Marooned

by Travis Smith

  The sights and sounds and smells of this city set Goodwin’s teeth on edge. He wore a permanent scowl on his usually handsome and charming face. Why anyone would choose to live in such filth, he would never know. Satan’s allure is a powerful entity indeed. So much decadence. So many lost, damned souls. How he longed to smite them each where they stood …

  “A single man cannot carry all the Lord’s burden,” he murmured to himself.

  But still, every time he glanced up, there was another who would fit perfectly at the base of the cross in his dark cellar. Endless idolatresses, adulterers, false prophets, liberals, fags, mixed breeds, all so greedy and entitled. He could spend a week here and create ten more monuments to Christ.

  “You won’t fit more than one in your trunk,” he muttered. “Don’t get carried away.” He tilted his neck in his soothing way and squinted his eyes for three seconds.

  When he opened his eyes, he was able to think a little more clearly. He fumbled at his pocket and felt for the prescription bottle. Good, it was there, just like the last four times he checked.

  Ahead of him walked a tall, slender man—if you could call him a man—with impeccably styled black hair. He wore a vibrant shirt tucked into skinny jeans beneath a heavy black coat. Goodwin had followed him from his campus, where he’d been outside in wait for six hours. Six hours was negligible with a mission of this magnitude. He’d staked out situations for far longer in the past. When only a very specific act would break the tension that had risen in his neck, six hours was hardly a price to pay.

  He’d recognized the boy immediately from the hours of YouTube videos he’d watched in his Tennessee home in the dark. He’d parked his car and followed on foot into a subway station. On the first day, he’d lost him when he realized that he had no idea how to operate or navigate the subways, but he’d bought himself a MetroCard and waited outside the Brooklyn campus again the following day.

  Now he followed the boy through downtown Manhattan, between towering buildings and endless traffic. This city didn’t offer the quiet privacy that Tennessee woods offered. If he wanted to enact God’s will here, Goodwin would have to play it smart.

  7

  “Your mouth is going to get you killed!” Alisha said after the altercation outside the subway.

  “Fuck guys like that. He shouldn’t get away with saying shit like that.”

  “He had a knife in your face, Christopher!” she shouted.

  They arrived at his building and climbed the five flights to his apartment. He closed the door and locked it behind them before going to the sink to run a cloth under cold water. With this, he wiped the drying blood away from the corner of his mouth where he’d struck the pavement.

  “Eh, I’ve had worse back home,” he said.

  Alisha shook her head and plopped onto his couch.

  After he cleaned up, he came over and collapsed beside her, sighing. “I really hope you’ve got some weed. I really need some tonight.”

  “Freeloader,” she muttered, opening her bag and taking out an old tin that originally held breath mints. She opened it to reveal five neatly rolled joints.

  “You are an angel on earth,” he said, reaching in and taking one to light. He inhaled slowly and deeply, savoring the slight burn in the back of his throat. He held his breath in until his face stopped throbbing and his head grew light and swimmy, then he let it out in a series of barking, unbecoming coughs and passed the joint to Alisha.

  “When are you gonna get a boyfriend to start buying your pot?” she asked.

  “When are you gonna get a boyfriend to slap you around when you mouth off to me?” he retorted. They both laughed uproariously. “Thank God I found someone dark enough to let me make fun of their domestic abuse. Where would I be without that outlet?”

  “You’re a perfect asshole,” she replied. “But if I can’t laugh about it now, I’ll never get out of therapy.”

  “Seriously, though, fuck that guy, too. Have you gotten laid yet?”

  Alisha shook her head. “I can laugh, but I’m not ready for that level of intimacy yet.”

  Christopher offered an understanding nod.

  The two smoked in silence until the joint was finished. After, they closed their eyes and basked in the after-haze of smoke.

  “Do you ever think about death?” Christopher asked at last.

  Alisha shrugged.

  “Like, what if you could fake your own death? Do you think you’d do it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Why would I do that anyway?”

  “Like, your ex and everyone who was an asshole to you—you’d get to watch them mourn.”

  Alisha chuckled. “You’re sick. But yeah, I’ve thought about it.”

  “I’m serious,” Christopher said, sliding himself onto his side in a curled position on the couch to face her. “Like, you just hang out and watch everyone mourn you. Watch them regret taking you for granted and shit, and then you jump out like, ‘Boom! I’m still alive, bitches! That’s what you get!’”

  Alisha clutched her stomach and laughed at this.

  “My philosophy class is pretty cool,” Christopher said, his tone down-shifted. “It’s about, like, life and death and stuff. But Mr. Kent—er—Professor Kent or whatever, he talks about different types of death giving life different meaning and shit. We have to write a paper on it.”

  Alisha was still beside herself with laughter. “I wouldn’t write your paper on that!” she managed through gales of cackling.

  “Nah, that’s just something I’ve thought about, ya know? I’m gonna write about how, like, some people don’t get famous until they’re dead.”

  Alisha scoffed and shook her head. “What?” She burst into another fit of laughter.

  Christopher chuckled, too. “Shut the fuck up, I’m on my grind with this. Like, some of our most famous people were never appreciated until after they died. Like some writers or activists … No one ever even knew about their work until they died. That’s why I sometimes wish I could fake my death, so maybe someone would actually listen to what I have to say.”

  “That sounds super illegal, dude.”

  “I’m not gonna fuckin’ do it, dude, I’m just saying!”

  8

  The alleyway was dark and damp. It was a narrow path between buildings, just wide enough to fit a couple over-flowing dumpsters and still have space for one individual to squeeze by. David Goodwin stepped in nearly ankle-deep puddles accumulating from water dripping from the fire escapes above. It hadn’t rained or snowed for days in the city, but the towering buildings housed countless forgotten window-mounted air conditioning units and heaters that dripped their liquid waste below.

  He stood in wait, near one of the dumpsters, concealed by the darkness. A group of young wasters stepped out of the side door of the bar. Three of them lit cigarettes and smoked them in the quiet alley. Goodwin listened to their conversation with little interest. He couldn’t get bogged down with another divine intervention. He remained silently concealed behind the dumpster, hand gripping the tire iron he intended to use to bash the boy’s head in when he came out. He’d observed Christopher’s patterns for days now, and he felt quite sure he’d step into the alley for a smoke before the night was through. He seemed to have adopted the habit alone, as a coping mechanism—perhaps even as an escape from company—rather than using it as a social crutch as so many do.

  The kids finished their smokes and went back in the side door, leaving Goodwin alone again. He closed his eyes and tried to drown out the sounds of the city. Eventually the sounds of honking horns and clattering cans faded into the background. With his eyes closed, he began to hear the whirring of water rushing through pipes over his head. Suddenly, he was back inside the cabinet beneath his mother’s kitchen sink as she scrubbed his brother’s toys with bleach and lye. The dank smell of the alleyway morphed into the smell of cleaning chemicals.

  Say it again! his mother shouted in his mind, slamming her knees against the cabinet�
��s locked door hard enough to make Goodwin jump.

  “I won’t say it again, you bitch,” he muttered. His teeth were gritted painfully, and his body was rigid with rage. “I won’t—”

  But then a voice was saying it. “I hear the voice inside my head.” It was his little brother. He opened his eyes and looked over. He didn’t see the dumpster against which he leaned. No, he saw only darkness, but through that darkness he could imagine his brother’s tearful face in the cabinet next to him, his knees tucked against his chest as he rocked back and forth and recited the poem. “The voice of Christ, alive and dead …”

  The deafening bang! of the side door slamming snapped Goodwin out of his memory. He shook his head and blinked repeatedly to re-adjust his eyes. He peered around the side of the dumpster, and, sure enough, there was Christopher Cross. All by himself.

  Goodwin stood now, grip tightening on the tire iron, as the boy lit his cigarette.

  “Whoa!” He jumped as the man stood up from the shadows beside him. “Jesus Christ, man. You scared the shit outta me.”

  “Your devil’s tongue drips with vanity,” Goodwin said. Then he whispered, “I hear the voice inside my head …”

  “What?” Christopher said, taking his cigarette from his mouth and taking a step back.

  “The voice of Christ, alive and dead.”

  “I can’t hear you, dude. Lemme smoke in peace.”

  Goodwin stepped out from behind the dumpster now and held the tire iron behind his back. “It guides me when I’ve gone astray,” he whispered, eyes closing, neck cocking to the side in that special way. He took a step toward the boy and braced his arm to swing the iron down in an arc across his head and end his insufferable yammering.

  Before he could do it, a loud whistle emanated down the alley from the street. It was followed by taunting kissing noises. “Woo woo! What’s goin’ on down there, ladies?” a voice called. The man’s friend’s chuckled as they walked by the alley.

  Goodwin turned toward the voices and nearly dropped the tire iron in his surprise. He saw the group pass by and carry on down the sidewalk without a second thought. As he turned back, Christopher had pushed by him and was walking toward the streetlights beneath which the group had just disappeared.

  “Fuck off, bumpkin,” he called back over his shoulder. “You want a secret blowjob in an alleyway, go back to Mississippi.”

  9

  Christopher returned home from a morning class one day in late February. He grabbed his laptop and collapsed onto the bed, fully intending to fall back asleep until the afternoon. He was clicking through political memes and feel-good videos about special-needs animals on Facebook when he saw it.

  “Aw, man,” he muttered.

  Matthew Sloan: Keep me in your prayers, please. Got very sick again last night. Back at the hospital for more testing.

  That was a shame. He’d been diagnosed with lymphoma their senior year of high school. He was the only other kid in Christopher’s graduating class that had been accepted to a college outside of their home state. This was obviously put on hold after the diagnosis.

  Christopher clicked through his old messages and re-read their exchange from a few months prior.

  Matthew: hey man. Hows it going?

  Christopher: Hey, buddy. It’s going all right. How have you been? I’ve been thinking about you.

  Matthew: done any praying? :)

  Christopher: Haha. My own version of it, I suppose. Really, I hope you’re doing well.

  Matthew: well ive been at home throughout the chemo. it was hard but i couldn’t have done it without my family

  Christopher: I saw some of those pictures. Always knew you’d look badass with no hair.

  Matthew: LOL its all fun and games until the skinheads try and recruit me

  Christopher: Lol! You gotta watch out for those guys for sure.

  Christopher: Hey, does the chemo make your pubes fall out? I’ve been looking for a new grooming regimen.

  Matthew: im shaking my head at u chris.

  Christopher: Just playing, bud. I hope everything works out all right.

  Matthew: i actually saw the doctor this morning and he said all the tests show no sign of residual cancer

  Christopher: No way!!! That’s amazing!!

  Matthew: the Lord works miracles :)

  Christopher: And your doctors too.

  Matthew: lol i know they were great. but ive prayed for this every day for the past year. He finally answered

  Christopher: I’m really happy for you, man.

  Matthew: i still pray for u too

  Christopher: I know you do.

  Matthew: have u read any of my testimonies? “blogs” as you might call them

  Christopher: I haven’t. I’ve been busy working on my own stuff.

  Matthew: u might find them interesting. how some of my doctors mocked me and told me i wouldn’t see the next year and how He worked through me and even brought some of my nurses to Christ

  Matthew: u there?

  Christopher: Yeah. I’m just happy for you and don’t want to spoil it having theological debates online.

  Matthew: its what im saved for.

  Matthew: to bring others to Him.

  Christopher: Maybe you’re just saved because medical science cured you.

  Matthew: medical science only works through God’s hands :)

  Christopher: I still think that’s a very egotistical viewpoint.

  Matthew: more egotistical than doctors who think they did it all?

  Christopher: So what makes you so special? He spared you above all the others who die of disease every single day?

  Matthew: He works in mysterious ways. maybe He spared me to save u.

  Christopher: That’s such a cop-out answer. Why give you cancer in the first place then?

  Matthew: to test me

  Christopher: To test YOU??? You’re one of his most devoted followers. I’d think you’ve passed his tests already.

  Matthew: u clearly don’t know his followers then :)

  Matthew: but He tests those who appear the most devout

  Christopher: It’s just too convenient. Every challenge is met with the perfect, improvable response.

  Matthew: maybe its perfect by design

  Christopher: Of course it is. MAN’S design.

  Matthew: man canot create perfection

  Matthew: im not trying to piss u off

  Matthew: i will send u a link to my blog

  Matthew: if u don’t want to talk about it, u can read it when ur ready

  Matthew: love u bro :)

  At this point, Christopher had slammed his laptop closed and gone about his day. He’d likely written his own long-winded blog about the hypocrisy of Christianity that would spare him the image of a slack-jawed, chemo-headed Boy Scout reading it.

  Now, he clicked on Matthew’s profile and followed a link to his blog. My Journey, it was unimaginatively titled. There were posts such as God > Cancer and Today I spoke with Christ. He scrolled to the bottom of the page and looked at the view counter. 1,854. The latest post on Christopher’s own blog had 16 views.

  10

  Goodwin spent the night in his car outside Christopher’s apartment. He’d followed the boy home so many times now that he’d lost count. He was starting to understand his patterns and behaviors, but he couldn’t be sure whether or not the kid lived alone. He’d nearly exposed himself once already, and he couldn’t afford to get sloppy and make a second mistake.

  He watched Christopher walk into and out of his apartment alone every day for over a week. Occasionally, he entered with the young blonde-haired girl, but David knew that she lived and worked in Manhattan. She only visited on occasion—undoubtedly to take part in wicked debauchery.

  He gripped his steering wheel in both hands as he watched the kid enter the building alone. Would it be worth following him inside to scope things out better? Would he be able to get close enough to slip through the automatically locking front doo
r without being recognized from the alley?

  None of that mattered today, for it was 7:00 PM, and Christopher had just gotten home and gone inside already, door locking behind him. But that was okay. Goodwin could wait.

  11

  Christopher walked home from class in a particularly foul mood. He’d texted Alisha and said he didn’t feel up to meeting her for dinner today. His foreign studies class had devolved into a heated discussion about whether the United States should allow immigrants from certain countries. A group of four white boys ended up shouting over him that they didn’t want any illegal foreigners taking their jobs, their tax dollars, their loved ones. And in New York City of all places! He grumbled as he pondered all the retorts he’d have liked to make—not that it made any difference anyway. People like that had their minds made up no matter how sound your argument. And any stance he could take would merely be reduced down to his lisp.

  His cellphone rang as he approached his apartment building. It was his mother calling. “Great,” he mumbled. “Just what I need today.”

  He answered. “Hey? Mom? What’s going on?”

  “I’m callin’ to check on my son. That okay with you?” she replied.

  “Yeah,” he sighed. “It’s fine.”

  “I ain’t heard from ya in weeks,” she scolded right out of the gate.

  He hummed acknowledgement as he fumbled with his keys to the building’s main door.

  “What are you doin’? Are you busy?” she asked.

  “No, I’m just walking home from class.”

  “Walking? How cold is it up there?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Thirty. Forty.”

  “You got boots on? You’ll catch pneumonia.”

  “Cold air doesn’t carry pneumonia,” he told her for the hundredth time.

  “Christopher?” a voice asked from behind him.

  “Mhm, hang—yeah, hang on, mom,” he said, turning around.

  “I’m glad to run into ya, mate,” the man said. Christopher recognized him as a barista at the coffee shop down the road. He rushed over and apologized for interrupting. “I’m sorry to bother ya, but I got a huge favor to ask of ya.”