Confusion, Panic, and Remorse

Off stage, a bigger throng than usual pressed in on me.  They clapped and murmured, “Thank you, thank you.”  “Malcolm, Malcolm.”  You’d think I’d get used to it, but no.  The crux of my being is exposed.  It’s grotesque and unseemly, and after a big public spillover, I want to hide in a dark, empty room.  Except last night, upon seeing the boy Tyler, the sadness pooled deeper and deeper, while all the while a wall of hands patted my back and shoulders, head and chest.

[This post is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Stephanie and her new boyfriend Rafe, Maggie and her trumpet-playing boyfriend Lyle, Louie and his girlfriend, Demetria, Professors Llewlleyn and Smith, the people I knew, clamored for special attention, kisses and hand-holding.  I noticed Carlos at the top of the staircase.  He mouthed “home run” and shook a loosely formed wrist at waist level, a crude promise of a vulgar reward.  Bitter disgust welled, bringing fresh tears.  Please God, let me find the boy and get him out of here! I kept slogging through the whirlpool, past Shari and Sylvia, Franklin and Fletcher, various erstwhile customers, students, shopkeepers and construction workers, searching for him.

Surely the soul of concern, of sweetness, light, peace, joy, and hope was close.  I could feel him; he was waiting for me but—I could not reach him.  I could not see him.  Tyler was near.  He was here and then—

Too late.

I knew only confusion, panic, and remorse.  Of all the dozens of people vying to touch me, to thrust bouquets of tulips at me, bags of CDs, boxes of chocolate, where was he?
(Click here to read the next episode.)