Crossroads

Disclaimer - The following story is a work of fiction. Archie Comic characters were created by John L. Goldwater and are copyright © by Archie Comic Publications, Inc. The characters' names are the exclusive trademarks of Archie Comic Publications, Inc.

Summary - How many roads must a man walk down before you can call him a man? Jughead x Betty

Chapter One

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Wednesday afternoons.

It's the same old routine, it has been for months.

Subway and back again.

Back to work.

I've come a long way since then. I suppose. How far is a thousand miles and how long is a lifetime? How many roads must a man walk down before you can call him a man?

Here I am, trying to sound philosophical and intellectual and all I can do is quote Bob Dylan.

But it's what you do around here, I guess. Pretend, imagine that you're something, someone. Sort of like high school only with less cash to blow. I know people who could only ever sound intelligent when they were quoting textbooks. And then there were the jokers who couldn't even do that.

"You missed a good tipper, Forsythe," says Anne, her face flushed red from the steaming espresso machine.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

I'm wrapping the apron round my waist again; it comes naturally now, I don't even have to think about it.

"And Harry was here too. Popped in to say hello before he got back to work."

"That's nice."

I begin polish the display and clean up all the grubby fingerprints. Customers are a grubby lot, generally. I'll have this, and this and this…

"We hardly see him anymore…now that he's got himself a girlfriend."

I can't stop a smile. "Really now?" I ask. "Who's the bird?"

Anne shrugs. "No clue, but he says he'll introduce us one day. Probably next week."

"Probably never," I correct her. Harry tends to be absentminded. Bog only knows how he managed to find a woman patient enough to tolerate him!

Anne laughs. And then she makes me take out the trash.

"So, started studying for finals yet?"

We're sitting on the steps outside the library. It's gloomy and overcast as predicted by everyone but the weather team. I sigh and shake my head. Yuki tilts her head back and exhales mist. Her bright red hair dips into little pools of rainwater collected on the tiles. She exhales again, and then laughs.

"Look! Spontaneous human combustion! My lungs are on fire!"

Her accent is husky and distinctly Japanese. Like her throat's made out of sandpaper. Made in Tokyo.

"It's because you smoke so much."

She makes a mocking face without looking at me. "Like you're one to talk, Forsythe," she says.

"Well, I'm not the one about to burst into flames am I?"

"Always with the wise-ass comments. Pass me a fag, will you?"

She lifts her head to light a cigarette. Her red hair trails through the puddle. It looks like a puddle of blood. I contemplate vocalizing this observation but then decide against it. She'd love the morbidity of it all far too much.

"So, as I was saying… started studying for finals yet? Where are you up to?"

"Nowhere so far."

She gives me an exasperated expression reserved solely for me. "Are you crazy, Forsythe? Do you know how much time we have left? Do you CARE how much time we have left?-"

"Not really, but you're obviously going to tell me anyway-"

"-Four months! That's it! Four bloody months until finals! We can't afford to slack off! We must keep working!"

"You're starting to sound like some commie chink," I say, smirking because I know it will irritate her. "'Long live the revolution!' 'Workers of the world unite!' Stuff like that."

"Shut up," she snaps.

Just my luck to wind up with an uber-competitive, hyper-sensitive, anime-watching, stamp-collecting, pseudo-gothic psychopath. But Japanese people are somewhat nutty anyway. Or so I have gathered from my few years out in the wilderness.

"Are you going to Mike's place tonight?"

"What's happening at Mike's place?"

"The usual. Sex, drugs and alcohol. Oh, and scrabble."

"Mmm…maybe."

Yuki stretches her short, pale arms and her shirt rides up enough for me to see her tattoo. It's bizarre, just like she is – it's Mickey Mouse. The original Mickey, like how it was in the 1930s, like when Walt was still alive and eating baked beans out of tins.

I never expected life to be like this.

When you're in high school you take everything for granted. You take Friday freaky movie nights for granted, you take trips to Pop's for granted, you take having a bedroom of your own for granted.

When you're in high school everyone expects to become a doctor or a lawyer or an engineer or an artist or something exotic.

Then you get out into the real world and realize that you're probably either going to end up working as an insurance salesman working the nine-to-five shift or as a waiter in a dingy café eating ramen three meals a day, seven days a week.

When I left high school, I was going to be an architect.

And now where am I? Paying my way through community college doing some retarded arts degree. Wasting time until the right time comes. Social sciences. Humanities. Call it what you will.

When you're in high school,

You take your friends for granted.

Some more than others.

Anyway, the point is that I was supposed to amount to something.

Yuki stubs out her cigarette on a wet tile, rises to her feet and zips her boots back on. She doesn't realize her hair's wet. Or maybe she does but pretends not to care?

"Let's get back," she says, "I'm working the night shift and I want to take a shower before I do."

How many roads must a man walk down before you can call him a man?

Yuki is correct, as always. It's the usual all right. Drugs, sex, alcohol and scrabble. I don't know why I even bother to come to these things; there's nothing for me to do, really. I don't have a girlfriend to shag in his guest bathroom, I'm not enough of a crack head to waste my night getting stoned, and I'm not enough of a wordsmith to beat Mike at scrabble.

"Have a beer, Jones?"

Thankfully, I am enough of an alcoholic to enjoy a pleasant evening out on the balcony with a beer.

"Thanks."

"Haven't seen you around lately, man. Where've you been?"

"Just work at the moment. And classes."

"Finals coming up, eh?"

"Yeah."

"Harry said he'd drop by today."

I roll my eyes. "As if."

"No, man, seriously. He says he's bringing his new girl too."

"Ecch," I gag. "Women!"

Herb raises his eyebrow at me quizzically. "Are you sure you aren't gay?"

"I'm QUITE sure. And let's change the topic please, this conversation got old about the fifth time we had it."

"But you must be."

"I must be what, green on the inside with purple premolars?" (Here Herb looks at me in confusion) "Don't be ridiculous."

I wag my finger at him severely - "I can assure you, sir, that I am not a queer."

"You hate women more than other women do."

"I don't hate women – I just think they're a bit of a nuisance."

"Uh huh. GAY!"

"I highly doubt you'd know more about my sexual preferences than I."

"Maybe you're in denial, man. I have this one catholic friend-"

"I can assure you that I am neither in denial, nor catholic."

"But you bake."

"So?!"

Herb shrugs. "I dunno, it's just that its not something most guys would do."

"I happen to enjoy cooking. That doesn't make me gay. And need I remind you that I enjoy eating even more than that? I don't know what's more masculine than pigging out."

"Well," says Herb, "maybe you're like the GUY, and another guy would be the…uh…girl-guy…uh.."

I feel torn between amusement, pity and irritation as Herb honestly tries his best to ease me out of the closet he suspects I suffer in. But seriously, I am not gay. When I tune back into the conversation Herb is telling me about his catholic friend. I suppress a sigh.

"A heated debate questioning the sexual preferences of an individual at such a time and place must, by rule of law, involve my dear friend Mr. Jones. May I intrude?"

I spin round and find myself within making-out distance of Harry.

"Hey, Harry," I say. I can feel my body relaxing, his breath on my face, his aftershave. This is better. Old, familiar faces. None of that three-time-national scrabble-champion bullshit.

"Forsies, heart of my heart, I know I haven't been the most attentive of friends as of recent-"

"Don't worry about it," I say, grinning, "I heard about the girl."

Harry, to my surprise, goes red.

Herb sighs. "Another one bites the dust!"

"Hey, now!" exclaims Harry, "I'm not that far gone!"

"Yeah, whateverstuff, man."

"Where is she?" I ask.

"Saying hi to Pam. Old school mates or something."

"Really?"

"Mmmn."

Harry is English. Infuriatingly so. He is my lifeline in this strange town, my emotional support, though I would never admit this. I suppose he's my best friend without realizing it. He is a chronic workaholic and rarely gets his foot out of the office. Maybe having a girlfriend means I'll be seeing more of him? I miss the luxury of trust.

So!" says Harry, clapping his hands together, "where's the booze?"

"Kitchen. Wait here, I'll grab a couple."

"Thanks, Jones."

The kitchen is full of gluttons (though I tend to use the term gourmet instead of glutton, especially where it's applicable to me. It sounds far more socially acceptable.). Makes me wonder why I'm not there myself. Then I take a look at the a la carte and understand why. I feel nauseous. A bottle of goddess salad dressing, and a couple of slices of bread. That's all. Oh God, I hope this is nothing but a terrible nightmare! PLEASE LET ME WAKE UP! LET ME WAKE UP RIGHT NOW!! MAKE THE PAIN ENNN-

"Juggie? Is that You?"

I glace towards the door, my expression still decidedly morose. Salad dressing, honestly!

…and get the shock of my life.

"Forsythe!"

Harry walks up behind her and gives her shoulders a gentle squeeze. "This is she," he says proudly, grinning from ear to ear.

She's wearing her hair down, just the way I liked it. Her lips are deep red, like an expensive French hooker. Her eyes are smoky with kohl, and her blue eyes still cut across the room like signal flares.

She's like sex on legs and I'd like to fuck her right where she's standing.

"Betty."

…