Chapter 18 - Honest Work
Jon walked a long, long distance before he came to anything resembling a populated area. It was only by luck that he found a bus stop around the time the sun was coming up.
He hadn't heard sirens or anything. He could only assume he was safe.
He stared out of the window watching the passing cars on the long ride to Metropolis. He was starting to get hungry, and the bus ticket had cost more than he had expected. A lot more, actually. He should have thought to pocket a few cereal bars and a change of underwear, but it wasn't the end of the world. He would just have to find work as soon as he got to the city.
Jon stepped off the bus along with all the other passengers, and he immediately felt swallowed up. He'd never felt this way in the city before—when he had powers, it was like he'd owned the place. Now, he was suddenly aware of what he looked like, what he smelled like. He had maybe enough money for one night at a motel, but he had run for several minutes and walked for several hours during the night, and he didn't have a change of clothes. Meanwhile, he hadn't actually ever ordered new clothes like General Lane had told him to—said he wanted more time to think about it—so the clothes he had were worn down. His pants were baggy, since they'd had to fit over the monitor when he'd been wearing it.
He was going to be flat broke in a day, and he didn't look dressed for a job interview. He looked like he was going to the gym.
Maybe . . .
Jon set his jaw, determined to look like he belonged here, and he walked along with the crowds of people in the streets, scanning the names of the shops and businesses, until he came to a large fitness center. The trial membership lasted a week, and it would cost the cash he had. He hoped this worked . . .
Taking a deep breath, Jon stepped inside, nodded at the wiry man behind the counter, and said, "Looking for a trial membership."
The man collected his name an information—a fake name, obviously—and Jon handed over most of the cash he had. The gym was just busy enough that he figured he could get away with ignoring the fitness equipment in favor of the locker room—no one was keeping an eye on him specifically.
The locker room was pretty full, so Jon locked himself into a stall and waited for it to quiet. He figured at some point, people would have to go to work, or maybe a fitness class would start.
When the room was quiet, he stepped out of the stall.
Most of the members had brought locks, but not all of them. He'd chosen an upscale gym on purpose—the people there tended to be more trusting, because people who could afford to get in weren't desperate enough to steal from other members. Jon went through all of the wallets he could find for cash. He worked quickly, keeping his shoulders relaxed in case anyone came in and questioned him—he could just claim it was his own wallet.
Jon changed into someone else's dress pants and shirt that they were apparently planning to wear to work after the gym, and he left his own dirty clothes behind. He'd have to figure out the underwear later, but the cash he picked up was a little more than he'd come in with. He grabbed the most generic gym bag he could find, relieved a few members of their after-workout snacks and water bottles, which he shoved into the bag.
He almost made it.
"Hey!" A huge man in a muscle shirt came into the locker room just as Jon was grabbing the last water bottle. "That's my buddy's!"
"Oh!" Jon set it down. "My mistake . . ."
The man shook his head and lumbered toward him.
Jon gasped and ran, bolting out of the locker room and speed walking out of the gym before anyone could question him.
Once he was a good distance away and confident he wasn't being followed, Jon let his breath out. In the crowds on the streets, no one was even looking at him. He couldn't really risk going back to that gym, though . . .
Jon wanted to start filling out job applications right away, but he hadn't taken the opportunity to shower at the gym, and now he couldn't. Instead, he made his next stop a shop where he bought a pack of clean underwear, then he found cheap motel that wouldn't ask for his ID.
He settled in the dirty room, first downing the snacks he'd stolen, then cleaning himself up. After a half an hour, he looked and smelled a lot better, but his muscles shook and ached. He thought it was nerves, but then it occurred to him he'd pulled an all nighter. He wasn't going to do well at a job interview if he was falling asleep.
There was no rush. His stomach was full, his skin was clean, and the bed was...well, actually really lumpy and scratchy, but he was tired. It would have to do. Just for a few hours . . .
He jolted awake to nothing. If it had been a nightmare, he couldn't remember it now.
Still, Jon's heart raced. He woke up absolutely certain that General Lane was going to find him. He'd beat down the door, then he'd beat down Jon, like the guards had done. He'd drag him back to the cabin, give him back the ankle monitor, take away the basketball hoop, fill in the tunnel...
No. He wouldn't do that. He'd just send him right back to the cage.
There was no beating on the door, no sirens, no yelling. Jon was safe. Free.
Time to find a job.
He pulled himself out of bed, took his belongings, and headed out of the motel and down the street to look for "Help Wanted" or "Now Hiring" signs.
By the end of the day, he hadn't been able to actually apply for a single one.
The first two places he went to pick up an application, they didn't believe he was eighteen. When he told them he was, they asked for his ID.
At the third place, they gave him an application, and he happily filled in a fake address and phone number, then realized as he finished it up that they'd never be able to get in touch with him, so he didn't turn it in.
He asked the next few places if he could have an interview on the spot. Most looked at him funny. One took him up on it, but Jon was so flustered at that point that he tanked it, accidentally admitting that he had no experience at all. When the interview was finished, he headed back out onto the street and kept walking,
By the time he got back to the motel, he could feel himself starting to panic. His plan wasn't going to work. He only had enough money left to get him through the night at the hotel, and he was really hungry. He was pretty sure he had enough left for dinner, though.
He checked his pockets. The cash was gone. Someone had lifted it from him.
Jon swallowed against the rising tightness in his throat. He was going to have to keep stealing to live. He wondered if General Lane would take him back if he went to the cabin and groveled, but there was no way he could take that risk, and even if he could, he didn't have the money for a bus ticket all the way back to Smallville.
. . . Better homeless and free than a prisoner. He had to believe that.
But it didn't feel like it. He missed his bed, his basketball, his dog, those hot meals, his clothes, his bathroom . . . Hell, those stupid movies he'd pretended to like weren't even bad. He missed General Lane. The man had wanted Jon to be part of his family. He'd taken off the ankle monitor, let him choose his clothes, turned off the electric fence.
It hit Jon all at once.
He hadn't been a prisoner. He hadn't escaped.
He'd just run away from home, and now he couldn't go back.
The streets were cold at night. Really cold. He passed other homeless people a few times, but he was the only teen, as far as he could tell.
He'd been out here for four nights. Not a sign of General Lane. Nothing.
He cursed the day he'd ever thought running away was a good idea. What had he wanted, anyway? Freedom? Was this what he thought freedom was? He was sixteen. He hadn't even finished high school. Prisoner or not, he wasn't supposed to be out on his own.
Jon didn't dare beg strangers for money or food. He was too obviously a kid. Someone would call the police. Instead, he kept moving, stealing wallets that hung out of pockets when he could, but mostly shoplifting from grocery stores. He was never caught.
Almost never.
It was the fifth day. He was stealing breakfast foods from a general store, but this time he got ambitious. His clothes were too thin, and so he put on a sweatshirt, too.
How was he supposed to know the sweatshirt would be tagged for theft?
"Hey!" a voice called as Jon set off the alarms at the exit, and the voice sounded almost familiar.
Jon made the mistake of turning to look, expecting to talk his way out of this, instead of running right away. He almost laughed at his bad luck.
The security guard was the guy who'd seen him stealing in the gym locker room.
Jon turned to run, but he was clobbered to the ground a half second later.
Jon held an ice pack to the scrape on his head. A nicer cop had given him the ice pack, but Jon had to use both hands, since they were handcuffed together. His leg was handcuffed to the chair.
He'd been at the police station all day. They wouldn't believe he'd just made a mistake with the sweatshirt. They insisted on calling his parents, only Jon wouldn't give them a phone number.
People were starting to go home for the night. Jon figured they had to release him eventually. He let his breath out. He'd have to be more careful in the future, but he was going to get out of this.
Then a police officer came and sat across from him at the desk.
"Alright. Way I see it, you got two options."
Jon didn't look up at him.
"Give me your parents' phone number, and they can come pick you up. Or spend the night in the cell and we'll run your prints and find them anyway."
He wondered if his fingerprints matched Jonathan's. He tried for a bluff. "I'm not in the system. My parents don't believe in that kinda stuff."
"So that's your choice? Night in the cell?"
Jon swallowed hard. He knew the cell wouldn't be worse than the cage. Probably wouldn't even be worse than the streets.
The cop sighed. "Take it from me, son. The more you cooperate, the less trouble you're gonna be in."
Jon looked down and weighed his options. He was going to get caught one way or another. He was probably going back to the cage anyway, but if there was the slightest chance that after the yelling and screaming and terrible, horrible punishments, General Lane might actually take him back . . .
Jon didn't give himself any more time to think about it. "My name's Jonathan Kent. I live with my grandfather, General Samuel Lane, and I ran away from him because he grounded me. I don't have his phone number, but if you call the US Department of Defense, they can redirect you to him. He's the head of the DOD."
The cop's eyebrows raised. "Either you're so stupid you don't know that lie would get you into way more trouble than you're already in, or you're telling me the truth."
"Make the call. Find out."
"Oh, I will," the cop said, and he picked up the phone.