he was nervous he talked. It had been a failing in college, and now it was the only release he had. His wrists hurt and itched; he shouldn't have hit that cop.

  “My apartment is, was, in New York. I had just picked up a dog, a good one too. It was near morning, about 4:45 or so. Just close enough for the sky to still be blacker than the inside of a coffin. But dawn was coming. The lights of the city overshadow anything up in the sky other than the direct gaze of the sun, but anyone who lives there will tell you the same thing: You just don't notice.” He laughed. It was bitter and bad tasting in his mouth. “I was a bit of a night owl. Always was, even when I was a kid. Liked being out at night, hell, usually slept through the day so I could do all my painting and writing at night. That's why I was out so close to sunup. Only it never came. Not then, and not since.”

  Mike looked at his hands and for a second got lost in the lines of his palms. It wasn't the first time. He felt a bit of the despair coming back. He likened it to drowning, only mentally. It was as if he had fallen into a well that was full of water just over his nostrils if he stood straight up. Sometimes his toes got tired of holding him up. Sometimes his arms got tired of wading in the frigid water. And sometimes he just let himself sink under. “I took one step, just one step, around the corner and poof, there I was in Chicago. I was just there. No special sounds, no disorientation as if I had been picked up and dropped. It was as if I had already been walking there. I caught myself in a stumble of surprise; I nearly walked out in front of a cab!” Mike thought back. He hadn't known he was in Chicago when he got there, he had found out a little bit later. When the ambulances and the cops came. Of all the “jumps” that one still stuck out the most.

  “My damn hotdog was gone too,” Mike laughed. Biker-Hulk let out a little laugh too. It was a complete accident, both men knew it, but it made Mike feel a little better. At least the guy hadn't told him to shut up yet.

  “I spent just over two hours in that city. I was hungry, of course, and had no money. I had no wallet. Nothing but what was on my back. And I was scared. I mean, how often in life do you just appear at another place on the globe? Just appear, like you stepped through a door or something.” He looked at the window again out of curiosity. Still dark. Like he really expected anything else.

  “So I wander about town for a couple of hours, scared, hungry and trying to figure out what was going on. This guy walks up to me, nice suit and hat, carrying a briefcase. He had green eyes. Out of everything else I remember that most. Guy walks up to me and says, 'You look hungry kid.' He hands me his wallet and briefcase, smiles at me, and then, Wham! He steps out in front of one of those big tractor trailers.” His voice dips as he talks about it. Mike isn't sure how he feels about this part. It wasn't his fault, but somewhere deep inside he knows it is. “So there I am, holding this guy's wallet and briefcase. Someone screams and a second later I see this cop running towards us. I panic. I grab the money out of the wallet and drop it and the case there on the walk. And then I ran.”

  Mike looked up from his hands, realizing he had been lost in thought, and sees Biker-Hulk looking at him with something less than belief on his face. “Yeah, I know. Wasn't my fault. But I was scared, remember? So I ran. All the way into this deli that was still open. I run through the door, turn to look out to see if I am being chased and bam, I'm not in Chicago anymore. Now I see a big theater across from me. One I've seen on T.V. I walk out and cross the street, looking down at the side
walk just to be sure. Big stars are in each slab of concrete and I know right away where I am; Hollywood.” Mike laughed again. It was odd, telling it like this. But he keeps talking anyway. Anything to make the time go by. He looks at the window and shakes his head. Still dark.

  “...I almost was able to find a pattern that time,” he laughed. Mike had been talking for over an hour. A third inmate had been brought it. A skinny white man who was probably strung out was now laying over his bench, drool pooling by his mouth. He stank even more than the jail itself. When the cops brought in the druggie they took off Mike's cuffs, much to his relief. Biker-Hulk was now listening to Mike attentively, asking questions every now and then. Mike still didn't think he saw belief in the man's eyes, but the questions helped.

  “Why'd you try to find a pattern?” Biker-Hulk rumbled. Mike laughed. “I met a girl in London. I always showed up on the same corner in that place and I guess because of the ocean I was usually there longer than any place else. It took me about three times being there, two months or so of the jumps, to build up the courage to talk to her. By then I was kind of used to going from place to place. I almost had it down timing wise. I asked her if she was hungry.” Mike smiled, his eyes almost watering up. “She said yeah.” Mike got quiet for a while. He looked back at Biker-Hulk and smiled in a way that made Biker-Hulk nod. It was one of those nods that spoke volumes, a bit of understanding in the dark, cold places of forgotten people. “Her name was Liz.”

  It was a long time before he spoke again. “I'm cursed, you know,” Mike said at Biker-Hulk. “Everywhere I go, at the very least once cycle of twenty-four hours, someone helps me out with money, food, clothes and what not.” He looked at Biker-Hulk hard, unsure how this beast of a man would react to his next statement. “I've watched every single one of them die.” Biker-Hulk nodded as if this was the most natural thing in the world to hear. “This one guy jumped off a bridge after giving me food. This woman in Juno walked outside and jumped in her pool after offering me a place to stay during a blizzard. She never came back up. One guy gave me twenty dollars in Flagstaff. He got back in his car and drove it into oncoming traffic. A cop bought me food at a diner. He blew his brains out just after.” Mike shook his head. “I can still see every single one of their faces. I can still hear them.” He felt guilty but at the same time a bit of his stubborn pride held on strong. “How is it my fault?” He asked himself as much as Biker-Hulk. “I didn't ask for this, didn't ask their help. I didn't kill them!” Mike jumped up and grabbed at the bars of the cell. He began to pull on them, shouting as loud as he could. “IT'S NOT MY FAULT!” he screamed.