Solitary: A Novel

by Travis Thrasher

There's side one, since this obviously must be a record I found in my uncle's cabin:

  1. "SNIP OF FOOLS" BY DOVES FOR THE BUS RIDE)

  2. "LOSING TOUCH" BY THE KILLERS FOR EVERYTHING BEFORE SECOND 'PERIOD)

  3. `SOMETNING" BY THE PEATLES FOR ENGLISH CLASS

  4: "DID You EVER & Do You STILL" BY SEAN TORRENT FOR AFTER ENGLISH)

  5. "SHUT YOUR EYES" BY SNOW PATROL THE NEXT COUPLE OF HOURS

  6. "SHOT IN THE BACK OF THE HEAD" BY MOBY FOR LUNCH WITH NEWTBECAUSE HE SORTA REMINDS ME OF MOBY)

  Then side two:

  7 "INVISIBLE SUN" BY THE POLICE AFTER LUNCH

  6. `PEARTLESS" BY KANYE WEST AMERICAN HISTORY)

  q. "LAST GOODBYE" (JEFF PUCKLEY) TRYING TO TALK AFTER HISTORY

  10. " DRIVEAWAY" BY GREAT NORTHERN FOR THE BUS RIDE AFTER SCHOOL

  11. "GO [T ALONE" BY BECK GETTING NOME)

  12. "UNTIL THE NIGHT IS OVER" BY M63 FOR EVERYTHING AFTER SUNSET

  She's built a wall, and there's no ladder around to climb up over it.

  I had one chance, and I blew it.

  The week is a blur.

  A nightmarish blur.

  The worst thing in the world is the silence. The stares, the secrets, the solitude.

  I'd rather be chased by a rabid dog in the middle of the night than ignored and left alone.

  At least Mom gets a job as a hostess at the local family restaurant in town.

  At least I have Newt to eat my food at lunch and swap witty comments with at the locker.

  I'm stranded and marooned like Robinson Crusoe. The rest of the school is made of savages. Newt is my Friday.

  The guys back at the old school would laugh if they could hear me. But then again, so would anybody else. That's okay. My thoughts are sealed up. There's nobody to listen to them anyway.

  As Friday begins to fade away, I am approached by Ray the Politician. That's what I'm starting to call him, at least to myself. My friends and I used to always have names for other kids. Perhaps this is payback.

  My name is Loser, and I'm wearing it proudly.

  "Hey, Chris, here's that program I told you about," he says, handing me a colored flyer from his church.

  "Thanks."

  What else can I say?

  "There are two services on Sunday. You guys should check it out."

  "Sure."

  At this point I'm willing to try anything.

  "Just stop, please, for a sec."

  I'm blocking her way and making a fool of myself. If she goes around me, that's fine. I'm not going to tackle her.

  "I just want to talk."

  It's Friday, and she's headed out toward the parking lot. I know I'm dangerously close to missing my bus, but there are worse things that can happen.

  Like having her leave me in complete confusion all weekend long.

  "What do you want?"

  "What'd I do?"

  The porcelain doll face looks down.

  "Jocelyn, please, look at me."

  "What?"

  "I'm sorry."

  "What are you sorry for?"

  "For-for everything."

  She rolls her eyes.

  Again, I'm not getting it. I'm not getting this.

  "Please, just-just hear me out, okay?"

  She remains there as students pass by, every one of them looking at us like we're a car wreck in the middle of the interstate.

  "Look-this is my third week here, okay. And I don't know all the rules and the ins and outs and all that. I just know that I think you're really amazing. And really special. And I just-I'd like to show you that not all guys are complete morons, and I thought-I thought I was doing the right thing, but I didn't mean to hurt you or do anything that you didn't want-"

  "Just shut up."

  "What?"

  "Just stop. Stop talking. Okay? Just stop."

  "Then what-I just wanted you to know."

  "I know, I get it, okay? I get it. I got it last weekend and I still get it, okay?"

  My mind tries to put the puzzle pieces in order. I'm not connecting, not computing.

  And then, for a brief second, just a tiny sliver of a moment ...

  There it is, once again.

  I see it.

  Its there, and I know its there.

  "Jocelyn," I start to say.

  But her eyes start to give her away and she shakes her head, says no, then rushes away.

  I sigh.

  I stand in the hallway that's now empty.

  The bell rings, signaling that the buses have left.

  I'm on my own.

  I stand there for a long time, wondering what I did wrong, wondering what I should and shouldn't have said.

  I have all weekend to think about it.

  I hold the church flyer in my hand, wondering if this is a good time to bring it up.

  Ever since the incident the other night when I found my mother in the laundry room passed out in her evening dress-there's an Oprah show for you right there-Mom's been acting different. She's been trying harder, acting sweeter, acting more like a mother should act. That and the job she's gotten have made things temporarily better. Even having to call her to pick me up from school yesterday after I missed the bus turned out to be no big deal. We ended up driving outside of Solitary (driving for what seemed to be half an hour) to grab a bite at McDonald's.

  I've been waiting today to ask her.

  I know she's going to be leaving soon to go to her new job. It's close to eleven in the morning.

  The brochure seems to burn in my hand.

  Maybe that's because the whole church issue is ultimately what did it for Mom and Dad.

  Some relationships go south because of an affair or because the love is not there or because of some other big issue. But the thing that did it for my mom and dad ultimately was this.

  The church-faith-God thing.

  I chose to side with my mother.

  But now I'm beginning to think again.

  I don't know what to think. All I know is that Mom's not doing great and I could use a friend or two.

  So what if I have to hear some preaching about God and heaven and all that?

  It won't bother me.

  I certainly heard enough of it living with Dad.

  You say God is love and God loves us, but what about you, Pop? What about you?

  I shove the thought away and go downstairs.

  I smell something that's unfamiliar in this house.

  Perfume.

  Mom is in the bedroom getting ready.

  "Can I come in?"

  "Yeah, sure. Just finishing up."

  I go inside the small room that certainly doesn't resemble the "master bedroom" it's supposed to be. I sit on a stiff bed that buckles in the middle. It lets out a groan when I relax on it.

  "You look pretty," I tell her.

  She does. She's wearing some casual pants and a light white sweater. I'm sure she'll be the most glamorous hostess that restaurant's ever had greeting customers.

  "Thanks."

  "I got a question about tomorrow."

  "Yeah?"

  She's putting on an earring, so she's not looking at me.

  Get it out. Justget it out, Chris.

  "Well, a guy came up to me at school-a guy named Ray Spencer. Really cool guy. A senior. He was the one who had the party."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Anyway, he was asking me about going to his church tomorrow."

  Mom stares at me as if the bed swallowed me up inside it.

  "And?"

  I can already hear her tone. It's defensive, the kind that can't help coming out.

  "Well, it's just-I don't know. I thought it might be good to go."

  "And why is that?"

  "Mom, relax."

  "No, Chris, you relax."

  "I'm relaxed."

  But not really and you probably know it, don't you?

  "Why do you want to go to church?"

  "Mom-this has nothing to do with Dad."

  "Ok
ay."

  "It's just a guy-look-he just seems really cool, and he seems like he's being nice."

  "What's he trying to do? `Witness' or something? Save your soul?"

  "Easy."

  "Chris, please."

  "I just thought we might-"

  "No, no," Mom says. "We're not going to do anything. I'm not stepping foot in a church."

  "I'm just thinking it might be good to meet some other guys."

  "You're free to go if you want."

  "What do you want me to do? Walk there?"

  I can see it on her face. She's not going to go, and she's probably not going to even take me.

  "It's fine," I say.

  Mom looks at me. "Chris, come on."

  "No, it's cool."

  "Don't do this to me, not now."

  "Okay."

  "Look, if you really want to go, I'll drive you there. Deal?"

  "Yeah, that's fine."

  "Chris."

  "It's fine. It's cool."

  "Where's this coming from?"

  Its coming from the fact that I had to choose between the second coming of Moses or you, and I chose you. But that meant I suddenly have no friends and no life. So this is coming from me wanting to actually have a life.

  "Nowhere," I say.

  "I gotta go."

  "Okay, sure."

  "We'll talk later."

  "Yeah, that's fine."

  There's always later.

  New Beginnings Church is difficult to find, even with the small map on the brochure. The tiny drawing doesn't include the miles of dense woods surrounding this area. Twice Mom and I drive by the road we're supposed to turn down. We eventually find Heartland Trail and head down the dirt road through hilly terrain until we reach a cleared area at the top of a flat hill that reveals a large white building with a dagger of a steeple.

  It's a lot bigger than I thought it would be. Mom drives to the front of the building where there is a sidewalk circling the entrance. We see a family of four walking through the glass doors.

  I feel the urge to ask Mom again, but I won't. It's enough that she drove me here.

  "Want me to be here a little after noon?"

  "Maybe I can find a ride home," I say, feeling guilty for asking her to make two trips out here for me.

  "Well-if you can't, just call me. I don't mind picking you back up

  "A cell phone would be nice. Or you could just stay."

  She lets out a yeah, right kind of laugh. I glance at her. She's strong and she's stubborn, and there's no way anybody is getting her through those doors.

  "Okay, I'll touch base later."

  I walk through the doors and see a welcome booth in front of me. A sign says in bold type COME AS YOU ARE. I wonder if that's supposed to be a quote from the Bible or from Kurt Cobain. Music shakes from inside the sanctuary. I look and see what appears to be more of a gymnasium than the inside of a church. On the stage are a group of singers along with some guys jamming out with guitars and a drum set.

  I scan the foyer, but Ray is nowhere to be found. I see a small area with sofas, windows peering into a nursery, and a coffee and lounge area.

  The place doesn't look too bad.

  A firm handshake greets me at the door to the auditorium. I'm handed a bulletin that has New Beginnings plastered all over it, similar to the one Ray gave me.

  There is a picture of a family on the cover. A father and mother holding hands with their son.

  Nice image. Maybe there are families here that actually have all their units still intact.

  I shuffle into the darkness of the crowd and find a seat near the back. This not only looks like a gymnasium, it is. I can see the basketball hoops propped up and the wood floor beneath my feet.

  I'm thinking there might be five hundred people here, if not more.

  I was expecting something smaller, something more old-fashioned.

  Then I see Ray.

  He's playing bass up on the stage. He's jamming away, singing the lyrics to the song, having a good old time.

  I envy the guy, the look on his face.

  It's so peaceful.

  I wonder if I can get a little of that.

  Just a few minutes after the guy who appears to be the main pastor walks up on the stage and starts talking, I begin to feel it.

  Dizzy and dangling and out of breath.

  I feel like I'm hanging onto a rope-not the kind you're strapped and locked into, but a thick strand of rope dangling out high above a gorge. I feel like the ground beneath me is moving, falling away. Yet even as I sense it I can see everybody else around me, the same dark bodies and faces, staring up at the light of the stage.

  The pastor wears jeans and a dress shirt that's not tucked in. He's got spiky hair that looks highlighted and thin black glasses. He certainly looks like he's trying to be cool. Not sure if he does indeed look cool, and no idea whether he really is.

  "Good morning, everybody. My name is Jeremiah Marsh. Thanks for coming out on this beautiful November morning. Welcome to New Beginnings Church."

  He recounts a story about his young daughter getting up this morning that gets everybody to laugh. He talks in a manner that's like conversation around a dinner table with your family. Nothing about what he says seems anything less than sincere.

  Yet I'm sitting here listening (or trying to listen), feeling like I've been drugged.

  No, not drugged. Poisoned.

  I can feel the sweat beads on my forehead and my cheeks. My neck, too. I have a dry taste in my mouth. The sickly dry taste that comes right before you throw up. I need air. I need water. I need something.

  There's a lady sitting next to me, probably in her fifties, laughing away and acting like she's listening to the president. I glance at her, and she gives me a delirious smile that makes me a bit nervous. More nervous than I already am.

  "So today let's talk about something that we hear over and over and over again. Your neighbor."

  Pastor Jeremiah Marsh keeps talking. I notice he's wearing a headphone mic. There is a small podium near him, but he never uses it. He doesn't carry a Bible or notes or anything else. He waves his hands like a conductor as he speaks.

  I can hear something else. Something that's faint, low, almost humming.

  It sounds like a rumbling drone.

  As if the church is sitting on some kind of ticking bomb, or a reactor of some kind, trembling at its force.

  I wipe the sweat away. I don't want to get up and leave-that would be too obvious. But I'm fighting passing out.

  Every now and then I focus on what the pastor is saying.

  "And sometimes you don't even want to simply go outside and greet him."

  This sounds like the "treat your neighbors as you would yourself" talk. I've heard that one before.

  I shift in my seat and glance up a few rows at a pretty blonde. It's almost as if she knows I'm glancing at her, because she looks back at me.

  "-and then sometimes you decide that the best thing to do is puncture the wound as quickly as you can."

  I glance at the stage. I see the moving hands and the moving lips, but suddenly don't seem to quite hear what the pastor is saying.

  He didn't just say that. He didn't just say puncture, did he?

  "And the thing to ask yourself is this: Who watches over you? Who watches what's in your heart? You know, when I was fourteen years old living in Greer-"

  I was hearing things. He's just talking like any pastor. The people around me are listening. I'm almost hyperventilating for some reason. I feel like a bad flu and cold and virus are all coming over me. I'm not sure what to do.

  "So sometimes you take everything you think is yours because in the end, we leave with all we can get. So you need to take and ignore the rest."

  Again, I focus on the stage and try to figure out if what I'm listening to is real.

  The pastor keeps talking.

  "We all come from different backgrounds. Different races. But we're all one. Like the U2 s
ong says, we're all one."

  Now he's quoting a U2 song? This guy is seriously trying hard.

  I must be making things up in my head.

  Someone behind me clears his throat. I want to turn-the urge to turn is incredible-but I force myself not to.

  "It's okay to let down your guard if you need to. Because sometimes, sometimes my dear friends, death is the only option we have in this life of ours."

  What?

  I look around to see if anybody else is wondering what this guy is talking about.

  "We near a time of thanksgiving, but shouldn't we always carry a heart that's thankful? That's giving? That's loving? That is the right way, my friends."

  I clear my throat, and it sounds like I'm wheezing.

  I need water.

  The pastor keeps talking about being nice to neighbors and family and being real. It all sounds nice and fine and real.

  I'm beginning to see double.

  I finally stand up and start to walk out.

  The voice behind me continues.

  "But it's best that when we're faced with uncertainty, we act swiftly. We act promptly. And don't let yourself down. Don't act like you can't or won't. Because in the end, it's our job to give up a life in order to keep it."

  You're losing your mind, Chris. You're making up these words.

  "Don't fear darkness, friends," Pastor Marsh says. "Fear the light that tries to burn it out. The deeds inside can be covered and hidden, and that's what we all need. Because night is coming. Night is coming for us all."

  As I leave the sanctuary, I hear applause.

  I make it to the doors and stumble outside into the brilliance of midday, feeling like a prisoner gasping his few last breaths of life.

  I manage to mingle with the churchgoers when the music begins playing and they start filing out. I feel better after getting some air and sun and then having some coffee to try to revive my senses. I don't even like coffee, but I need something to jolt me back to sanity. I don't know where all that craziness came from, but don't have time to figure it out.

  Soon, as I'm biding my time looking around in the crowd, I hear a voice call out my name.

  "Hey, you made it," Ray says.

  "Yeah."

  "Wasn't that awesome. He's a great speaker, huh?"

  "Yeah, he was good."

  "See me up there? I've been playing with them for a while. It's fun. Sometimes we even do concerts. Nothing that big, but still something, you know?"