by Kyp Harness
Tim moved from pitying Russ to worrying whether Russ would accept him as a friend. They exchanged some humorous remarks while washing up after art class, and Tim was gratified that Russ reacted to his jokes by bursting into laughter, his eyebrows raised with surprise over his squinted eyes. And Tim laughed in response to Russ’s own acidic comments to a degree he had never laughed before. He was inspired and somewhat frightened by Russ’s keen intelligence.
As they began walking home together at the end of the day, they would improvise jokes and routines. In the vacant lot where Tim had earlier stood with Russ’s brother, Tim and Russ would talk for hours in the dying winter sun, each not wanting to part, their conversation punctuated by convulsive, nearly hysterical laughter. One of the routines they conceived was that of a cafeteria where overfed men stood in place of food, with the names of the meals they had consumed on signs around their necks. As you moved down the line with your tray, you’d be obliged to punch the men in the stomach to receive the food of your choice, which was then vomited onto your plate.
More seriously, Tim shared the ideas he had gotten from Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man in English class. He was so inspired by Joyce’s conception of the writer as artist that he had begun to move away from thinking of himself as a cartoonist to seeing himself as a writer and beyond that, as an artist whose vision could express itself through any medium. The discipline was unimportant; what was important was the sensibility of the artist no matter what form it took, if it took any form at all. Tim now considered the medium of his drawing to be too limited. To be a cartoonist seemed a cheap ambition. He was now yearning toward a more serious art. In Joyce’s work, the idea of non serviam came up, which was the protagonist’s answer to society’s demands on him: “I will not serve.” The Latin phrase was taken from Milton’s Paradise Lost, when Lucifer states that he would rather reign in hell than serve in heaven. Tim and Russ adopted non serviam as their credo.
One Saturday, Tim and Russ took the city bus downtown. They walked the main street past the nearly defunct shopping mall, the remains of old independent businesses, the pawn shops and the strip clubs. A brisk wind was blowing in their faces, and across the street was the incline down to the river and the train tracks beside it. They turned and made their way down. On the other side of the river were the buildings of America that seemed to peer intently but with no great interest across at them. Downriver were eighteen chemical plants and two oil refineries that composed the industry of the city.
Tim looked over at his friend as he spoke, the wind blowing back Russ’s thick black hair and turning his nose red. Russ’s father, an Anglican priest, had died of lung cancer five years before. Russ’s mother wished for Russ to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a minister. Russ stared ahead up the river as he spoke, with an intensity and seriousness unknown in other boys his age. “I know God’s real,” he said. “I know Jesus is alive and God’s real. I’ve felt it. But I don’t know if I’m the one to go up behind an altar and tell people that. I don’t think I have the calling like my father had. I saw people all the time in church after my dad died and they’d give this sad smile and say they knew how I felt. But they didn’t know how I felt. They didn’t have the slightest idea.”
As they walked by the docks near the grain elevators and the wind whipped them from down the river, Russ said angrily, “There’s like this thick crust of mediocrity over everything. You’re put in the position of always having to please the people you respect the least. Having to stay well-liked by all the people you can’t stand. This could be Liverpool!” Russ said, waving his arm toward the anonymous-looking apartment building facing the river. “We could be the Beatles. We could be greater than the Beatles! This could be Dublin! We could be Joyce! You talk about James Joyce, about how everyone says he’s the greatest writer. Well, I’ve never written anything, but I say I’m a greater writer than Joyce. I can say that because I have my life to make it true.”
Numbness began to creep into Tim’s toes as they trudged. “But that’s the answer—non serviam! Don’t even let them have a chance,” Russ said. “I don’t know about you, but just about everything I’ve learned in school is crap. It’s not supposed to challenge you or educate you. It’s supposed to crush you, to keep you down. The purpose is to keep you mediocre—to destroy your individuality. That’s all it is…” Russ’ peeved, outraged face looked out onto the waves, at snowflakes now slanting down into the green-black depths. He shook his head from side to side and suddenly spat angrily into the river. “Non serviam!” he repeated emphatically. “I will not serve!”
Tim had never had a friend whose interests and concerns aligned so closely to his own. Russ’s quiet self-confidence and self-respect gave Tim senses of these qualities by osmosis; if Russ was not ashamed of his difference from others, then perhaps Tim could do the same. Russ also drew strength from their friendship; they were becoming like a team who saw the world and were up against it in the same way. As much as Tim felt empowered by his new friendship, he was still distressed about Sherrie: elated by the closeness he felt they shared, yet confounded by the fact they could not be together. He spoke to her every day, watching her eyes for a sign, a flicker of deep, knowing agreement that would bring their union into reality. Compassion, kindness, deep interest and even love was in her eyes, but never the spark that would demolish the false world around them and create the true one—the authentic life they should be living. The closer he got to Sherrie, the longer he knew her, the deeper it pained him. He prayed to God that some way, somehow, Bruce Ferguson could be removed from the picture so that he could be with Sherrie.
Tim began to outline the situation for Russ as they walked along the river. He had never spoken to his new friend about Sherrie, but now he gave some general details, still not mentioning her name. Russ walked quietly along, listening, and remained silent for a time after Tim had stopped speaking. The snow flurries were thickening, swirling in front of their eyes in a feathery blur.
“Ever think of how strange it is that your parents had sex?” Russ asked. “Do you ever walk through the mall and look at all the older couples—and some of the younger ones, too—and think, Those people have sex. Later on tonight they can go into a room, take off their clothes and have sex—and I can’t. I look at those people and think about them having sex and it makes me sick because I know it’s wasted on them—that I’m a thousand times more sensitive than they could ever be, that I’d appreciate what they have a thousand times more than they could ever dream of.”
After a brief pause, Russ declared, “I know I’d be a great lover because I’m so creative. It takes creativity and imagination. When I think of some of those guys you see at school, lumbering around with their girlfriends…” He paused to make an expression of distaste, sticking out his tongue. “That’s why you would be a great lover, too,” Russ said turning to Tim, fixing his large brown eyes on him. “You’re sensitive and creative—that’s all it takes. You’re the most intelligent and creative person I know.”
They were coming to where the banks of the river split apart into the opening of the great lake; where the throat widened and the large, iron, Meccano-like construction arched high above: the bridge over to America. The only notable structure of the area loomed over the river, throwing a band of shadow over its waters, its web-like girders bisecting the sky, its murmur of cars and trucks rustling past each other as they made their way across its span, above the water, between the countries. They stood beneath it, under the giant pillars where cars parked to watch the river. Beyond the bridge was the vast blankness of the lake—the wide, vaulted, unobstructed sky joining with the lake as it merged into the invisible, leaving the ineffectual grasp of the land behind.
“If this girl is as special as you say she is,” Russ said, “she’s got to see that, sooner or later.” He smiled at Tim, the flakes of snow collecting in his black hair. “I’m sure the guy she’s with can’t b
e as exceptional as you—it sounds to me like you’ve got nothing to worry about,” he assured Tim. “It’s just a matter of time.”
Tim woke up and got to school early and as had become customary, searched Sherrie out in the library. As he came through the door he could see her sitting at a table with Mike, her locker-mate and friend from her old school. Tim focused on the back of her head with her light brown hair trailing back over her red sweater and his heart pounded harder. His breath quickened with excitement as he sat down at the table. Tim knew that Sherrie knew he was there, but for a moment she was involved in saying something to her friend. Tim’s throat tightened as he waited for her to acknowledge him. As the seconds went by his hopes began falling into the depths of his stomach. Did she not know he was here? Was he of so little significance that his presence didn’t register with her?
Suddenly she turned to him, smiling, and he instantly sprang to life. Tim began talking frantically to capture and repay her attention. He looked over at her friend as well, charitably including him in his performance. His eyes darted from Sherrie’s face to Mike’s at intervals, but the spaces between these intervals grew longer as Tim was unsure of Mike’s attention. He could not help but see a trace of mocking skepticism in the other boy’s eyes. Tim continued his stream of chatter, fighting to keep Sherrie’s attention, but a glance over at Mike shook his focus and he momentarily forgot what he was saying. Mike knew Bruce Ferguson, and Tim had no doubt that his own spellbound obsession with Sherrie was immediately obvious to anyone who saw him in her presence—and he was strangely proud this was the case.
After a moment Mike gathered his books and left the library. Tim and Sherrie were left sitting at the table alone, and Tim was just about to go into another of his story routines when Sherrie smiled gently and said in her quiet voice, “Have you heard of Charitas?”
The word sounded like an exotic chime or a bell. He had never heard it before.
“It’s a kind of retreat… a Christian retreat,” she explained. “Well, it’s not a big heavy evangelical God thing,” she continued, rolling her eyes ironically with word evangelical. “It’s hard to explain.”
She sighed, looking down as Tim moved closer to her in order not to miss any of the information. “I mean, it’s just a weekend thing. For people our age. It’s for people to experience God.” She shrugged. “It’s something my church does. You know how it says in the Bible, ‘Faith, hope and charity, and the greatest of these be charity’? And how charity is supposed to mean love? Well, that’s what it’s supposed to be about—experiencing that kind of love, of all of humanity—that God is supposed to represent.”
Tim was dumbfounded by her words. He hadn’t heard a person talk like this before and hadn’t expected to be having such a conversation with her. Her words came at him and he took them in as best as he was able.
“Anyway, I can give you the information if you’re interested,” she said, waving her hand as if to dismiss all that she had said.
“So… one of those weekends is coming up?” he asked casually after a moment.
The bell rang and Tim and Sherrie collected their books from the table, heading out of the library. “Yeah… look, sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have told you about it,” she said. “Sorry if I…” Her words trailed away.
“It’s just been a long time since I was at a church,” Tim observed.
“They have it in the basement of a church—you stay there for a weekend,” said Sherrie. “It’s supposed to be amazing… an amazing experience.”
“You’re going on it?” Tim asked as they made their way through the crush of students rushing to their classes. They were cutting it close.
“Yeah,” she said, smiling briefly as she took her leave of him, sprinting up the stairs.
For the rest of the day Tim was dazed, walking through the halls and attending his classes yet removed from it all. He was giddy, heartened by this new unforeseen development, but fearful. He had essentially been invited to spend a weekend with Sherrie—that was the incomprehensible reality. Of course, the weekend was a religious retreat. Yet that also meant it was unlikely Bruce Ferguson would attend.
Tim sat in his drafting class idling and drawing cartoons in his notebook. He felt the urge to diddle and contented himself with wriggling his fingers underneath his drafting table. Affixed to the surface of the table was a perspective drawing he had been working on for several months. Drafting was a course he’d had to take to fill out the number of electives he would need to graduate; he hadn’t wanted to take any science, math or gym courses. Every day he came in and pinned the same drawing to his board, but after a certain point he rarely worked on it. He’d write or draw in his notebook instead. The teacher was a white-haired older man who often spent at least part of the class time sleeping at his desk, sometimes drowsing off in mid-sentence. He’d walk through the room every other week, checking the class’s drawings, remarking as he looked at Tim’s work, “Very good,” or alternately, “You need to think about picking up some speed, Tim.”
As he passed the hour in class, Tim tried to remember the last time he had been to church. As a child, when his family lived in the old house in the country, they had made some attempts to go to the church his mother’s family attended. He remembered a few Sunday school classes from that period, but that was about it. Since then they had attended the church on special occasions to please his grandfather through the years, but these visits grew rare. Tim remembered that walking up the aisle to sit with the old people made him feel as though he was being ushered into a rarefied, holy place, being given a special front-row seat for salvation, somewhere on the fringes of heaven. But his reverent elation lasted only until the sermon began, at which point boredom and discomfort began to take hold, and even Tim’s grandfather began snoring, his chin resting on his collar.
He felt some trepidation that the retreat might turn out to be as boring as the church services he remembered. But how could it be boring if he was in such close proximity to Sherrie? Any wariness Tim might have felt about signing up for something he wasn’t sure he believed in was washed away by the fact that there was no way he wasn’t going to take advantage of this opportunity to be close to Sherrie. Maybe she had suggested the retreat to him for this very purpose—to deepen their relationship in spite of the fact she had a boyfriend. Perhaps this was like a test, and if he proved himself in it, she would make the decision to leave Bruce Ferguson for him, though Sherrie also certainly seemed sincere about the religiosity of the weekend. In her eyes and her nature, he saw a gentleness that seemed so rare as to be exotic. Her words of love and God now made her she seem like an angel. She was pulling him further into her mystery, and he was following, out of the dead grey world in which he had lived for so long.
“Sounds like a cult to me,” Russ declared when they met up outside the side door after school. “I’ve heard about those weekends—they deprive you of sleep and feed you low-protein food to make your resistance lower—to brainwash you. That’s what it is—a brainwash session. It certainly isn’t good theology.” Russ blinked behind his spectacles. “It’s a type of manipulation trying to force people to God when they’re in a vulnerable position.” He grimaced and shook his head.
“It can’t be that bad,” Tim ventured. “She said they have it at her church.”
Russ smiled wryly. “I don’t think anything I say is going to deter you from going to this thing,” he observed, “because this girl is going to be in attendance.”
Tim looked down, embarrassed and thrilled by his friend’s words.
“But I still have to say that this seems like a hokey thing,” Russ said. “I mean, God is not a gimmick. This is serious stuff, not something that can be summed up in a group hug.”
Tim exchanged goodbyes with his friend as he headed off in the opposite direction, gratified by Russ’s understanding, despite his skepticism, of his need to attend the retreat. He walked
straight to his job at the variety store, through the subdivision and the long silent park, bracketed at each side by the backyards of the bungalows, their garages and garden sheds, their clothesline poles and birdhouses. Tim took his place behind the counter, at the side of one of the several middle-aged women he worked with.
When Tim had gotten the job the year before, he had taken a long time to master the cash register since math was a struggle for him. Beatrice, the portly woman who had been given the task of training him, would fume with exasperation beside him as he fumbled to make change for customers, her irascibility causing him to lose count and have to start again until she’d shove him aside and take over.
In those early days, a man had come in wearing a bus driver’s uniform. A thick thatch of black hair stuck out from beneath his visored cap, and a cigarette jutted from between his lips. He flung a five dollar bill on the counter. “Gimme an Ol’ Yeller,” the bus driver grunted, his eyes squinting from the smoke of his cigarette.
“What’s that?” Tim asked, puzzled.
“An Ol’ Yeller! Come on!” the bus driver exclaimed. “Jesus Christ, where’d you get this kid?” the man asked, looking over at Beatrice. “Ol’ Yeller!” he shouted. “Sweet Caps!”
“What…” Tim mumbled, looking around.
“Sweet Caporals! Cigarettes! Jesus Christ!”
