The Colonial Imagination

An imposing and unmarked white van crept through the residential neighborhood, following Jericho as she took her customary post-third shift stroll home from Cristy’s, a new but rapidly aging burger joint west of town. It was a three-mile walk that she usually biked. Had someone not cut the lock the night before and stolen the Specialized S-Works her mother had used as a young woman and gifted to Jericho when she first moved away for college, she would have been home already.

Unaware of the van’s presence, Jericho had lost herself in her perseveration about her impending eviction. She had struggled to maintain solvency since the Pontiac Grand Prix, which she picked up for a grand off Craigslist the year prior, had broken down. She needed the added income of driving for rideshares throughout the day and on weekends. But now, without her bike, she thought, she wouldn’t get to shifts at the diner on time. She might have to ride public transportation again… where it happened, and she couldn’t bring herself to do that.

The vehicle stopped beside her while the side door silently opened. A small white man in a sharp vicuña suit stepped out and walked alongside Jericho. The way he carried himself seemed to suggest that his diminutive stature and petite frame played little into his opinion of his physical prowess. He had dark hair and light blue eyes that, depending on the light and the look, gave the appearance of innocence and callousness. He extended his arm to touch her. She gasped and jumped away as she saw his hand in her peripheral and yanked the cord attached to her headphones, dislodging the buds and silencing the soundtrack to her anxieties.

“Hello, Jericho. Come with me. I have an opportunity for you.” He gestured toward the open car door, and she looked inside. It was dark, but she could make out a car full of sleeping people. Perhaps they were unconscious. Or dead. This was not a distinction she could make before he snapped her attention back toward him.

“I can only tell you that this offer will change and improve your current conditions. You have three seconds to decide.” Three seconds? It was hardly time enough to weigh this decision's potential benefit or consequence. Her gut told her this was dangerously too good to be true, but the memory of her “current conditions” quickly replaced that feeling. The sleepless days and endless nights spent at that grease bucket, the compounding bills and comorbid debts, the interminable barrage of emergencies, medical expenses, and increasing prices that made even buying groceries a strain made the risk feel a little more worth it.

“Times up. Have a good night, Jericho. Good luck.” He turned to leave.

“Wait. I’ll go.” Jericho started toward the van. A smile crept on his face slower than the van had stalked her.

“Get in,” he finally replied. She climbed into the van and sat directly in the middle in the only available seat. She could hear the people breathing, and some of her fears eased. However, she couldn’t help but notice the increasingly apparent similarity between the people surrounding her—they all starkly contrasted the suited man who had recruited them.

“Where are we going?” She mused, knowing nobody would answer her.