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Bo Bryant Stack – 3 May 2014714839604 bstack@live.unc.edu2401 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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