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Bo Bryant Stack – 3 May 2014714839604 [email protected] Cloister Drive (704) 575 4877UNC Chapel Hill 2014 - Anthropology and Creative WritingIntermediate Fiction Writing – Professor Randall Kenan
The Day The World Went Away
By Bo Bryant Stack
There is a very particular way to tell this story, and that way requires
you to know about how I came to have faith. This is necessary because I
want you to understand I didn’t wish to lose my faith. It was stolen from me.
I might find it again, one day. I’d like to.
I never cared much for God. When I was young, it was just a word. A
word that meant I had to get and dress up early on Sundays. I had an innate
sense of the inanity of a benevolent and omnipotent being that allowed so
much suffering. That’s why Buddhism always made sense to me. The first of
the noble truths: life is suffering. Thanks for the heads up.
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I always liked reading. I like to think that I knew more about religion by
the age of eleven than most people learn in their whole lives. It was
curiosity, I guess. I shouldn’t say most people, just certain types. Some
people dedicate their lives to immersion in faith. Others dedicate themselves
to the academic study of faith. That always struck me as deeply sad. ‘I don’t
necessarily want it. I just want to understand it.’
When I was young, God was just a bad joke. I think I was about twelve
when I first realized that God was up to me. All the things I’d ever been told
about God were quite silly, but all the things I’d ever been told about love
really struck home. I realized that the concept of love was more of a
‘benevolent omnipotence’ than this God I’d heard so much about.
I had just finished reading Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy.
Pullman wrote the series as an intellectual response to C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles
of Gnarnia. Young adult fiction is laden with subtext. It may be a dark art,
imbuing children with ideas they couldn’t possibly understand. Anyway,
Lewis was an advocate of the Christian God and did his best to trick children
into coming into the fold. Pullman, spoiler alert, kills God at the end.
Needless to say, this idea blew my shit. It was one of those reads that just
keeps pushing you. Your eyes are tired and you could totally finish those
thirty pages on another day but you power through, close the back cover,
and just look up. Tired while reading, but the climax is invigorating and once
you’re finished you can’t do anything but pace. Well, I did more than pace. I
decided to go for a three in the morning swim.
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I was at my summerhouse in Boone. When my folks bought it, it was a
quaint little cabin. Over the last thirty years it has morphed into a hidden
mansion that seems to just grow from the hillside. It is surrounded by an
elaborate Zen garden replete with stones of every size, color, and shape. The
designer of the garden alone knows the meaning of every stone. The house
is situated on a ridge that separates the mountain proper from the rest of the
world. Below the house there is a shallow valley that holds a lake like a
thirsty child cupping water in its hands. This lake and the mountain that
sleeps on the other side were my first Gods.
The moon lit the way as I descended the hill towards the water. It was
early spring. Still cold, but the air smelled of life. I stood naked at the edge of
the black mirror staring down into the water but also at the mountain and
moon it contained. I was ready to dive in for what promised to be a
refreshing dip when the fear started creeping in. I don’t know what it was
that scared me but I shrank away from the mosaic that stood looming above
and below me. There was something about the inky opacity that pushed me
away. In my mind I knew what the water contained, but in my heart it felt as
if I had set out to dive into nothingness. From behind me, in the dead of
night, I heard a rustling and I knew that I was not alone. Standing there stark
naked in the cold darkness, I was trapped in between two fears. The rustling
stopped and a noise erupted from the dark in between my home and me. A
banshee’s shrill scream cracked the silence of the evening wide open. Even
the wind hushed. It sounded like the ghost of an infant carrying the ire that
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only an ancient soul could possess. Suddenly the water was not scary, but
my only chance of escape. I didn’t hesitate again. I dove in. When I emerged
from the frigid mirror in tact, the breath I drew was the first real breath I’d
ever taken. I looked up at the mountain whose image I swam in and knew
that I had found my Gods.
I learned the following day that the noise was nothing supernatural,
that it was in fact the warning call of a bobcat. I have seen him or her on the
mountain several times in the years since and heard its cry many more
times. I think it’s probably dead by now. I wonder if it ever found a mate, if it
ever allotted the world a progeny, a legacy.
About five years after that I realized that I had got something wrong
about that night. Hallucinogenic mushrooms tend to encourage epiphanies. I
had eaten a substantial dose and left my cohort of tripping companions to
wander into the wonder of my Gods. As soon as I drew breath in the outdoors
I was compelled to run. And as a child learns to ambulate long after it is
blessed with the knowledge of perception, I ran into the farm to the east of
that house. Sprinting hard, I pounded my bare feet into the stones and
wincing grass of the trail. The shadows of trees unfolded underneath me in a
magnificent array. Silver and green fractals bloomed from every spot my feet
struck. When I looked up and to the horizon I saw the trees slow dancing with
the night sky. There wasn’t a plane above or below me that was not flooded
with light. Below me it was the stones, mica shimmering like a flame,
reflecting the light of the high full moon back into my eyes. In the black
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silhouettes of the trees thousands of fireflies sang their mating songs and
signaled in the dark looking for a moment of intimacy. And above me was
the moon and the stars that endowed me with a power many humans have
forgotten they had, the power to run as fast and hard as you can bare foot
and in the dead of night. I ran until my legs burned and my chest burned
hotter. My first real run. In the shadow of my mountain and in shouting
distance of my lake I fell to my knees in the soil and wept. I don’t know what
it was that drove me to tears, but the tears refracted the impossible
brilliance of the light show to another degree of beauty hitherto unknown to
me. There was no meridian, no beginnings, and no endings to the light and
to the power of this thing that was inside me bursting out. I looked to the
moon, not to the Gods of my youth, and I cracked the silence of the night
with my own most animal noise. I cracked open my lungs and larynx and
roared with all my might, in doing so forsaking my mountain and my lake.
They are still symbols of some God, but in that moment I realized that God
had no edge, no border, and no definition. What led me to such religious
fervor in the past was not the power of these entities, but the love that I felt
for them. There was a new God in my heart, and this one I thought I could
never forsake no matter how I may be tempted. It was love, a love that
pervades all things, from the most distant star to the minutest inner
workings of a human emotion. I laid in the grass weeping for joy, awash not
only in the befractaled ocean of light, but also in complete awareness of an
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impossibly large matrix of cosmic energy. For a few moments I didn’t matter
at all. I forgot that I was a thing, and I was baptized in love.
For now let us return to the first of the noble truths, suffering. About a
year after that something horrific happened. I would say that it happened to
me but that would not be correct. I saw it happen. I think it safe to safe to
say that save two souls, the event has caused none more suffering than me.
I remember everything from that night as if I were living it in this very
moment.
_______________________
It was my senior year in high school. I had returned from my Saturday
morning workout. My team, the Mecklenburg Prep Bulls had lost the night
before, which means the coaches worked our sore and beaten bodies with
greater ferocity. “You can rest in November,” is the sort of bullshit they
would spout. Stretch, lift, film session, and after-a-loss sprints. I had fucked
up four times: two missed tackles, one missed assignment, and pancaked
once by a lead blocker. The coaches stopped and replayed these mistakes
asking all the JV kids to identify the local fuckup. I was pissed, but didn’t care
to show it. As soon as I got home I ripped my shitty little bong and took a
nap.
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My mother, who is a shitty cook, made pork chops that night. They
were dry, and the gravy had mushrooms in it. I hate mushrooms. I remember
thinking about where I would be in a year. The food was worse in the dorm,
but at the time I was more concerned with the freedom to get fucked up. I
had heard good things about college girls too. I was excited.
After dinner I called my oldest friend D, “What’s up dude?”
“What’s good, homie?”
“You pick up today?”
“Yeah man, it’s fire.”
“Sweet. Can I come over?”
“Sure man, give it a couple hours though.”
“Alright, I’ll holler back.”
“See you in a bit.”
I hung up and let the phone fall into my lap. I flicked on my stereo, fell
back into my ugly armchair and stared at the ceiling. More bong rips. I jerked
off. Bong rips. Hours passed. Music was the only thing I felt I had then,
although the prospect of getting laid would get me off the couch in a hurry. I
thought my boys would get me right regardless. Life wasn’t so bad, but I
wasn’t too sure about that. I still ain’t. Only worldly pleasures offered me any
meaning. Sometimes I still think that’s true. I collected myself, picked up my
broken-feeling body and lurched down the stairs. “Mom, Dad, I’m going to
D’s. I’ll probably just crash there.”
“Okay sweetie. Don’t get into any trouble.”
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“Alright Ma. Don’t hate me if I forget.”
“Seriously, Ambrose. Just go to D’s and come home in the morning.”
“Alright, alright. Tell Dad goodnight for me.”
“Tell him yourself.”
I scoffed at her and walked out, but now I never part ways from my
family without telling them I love them. I walked out to my truck. It was my
father’s, really, but he never failed to remind me whose name was on the
title. I cranked my pickup and looked for a song on my iPod. I selected a Nine
Inch Nails tune and pulled out of the driveway. Night had been falling earlier
and earlier. It was well dark at that point. In Charlotte, my city, everything
looked the same. I only ever saw the same few things. Everything get’s old.
Once you’ve seen the same shit for the thousandth time it might as well not
be there. The changing seasons held a particular appeal. They reminded me
then and now that every day is not exactly the same, even if, in the city of
trees and churches, it frequently feels that way. While still in Addison Circle, I
turned off my headlights. The asphalt folded away beneath me. The shadows
of the thinning leaves shined silver on the tarmac, and the silhouettes a
translucent green above. The orange glow of streetlights reached out from
the end of the dark tunnel. These colors coalesced into a tumbling ocean of
shadow behind me as I slowed and stopped at the sign. I turned the lights
back on and looked left. I looked right. I looked left again.
“Fuck. Going fast enough buddy?”
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I rested my foot on the brake, and watched the speeder fly by my
neighborhood, “Ugh, asshole.”
I pulled out into the wake of the SUV and pressed on the accelerator. I
had not exceeded ten miles per hour when the vehicle in front of me
fishtailed. It went up on two wheels and was about to roll, but it fell back to
the ground and careened into the grassy median. The rear wheels popped
into the air as soil floated in arced sheets through the night. It ploughed over
the median and met a small Honda head on. The noise was tremendous.
Metal crumpled. Glass broke.
“Holy fucking shit.”
I pulled up another hundred yards and put my hazards on. I was
dialing 911 before I exited the vehicle.
“There’s been a terrible accident. Fuck, Jesus Christ, uh, I’m on Sharon,
between Randolph and North. Send ambulances. It’s bad. I don’t know how
many are hurt. Now! It’s urgent.”
I looked into a Range Rover and saw a man who seemed to be snoring
comfortably against the air bag. I went to the driver’s side and felt for his
pulse. No blood, steady rhythm. He’s fine. I proceeded to the Honda.
I recoiled in horror. I averted my eyes. I wanted to be sick.
“Goddamnit,” I gasped, enraged. I placed my hand over my mouth
and doubled over. I looked down the creek bed that ran away from me into
the west. I breathed for the shortest moment to collect myself before circling
the vehicle and coming to the passenger’s side. I found a young woman with
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her head resting askew on an airbag. Her eyes darted back and forth. Her
every breath was labored and her lips moved. I told her not to try to speak.
I remembered something. The neck! Protect the neck! Some say don’t
move them, but it’s better to align the nerves properly, I thought at the time.
Oddly enough, I still don’t know if that was right, but it was worth a try. I
opened the back door and discovered a child’s seat. The tiny person resting
in it twitched slightly. It did not move again, nor could I bring it to move. The
realization crept. I looked down the creek again. I stood and pulled the zipper
on my letterman’s jacket. I slinked out of it and brushed it off. I laid it over
the infant’s corpse and touched the big blue M on the lapel for the last time.
I leaned the young woman back against the seat and straightened her
neck, holding her perfectly still. I felt tears run over my hands as I held her
cheeks. While I sat there shushing her, I looked around and strained my ears
for sirens. I noticed the clouds, the moon, the glass on the pavement and all
of the light. Purple and orange. The city of trees was losing its leaves. I was
not looking forward to winter. I rested my face against my shoulder and
stared down the creek. Eventually, I heard sirens and for some reason I
thanked God.
My statement was simple enough.
“I was pulling out of Addison up there and saw this guy speeding like
hell. He lost control and jumped the median. I came up. He was fine. The
baby and black dude were dead, and I stayed with the lady ‘til you got here.”
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The officer sighed profoundly as he examined my face. I imagine he’d
seen my expression on many young men.
“Alright kid. Here’s my card. Let’s have your phone number and ID?”
“Here’s my ID. Do you need my number?”
“Yeah, Mr. Spencer. Just write it here. You should take it easy tonight.
This shit ain’t easy. This number is for a counselor that might be able to help
you. You should call. I take it you’ve never seen anybody die before?”
I wiped my nose. I wasn’t crying. It was a gesture I had seen people
make. Mechanical, meaningless, “Not like this.”
“Well, you’ve got my card.”
The cop put his big hand on my sore shoulder. I’m much smaller now. I
mumbled, “Right, right. You know how to find me if you need me.”
I turned away. The cop called after me and added, “You probably
saved that woman’s life.”
I stopped, threw my head back, and stared straight up. My voice
cracked, “Yeah, I guess.”
“Goodnight kid. Be safe. Try to get some rest.”
I got back into my truck. I took the long way to D’s. The long, long way.
I drove up to the beltway. I circled the city three times, keeping an eye on
the jagged skyline. My city is beautiful at night, but that night I thought it
looked better from the north side. From the south side. From the east. The
west. Again and again. I exited onto seventy-four which is a precarious pull
off. I took it too fast. I continued on to D’s. I drove by the car dealerships and
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strip clubs and tattoo parlors and fun zones for the kids. The streetlights
passed like memories, blending together. The faster you go the more normal
everything looks. The flitting orange lights became contiguous lines framing
the road all the way to the vanishing point. There, the road and the lights
and the cars all become one and disappear. For some reason, I remembered
when I was a kid and my folks driving me home from the restaurant we ate
at every Friday, out past bedtime. I would be so close to sleep watching the
city of trees and churches pass through a sliver of window. Orange, purple,
and sometimes grey. The silhouettes and shining under bellies of the
treetops and the lights laid out against an opaque sky were beautiful to me,
then.
I pulled into D’s neighborhood on the east side. I stopped on the side of
the road in an incandescent pool set aside from the otherwise overwhelming
darkness. I waited for Right Where it Belongs to stop playing before I turned
the truck off. I laid my head against the headrest in the same manner I had
held the woman’s. I closed my eyes and just breathed. My pocket started
vibrating and I answered, “Yeah.”
“Dude, is that you?”
“Yeah.”
“Where the fuck have you been?”
“Just driving.”
D didn’t say anything for a while. When he spoke he spoke slowly,
“Alright. You cool man?”
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“I’m fine, dude. I’m coming in.”
I hung up, exited the vehicle, and paced across the lawn. D opened the
door before I got there. With a huge stoned grin and in his cheekiest voice D
pronounced proudly, “What’s good, my slutty little bitch?”
I faked a grin, “Not much man.”
“Get your ass in here! Made a new GB today!”
“Oh shit, that’s perfect. I want to get obliterated tonight.”
“Naturally, dude. You could show a little fucking enthusiasm, though.”
D poked me in the ribs. Today, D knows what happened to me that night, but
I wouldn’t tell him for several years. My folks dragged it out of me pretty
quickly when they realized that something was wrong. I never could hide my
feelings from them. Everyone else was easy enough to deceive though. ‘Nah,
I’m fine, just tired,’ has an amazing amount of traction. I wish I had been
able to cry, but almost as soon as it happened I had locked it away.
I hit D’s expertly engineered, mechanically perfect gravity bong with
ferocity. I replaced every molecule of air in my lungs with THC and promptly
passed out.
I awoke to the laughter and teasing of my friends.
“Holy shit dude, you just hit the deck!”
“What the fuck man? You just nuked that whole bowl!”
I had forgotten for a short second what had happened on my way. I
looked down, saw flecks of blood on my sneakers, and thought of the dead
child, “Guys, I think I need to puke.”
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“Well get your ass in the shitter. Fucking light weight. I’ll get you a
water once you’ve pulled the trigger.“
“It’s not that man. It’s not me that’s sick.”
I squeezed the edges of the bathroom sink hard and glared at my
reflection. I heard my friends laughing outside. I breathed. I opened the
medicine cabinet and examined the bottles. I shouted through the door, “Yo,
D!”
“Yeah”
“We drinking tonight?”
“Might as well.”
I held a bottle of Percocet in my hand. I removed one, replaced the
bottle, and closed the cabinet bringing my reflection back into view. I was
surprised. I saw a young man’s face near tears, twisted into knots by
confusion and rage. A single pitiful bleat slipped through my lips, as I allowed
my forehead to fall against the glass. I squeezed my eyes shut hard. I
thought I would rip the sink out of the wall, but popped the pill instead. I
looked again. I sighed and wiped my eyes once. I shook my face back and
forth. I bounced on my toes and shook out my hands. And then, I was still.
Everything was still. Everything was quiet. Eyeing the stranger in the mirror,
I tried to smile.
_______________________
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Today, looking back on that night, I’m pleased with how far I’ve come.
I’ve saved dozens of lives now but it isn’t enough to restore my faith in any
sort of order. That night and most of what I’ve seen since has confirmed a
new belief: that the sea of cosmic energy I waded in all those years ago was
not defined by beauty, love, or order, but a singular course of randomness
and chaos indifferent to human perceptions or our ways of making things
mean and matter. I’m comfortable enough with this. It hasn’t required that I
forsake my principles or my integrity. I still love as hard, often, and
passionately as I can, perhaps more than anyone should be allowed to love.
At least the next time my efforts at dealing with and understanding the world
fail so miserably I won’t be broken hearted. God is once again a meaningless
concept, and all those really neat ways of talking about God that I had
contrived are simply modes of behavior yet again.
I’ve felt a lot of joy and a lot of pain, and I’ve spent years chasing that
feeling of unity I felt under the mountain. I don’t know. Maybe it was the just
the drugs, maybe it’s still out there.
There was this one time, though. D was down and wouldn’t admit it. I
got him to myself for a night and we talked for hours. He had been suicidal
for a year. He had been thinking about ending it every day. He had made
some pretty bad mistakes and was keeping it all in. He was ashamed. He
hadn’t told a soul. I simply reminded him how much he meant to me and
then I told him what had really happened that night on Sharon road. I cried
my eyes out when I finally let it go. He told me the secret he’d been keeping
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in. He’d gotten three DUIs and no one knew but his lawyer. He cried his eyes
out too. He was a wreck well before he knew the man in the Range was just
a drunk kid out for a good time.
We held each other. We loved each other. We went to the deepest,
darkest parts of ourselves together and helped each other back into the
light. I don’t know if I saved his life, if he saved mine, or if we both would’ve
been fine, but I know that at least for that night there was some kind of
order. Fleeting though it may have been we had found a meaning. It didn’t
make any of the pain go away, but hand in hand we found a reason to cry
that had nothing to do with all of the pain, nothing to do with the anger or
the confusion or the hatred we’d learnt to feel. In each other’s arms we
found a kind of harmony and the hint of joy. No need to practice in the
mirror, we had found a reason to smile, for real.
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