(tbh)

DEUS OTIOSIS CH 1

Terrence “Methuselah of the Unincorporated Community right on the southern edge of Crittenden County that most locals just call West Memphis despite it being about fifteen minutes by car outside the official city limits” Wu grew up an only child, slightly wealthier than his schoolmates, who mostly lived within a mile of the bridge and broadly thought of themselves, in the context of their own lives, as “city folk”, or perhaps “suburban,” if they were shrewd. As an adolescent he felt put upon, isolated, like a misshapen social ogre whose lack of exposure to kids his own age forced the exponentially growing, “quick” negative-feedback wheel in his head to keep on-a turnin’. He spent most nights with his “logic puzzles”, doodling analog circuits, soloing German-style board games, maintaining larger projects only in broad strokes. His days, out of a lack of other options, were spent in the mile-long radius of woods surrounding his family’s home, rapturously soaking in the splendor of youth, yonder, and Vitamin D, staring at mushrooms, and, if the sun was setting, walking up the great big hill and splaying out in the dried-out sandy crevice up on top, bugs squirming out from under his ass and legs, glasses off. Terrence was calm, meditative, strikingly happy in spite of his lack of friends. His knack for sitting with himself unperturbed was one of the few traits from this era he took active steps to preserve. He never wore headphones, or earbuds, spoke rarely, and watched television only when accompanied.

In high school he fell in with the Weird Kids in a class of sixty or so, which in a town that small was a catch-all coterie you fell into if you were Gay, Alt, Nerd, Edgelord, Left-Wing, Goth, Autistic, into Anime, and/or not White. Infighting was common. It was the third largest clique, following the Neon Jocks and Rich Girls, and was composed primarily of White Autistic Weebs, among whom Terrence felt mildly comfortable, but certainly built up no affinity. He graduated quietly, receiving very little applause at the ceremony, making no plans for college or work, maintaining friendships with no one. In spite of his parents having offered countless times to buy him a smartphone or car, anxious to make the young boy maintain an ever-present tracking device using one of those spyware apps you read about on NextDoor, or at the very least a fossil fuel dependency, Terrance never obliged. He didn’t see why you’d ever want to talk to someone who wasn’t actually there, or, in most cases, someone who was. For sixty-six months, his parents and grandparents politely ignored the future, and enjoyed the boy for who he was. It was a summer that stretched into October five years later, a time Terrence largely spent hammocking. On his twenty-third birthday, Terrence’s parents gave him the American Ultimatum. They told him that he was a man, and that he had had enough life experience by that point to make it on his own. They gave him two thousand dollars, vaguely implying that he could ask for more in around half a year, and told him to visit often, but to kindly clear out by the end of the week, as his grandmother wanted to set up his room as her crochet studio. Terrence’s father patted him on the shoulder, fake-smiling, and told him that they were only doing this because they loved him.

Terrence was vexed by the eviction. He was not capable of driving, and refused to learn, so his parents gave him a bicycle that was a little rusted, but barely used. “Big River Crossing is four hours northeast”, was what they said, “ride to Tennessee, where you will find a job, a wife, and a city far more tremendous in size and scope than even our pleasant, dimly-lit West Memphis!” He spent a few days lethargic, ruminating, nostalgia congesting mind-tubes and brute motor functions like a five gallon drum of lard oil forced down a Standard American Commode. On packing his bags, which he took pride in slimming down to a backpack with four changes of clothes and some essential consumables, the two thousand dollars, a MacBook Pro his Grandpa had gotten him the Christmas before that he had not set up yet, and a large suitcase he figured out how to latch to the back of the bike containing several hundred pages of graph paper and pens.

On the last day, Terrance realized something that made him feel hideous. He had not been to the woods the entire previous week, had not so much as begun the process of saying goodbye. He dashed out, 5:30 PM harboring a slight darkening in the sky, some splendid colors, nighttime’s careful omens. The little carved out entrance was still there, the rock path, brushy shrubs, all of the trees seemed to be in order. He continued, now mindless, at ease. The sole aberration came five minutes in. He noticed a bright blue flap poking out from behind a charming slender pine in the background, and pushed toward it, noting that the sky was darkening fast. The flap was a part of a tent, in which a homeless man was drinking from a can of Vegetarian Vegetable soup that he had decondensed in a pot with some water, and heated in a little flame circle he’d made right next to the tent’s door, with gathered kindling. His phone was softly playing a podcast, discussing news that was at that point around a month old. The nomad noticed the rustling that Terrence had caused, with the branches, and said a calm “Hello,” poking only his head out of the tent. He didn’t want to be perceived as frightening, or as a nuisance. Without really meaning it, the nomad said, “I’m sorry.”

Terrence smirked. His Ozark education had taught him about people like this. “Are you fucking homeless?”

The nomad was fazed, clearly put off. He lied, “No, no. I’m just… camping. I’m out here constantly! Every day I’m with the trees.”

Terrence was now skeptical. “Well then why haven’t I seen you around here then?” He was overconfident, certain in himself as the “alpha” of the situation.

“I didn’t mean these specific woods, no, I was talking more broadly.” Terrence furrowed his brow. The nomad continued, “I’m a wanderer, really. It’s not so bad, especially out here in the States. They’ve got church orgs out here, passing out food and coffee on Tuesdays. You can get ten or fifteen bucks profit sp’anging off the highway, no qualms from no one if you pay off Mr. Sorrels. What’s the alternative, and how is it better, or more ethical, really?”

Terrence was confused. He’d never imagined someone who’d resort to homelessness, not out of necessity, but ideology. The nomad, of course, was not a secretly wealthy interloper, being a normal homeless guy, fueled by necessity foremost, with ideology ancillarily formed afterwards. Unfortunately for him, Terrance harbored a light prejudice brought on by a comfortable childhood: he believed that anyone with half a brain had to have some money behind them, and anyone who was broke was stupid. As soon as Terrance heard “qualms,” he was sure that the man before him was but a YouTuber.

With that, Terrance considered his own impending homelessness, and decided that this concept he had just invented angered him, as he stared down the man before him, in his hole-filled t-shirt, and weathered Vans, as a brutish, stupid living contradiction: an oxy moron. “What, are you just gonna mooch off Mom and Pop ‘til someone dies?” He collected himself. “What about the nights where it gets really cold? Do you pull some credit card with another man’s name out your asshole, and get a hotel room, you lazy prick?”

The man sagely shook his head. “When it is cold I wrap myself in several blankets, and wrap the result in my bivy bag. When I am hungry I eat what I am able to gather, like any man. I do not communicate with my parents, or anyone like that. I am not insane.”

Terrence, incredulous, continued to pester the man, convinced he was somehow inauthentic. “Life can’t be one big fucking party, man!” He yanked at the tent flap, flailing for no reason at a man who hadn’t done anything wrong, and jostled free a couple oblong clear glass pipes, one of which shattered on a nearby rock. There were a couple needles visible now, of which Terrance was at the time unaware of any nefarious ancillary use, quaintly ironic. He maintained his glare, as if he was unaware that he had done something wrong. He thought the nomad would respond well to authority, which he of course didn’t, but like most nomads, he wasn’t a fighter when he didn’t think his life was in danger.

After a seven second staring contest, Terrance turned his back and indignantly stomped out the woods the way he came, something he had always tried his best to never do, and arrived glum and pessimistic at the house he’d once called home. His Grandpa was the only one in the living room. He beckoned Terrance over, leaned real close, and gave him a small red box, covered in lace, and two white rabbits arranged with 180° rotational symmetry, which he told him to only open if he felt truly, unalterably hopeless, or if the reverse was true, a concept on which his Grandpa was cloudy on the specifics of. Grandpa closed his eyes, sleeping on the couch with COPS on in the background as he usually did. Terrance retired, sleeping in his childhood bed for the last time, catching off-glimpses of his empty room.