The book of stan, p.1
The Book of Stan, page 1
The Book of Stan
David Ewald
Copyright © 2024 by David Ewald
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN-13 (trade paperback): 979-8-9889795-2-4
ISBN-13 (ebook): 979-8-9889795-3-1
The author would like to thank Valerie Sayers, Michael Lidbetter, Kieran Kennedy, William O’Rourke, and Jervey Tervalon for their invaluable assistance with early drafts of this novel.
Excerpts from “The Thunder, Perfect Mind,” translated by George W. MacRae, 1979, Brill Publishers. Used by permission.
The Book of Stan is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
for Karen and for Jeffrey
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
About the Author
One
I sing a song for my sister, who used to be my brother, who sings a song for me.
I wander through darkness under the eye of the sun, a sinner without sin, a Man purified and tainted, blasphemous and blest, reverent and profane, alone and befriended.
I go door to door campaigning for The Savior, he who will unite our country. October now, cobwebs on cacti, the crunch of rocks underneath my combat boots. I hold The Book and nothing else. The Book is all I need. That and my smile. And the promise of The List.
“I’m not interested,” the young pregnant woman, so like a Social star, so like her kind, says in the doorway.
“Hear me out,” I say.
“Sorry,” she says, and the door takes her place.
In that terrifying moment of being shut out—again—I think of stomping, like a Man should, in the space about to be closed off. My boot a doorjamb. I hesitate a moment too long, and the door slams, followed by the sound of a driven deadbolt.
I am fearful and I am to be feared.
I am so much stronger and I am still weak.
Perhaps if I told the young pregnant woman about Jeremy, Jer, Jeri, she would understand why I campaign for the man she will vote for in November. Perhaps if I explained what brought me here to The Valley, a new valley I have made my home, she would not be affronted by my rangy frame, my cracking smile, my unkempt beard, the scraggly hair that falls to my shoulders. She would not be affronted by my combat fatigues and boots, nor would she be affronted by my words. She would not be affronted by The Book. She would see that I am not packing anything but Peace—Peace between the sexes, Peace between our country’s two sides. She would see what I have seen, felt what I have felt, and she would understand.
Understand this: A month after the Supreme Court handed down its decision in Obergefell vs. Hodges, Jeremy and I hiked out to the Devil’s Punchbowl. It was my idea, and my brother followed. Across the horizon the sun broke like a promise as I revved up my new truck and tore off through the San Diego Country Gems. At the Chaparral Falls trailhead on Rushing Road, I set the parking brake and put up the reflective visor. Before I could exit, my brother placed a hand on my arm.
“Let this be the end of it,” he said.
“It will be,” I affirmed.
Jer looked me in the eyes for the first time since we’d met days earlier at San Diego International. His smile failed to reveal his teeth. I felt his hand—his big forceful hand. My hand. As if daring me to withdraw my arm. As if he knew.
I brought my phone out. My brother did the same. Several notifications alerted me to the attention generated by my latest post on all my channels, originated on my site From Adam. The comments were coming in, my followers pleased as pugilists. I’d written again about the ‘90s, that glorious decade when the president got head in the White House, Baywatch dominated the screen, no Hooters employees dared file a lawsuit, and women didn’t question the Victoria’s Secret clothing line. Two decades later, much of that glory had faded if not altogether vanished. In 2015, men had the right to swim against these shifting currents. We would not be dragged out to sea, a one-way ticket on the Tahiti Express. We’re not pigs, I wrote. We’re Americans exercising our right to free speech. In this country we can say whatever we want, and those who don’t like our views can tune us out at their peril.
As usual, several comments came from the knee-jerk reactionaries, the Eves, those touchy-feely sad-sacks who always read into my writing, found some sinister hidden meaning, a call to arms, a threat of—get this—domestic terrorism. Stan Pangborn, a domestic terrorist! I meant no such thing. And what if I did? Would it matter? The likes, the shares, the views kept increasing. I write lies and the truth. That’s all that matters.
Jeremy smiled at his screen. Something from Eric, no doubt.
I knew no one.
He smiled as if he knew.
—They, Stan.
Not now. Okay?
—My pronoun…
Enough.
—Don’t you know: I am the bride and the bridegroom.
Not that again.
—And it is my husband who begot me.
Whatever.
—See, brother: two can play your game.
It’s no game. It’s—
Jeremy abruptly threw open his door and exited my truck. He retrieved his backpack and slung it over one shoulder. For a time I kept him in the rearview mirror. He could have left without me. He didn’t need me. We’d been ready to part ways our entire life.
The volunteer at the trailhead checked our permit. “You’re the first,” she said. “Maybe the only. You sure you want to be out there? It’s supposed to get close to a hundred today.”
“No sweat,” I assured her.
“We’ll be back before we fry,” Jeremy added.
The volunteer nodded and waved us on. When we were at an acceptable distance, Jeremy said, in a low voice, “Annoying.”
“Her lack of faith in us?”
“The fact that we have to even have a permit now.”
“A kid died, Jer. Four years ago…”
“But to pay now…. Remember when there was no one, when we went alone together?”
“I’ll always remember,” I said.
“With any luck,” Jer said, “the heat’ll keep everyone away.”
Twenty minutes in and the sun was beating down hard. We did not stop and turn back but marched ahead, as if we were kids again. The valley wide and vacant with the remnants of recent wildfires I found beguiling, beautiful, the way the earth’s scars recalled the blackened bushes and fallen trees of our youth. When we were young, we were all too impressionable—and I had stayed so. Another fire will sweep through soon, I thought. Redeemed in The Valley of the Cleansed. We both will be forgiven.
We were 36 years old and minutes apart. Jeremy stood six-two and weighed a little over 200 pounds. His transitioning had caused him to gain weight since I’d last seen him. His body was changing. I had last seen him with his hair grown out and his fingernails long, but now I noticed his walk was different, he carried himself as if he’d been born into a new body and was just beginning to take comfort and achieve confidence. Most conspicuous of all—to me, to anyone who cared to notice—were the dual points rising through his shirt. Her shirt.
—Their shirt, Stan. Their.
I’m not going to try to understand this now.
—You never will.
I will. I’ve started.
—The Church of the Manifested is nowhere near “getting started.”
Don’t bring The Church into this. I’m trying to tell this the way it should be told.
—Sure you are.
Let me tell this story, damnit.
—Have at it.
I assumed the therapy was working. We were splitting in appearance, no longer identical.
—Am I going to have to set your story straight?
Silence accompanied us—
—Go ahead, Stanley. Ignore me.
—and I was beginning to suspect. My brother’s mind might not have been entirely preoccupied with the high court’s decision that he and Eric had been anticipating for months, years. The decision they’d known would fall in their favor.
—He and Eric? The truth, brother. Only the—
“I agree the permit sucks,” I said. “No climbing anymore, no jumping…”
“But Stan…the kid who died, remember?”
“One death out of how many people jumping? Diving? Falling? In how many decades?”
“That we know of,” my brother, my sister, said. “It’s gotta be called the Devil’s Punchbowl for some reason.”
Jeremy’s arm shot out across my stomach and held me back. I looked up and saw farther ahead what would have been my death: a rattlesnake crossing the baked and cracked trail in no hurry. Under my breath I thanked my brother, my sister. We waited, the heat rising through my Cowboys cap. This wait will be worth it, I said. Not my death.
A little over an hour later, with the sun in full force, we reached the trail’s end: the Devil’s Punchbowl, known officially as Chaparral Falls. I had chosen a Thursday on purpose, hoping there would be at most only a few hikers present at the nearly dry natural basin, but Invincible Father smiled on me this morning: no one was in sight. Jeremy caught me grinning.
“You’re really thinking of jumping, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“They’ll fine you for that.”
“Government takes even more of my money. What’s new? I don’t see anyone watching me. Unless you’re going to snitch…”
“Who, me?” Jer said, taken aback I would even think of him (her) that way. “You do you, bro.”
“We’ll do it together.”
“I’m not climbing with you.”
“Like when we were kids. Together. Unless you’ve changed…”
Jeremy took a moment. At last he raised his eyes to stare me down. “I haven’t changed,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Despite this being the end of July and the start of another brutal round of heat, the Punchbowl wasn’t as dry as I’d expected. Though low, the water level was tolerable for swimming, the surface dark and rippling. Jer and I scrambled over boulders, smoother and smoother as we neared the natural pool. Reaching the edge, we gazed into the water. Jer touched my back. I allowed this, though I wouldn’t look at him, her. My line of vision widened to take in the top of the waterfall, a trickle flowing down the cliff face. When we were kids, the cliff was not as slanted, not as much of a chute carrying the water into the basin. Years and years of natural erosion as well as daredevil buffoonery from those interested in partying instead of preserving nature had turned the attraction into a towering slide. That wouldn’t be the way to go, I thought.
“We’re going to the top,” I announced.
“The very top. That’s like a hundred feet.”
“I’ve never been all the way up there.”
“There’s a reason for that, you know.”
“Jer…”
“What?”
“I wish you’d show me…”
“That I can be like you?” Jeremy said. “Someone you’ll approve of?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You’re right. What am I saying? You don’t even approve of yourself.”
“All right. We won’t go up.”
“Oh no,” Jer said. “After all this hot fuss I’m not chickening out. Let’s go. Just watch my back. If rocks start to give out anywhere, let me know, okay?”
We left the pool for the side of the cliff face. A tenuous path had been carved out long before. Stones formed steps our feet took with caution. I heaved and puffed as I grasped rock after rock, tested each to make certain it would not come loose, and pulled myself up farther. My brother’s, my sister’s, rear end was the last thing I wanted to see as I ascended, but it had to be if I was to succeed. He, she, had to go first.
Jeremy gestured to a smooth flat outcrop jutting over the natural pool some distance below. “Last chance, Stanley.”
“Heights were never your thing.”
“They weren’t yours either. I’m surprised you’re such a jack rabbit with this.”
“I’m driven,” I said, and I
—I know all the awful thoughts you’re driven by. Almost all the awful thoughts.
grasped what looked to be solid support. Instead the rock came loose, I could feel my body pulling back and away, and if I were to fall and even injure myself my mission would fail. I would not miss that flight.
The self-styled video game king of Gordon Lawrence Elementary saved himself that July morning; all that thumbing around on the controllers, developing hand-to-eye coordination, paid off. My free hand dropped the rock and, within the span of a second, had clung—granted, with just my fingertips—to a new, blessedly stable handhold.
My brother, my sister, asked if I still wanted to continue.
“Now more than ever. I’ve never seen the entire valley. You know this is our last time here.”
—You remember how his hand felt—
Shut up. Shut. Up. Just give me your hand already.
With my brother’s (sister’s) support I flopped on level ground. Now the sun’s stroke was inescapable, we were splayed out, ready for the roasting.
“Have to eat quick,” Jeremy said.
“Just give me a moment,” I wheezed.
Together we stood on top of the Devil’s Punchbowl, the valley spread out before us, the mountains on the horizon stretching like a giant’s toes.
To our immediate left, water flowed in a weak stream to the edge of the cliff and then cascaded over. I didn’t want to venture close to the edge, but I had to. Just a glance. Forgetting my guard for a moment, forgetting what my brother (my sister) could do to me just as I would do to him (to her), I stepped forward on ginger feet and peered far, far down into the basin. Over a hundred foot drop. Still no one on the rocks below. No one paddling around in the natural pool. No one to watch us.
A woman’s voice pierced the quiet. “Hold it right there!”
At the sound I scrambled—and nearly went over the edge. I turned to see my brother, my sister, cackling wildly.
“Got you, Stan.”
“I should’ve known that was you.”
I passed my brother, my sister, by and knelt for my backpack. He, she—
—They.
She approached the edge. And I thought, watching her, watching him, this will see me through halfalife, as I come not with a sword but with a screen.
The doorbell rang, just as I knew it would. Opening up, I was confronted with two missionaries, Brannigan and Raybury, members of Madeline’s church, the Church of the Manifested.
“You wanted to see us,” Brannigan said. He was 21 or 22 at most, tall with blond hair, oil well eyes and a brawny build. His mouth made a small sucking sound. Raybury, his companion, younger, shorter, slighter with close-cropped dark hair and a narrow acne-ridden face, offered up a wan smile and a hello of sorts. Both young men were dressed alike: short-sleeved dark blue dress shirts, beige slacks and brown dress shoes. Their name tags were pinned across their hearts. Underneath each name was etched the acronym CotM.
Brannigan stared at me hard before squinting his deep eyes, as if trapping a particle with his lids, and then his eyes snapped open, the light let in by God, and those coolly observant eyes drew me in, made me regret and hope anew. Raybury turned his attention to the American flag welcome mat and, like a child who’s been reprimanded but still wants his way, prodded the mat with the toe of his spotless shoe. The missionaries remained on the threshold.
I invited them in. It had to be quick so I wouldn’t have time to reconsider my plan. Once they were inside I showed them through the economy-sized kitchen, the darkened living room that most days managed to avoid the sun, the dining room with its large table at which Simone and I so often ate in silence while the imposing TV spoke for us. The TV was again speaking that afternoon, men around a fetus-shaped desk predicting outcomes in the next day’s UFC Fight Night. Machida versus Romero. My money was on Romero. I left the TV on but muted the drum and the fife. Looking around, taking in the TV, the missionaries expressed appropriate approval and awe, compounded when they entered my bedroom at back. Here they saw my king-size bed in the corner, the movie posters (Taxi Driver, The Godfather, Swingers, Gladiator) tacked to the walls, above the bed the wide bay window looking out on the ocean. The open slider allowed a breeze into the room. The partially blinded sun played and danced on the mattress like leaves in autumn. I watched these alternating shards of light for a time, lulled by a memory of a vast and warm lawn, a sunflower’s shadow stretched across the grass.
“You’re the only one living here?” Raybury asked.
“Most nights I’m not alone,” I said, “but, yes, this is my place and only mine. It’s what happens when you work your way up in the ranks at a profitable company.”
“What’s your job?”
“My career,” I said, “is marketing manager. Wasn’t easy getting to that position…”
“I’m sure.”
“But I stuck it out, and now I make bank.”
“Sorry to point this out,” Brannigan said, “but it’s important for moving forward. You look like you’re in your thirties.”
