chapter one

            That morning, things were pretty rough.  It was all Maxwell could do to hide his face from his ruthless classmates, let alone pay attention to what Ms. Butternuts was talking about.  Eventually the clock indicated that it was 11:00, and this meant that it was time for lunch.  Maxwell set a direct course to Jimmy’s locker.  There, he would find that Jimmy had been pondering the same very unusual things himself.

            "Okay, so I've been thinking,” said Jimmy, “what if there really isn't a God?  What if we've just been fed a line of baloney all these years and everything we know is actually wrong?  Have you ever thought about any of this?"

            “Um, actually, yes I have.  Just this morning I asked myself the very same question.” Maxwell continued,  “usually I just think about something else because I'm afraid of it not being a very good idea to question God’s existence."

            "Yeah, I feel the same way, but still, I just can't help but wonder." 

            They continued eating their less than appetizing lunches, which on this day was some kind of dog food looking casserole.  Jimmy changed the topic, "I got a new computer last night, it is pretty sweet, you should come check it out."

            "Okay, I will do that.", Maxwell replied, trying not to reveal how jealous this statement made him feel.

            "It's top of the line really." Jimmy continued as Maxwell blocked him out to the best of his ability.  He really didn't care all that much that Jimmy's rich parents got him a new computer that he absolutely didn't deserve.  His mind, as a matter of fact, was stuck on something a little bit different just now.  Jimmy continued jabbering.

            “Do you think that some day we'll ever invent a computer that's completely perfect?  I mean, I wonder if there is a computer that doesn’t need any sort of fixing or updating, and could do anything it wanted.  What would it look like?  It'd have to use almost every molecule in the universe for it's circuitry.  It'd also have to perform like an infinite number of equations in every second.  It'd be capable of anything!  Do you think it's even possible?"

            "I don't know Jimmy, maybe it is."  He couldn't really come up with anything else to say at the moment.  Instead, his mind seemed to return to the original question in the beginning of the conversation.  'Is there a God?', he thought.  'If there is a God, why wouldn't he just reveal himself and put the question to rest?'  As much as he really didn't want to, Maxwell couldn't help but dwell on said conundrum.  He tried to focus as best he could on his lunch; cut food, bring to mouth, open, close, chew, "this is me chewing, this is me swallowing."

            "What are you talking about?  Yes you're eating, congratulations, weirdo."

            "Dammit, Jimmy, why do you have to ask so many questions?  Because of you I can't stop thinking about whether or not God exists!"

            "Sorry man, these are the questions that we must ask, buddy.  The mind is a wonderful thing to waste!"

            “What?” Maxwell replied, confused.

            “I said, the mind is a terrible thing to taste.  Unless you are Hannibal Lector.”

            Too grossed out to continue eating, Maxwell was going to have to try to focus on something else to ease his fraying sanity.  He began to look around the cafeteria, trying to find something with which to divert his attention.  When this didn't seem to work, he began getting somewhat frustrated.  Beads of sweat slowly collected above his brow.  His hands grew clammy and he began to feel deep anxiety slowly filling up his bones. 

            “What is the deal with your eyelids, anyhow?”  Jimmy finally pointed out the elephant in the room.  Maxwell was actually surprised it had taken him as long as it did for him to ask this simple question.

            “I don’t know Jimmy.  I just don’t know.”  And so his eyelid continued twitching, and the existential questions resumed festering.

            Later that afternoon, Maxwell found himself sitting in the back of the classroom, both eye lids twitching, opening and shutting against his best efforts to stop it.  To avoid being seen, he covered his head by putting his hands on his face and his elbows on his desk.  This action only masked the twitching and blinking just slightly, but seeing as how no one seemed to be paying attention to him anyhow, he assumed it would still suffice.

            The situation, the crumbiness as it were, was now snowballing.  While Maxwell was fighting his insubordinate eyelids he just so happened to miss the announcement of a science test scheduled for the upcoming week, as well as two reading assignments that had been scheduled for the following day.  Having received all B's and C's, with one D on his latest report card, he was already in the dog house with his mother.  It wasn't such a long time ago that Maxwell was an all 'A' student.  He absolutely didn’t need this turd of a situation on his plate.

            And the tick-tocking of the clock dragged on and on for what seemed to be like an eternity.  Maxwell began to realize how tiny beads of sweat were now forming and then trickling down his face.  He would always sweat when he became overly anxious, and he was anxious and irritable more by the second.

            The incessant twitching made the classroom seem as if it were running through a video projector. 

             Finally, after many excruciating hours of Ms. Butternut’s droning voice, just as the class was coming to a close, Maxwell looked at the clock right as the bell sounded.   'Hanging in a chow line, good times,' he sighed to himself.  He quickly made his way to his locker so as to avoid running into as many people as possible.

            As he was walking out of the classroom he realized he had never been to Jimmy’s home.  He found it odd considering that there would be much more to do at his house than at his own less than opulent abode.  But then again, Maxwell had only invited Jimmy to his own house once.  And he did so in spite of the fact he would feel embarrassed for his friend to see the contrast of their respective living situations.

            Jimmy approached Maxwell at his locker.  He was spouting off about how a majority of the whalers off “pre-industrial revolution” Long Island were African Americans.  Maxwell wanted to listen because he was always fascinated by what Jimmy said, but his mind was particularly unsettled and uncooperative at the moment.  They walked across the street to an abandoned building Maxwell had set his sights on a couple weeks ago.

            "Dude, whats going on with your face?" Jimmy asked, "It looks like you've got  Tourette's Syndrome or something," he said affectionately.

            "I don't know what the hell it is," Maxwell responded, "my face went spastic on me.  It has been doing this all day long!" 

            "Wow, that’s kinda weird."  He looked closer at Maxwell who then stepped back anxiously, "One is twitching more than the other one!  I wonder why it's doing that?", Jimmy was inquiring this as he moved his head closer and closer to Maxwell's. 

            "I don't know!", Maxwell said, swatting at his friend like a gnat.  "Can you please get your head out of my face?"  He didn't know what was more annoying, the continual blinking of his eyes or Jimmy, who never seemed to be able to stop talking.

            "It makes you look kinda crazy," Jimmy said.  "You look like this guy I saw on the television once who was in a hospital full of lunatics.  He s-st-stammered like th-th-this and he ha-had the exact s-s-same th-thing happening to his f-face th-thaat's happening to your f-face right now, but he also bobbed his head up and down really fast, as if he were always agreeing with someone."      

            Maxwell began to chuckle as Jimmy reenacted the scene.

            "Hey, maybe you really are going crazy or something!", Jimmy shouted, "I hear that they give you really good medication for being crazy!"

            "Shut up you moron!", Maxwell said as he looked around the swingset, paranoid.  No one seemed to be paying any attention.  The playground was bustling with activity in every direction.

            "Look, I'm not going insane, okay?  This is just a twitch, you know?  Haven't you ever had a twitch before?  It'll go away soon enough.  It’s probably nothing, so stop talking about it!"

            "Jesus H. Christ, Maxwell," said Jimmy, "you sure are moody today, aren't you buddy?  Is it just that it’s that time of the month again?  Are you cycling Maxwell?  Did you forget your 'Max-i-pad'?"  Jimmy motioned mockingly back towards Maxwell with eyes squinting and hands rubbing away fake tears.

            "Jimmy, STOP!  You're like a fungus!  You’re athlete’s foot.  You’re a fungus among us.”

            The two approached the derelict building and briskly walked to a spot that Maxwell knew needed adjusting.  It was also a good spot because it was in a recessed part of the side wall, and it would be very hard to see him “at work.”  Jimmy pulled off his backpack, unzipped it, and flipped a black spray can into Maxwell’s hands. 

            “Ok, we don’t have a lot of time.  My mom should be here in 10 minutes.  You stand right here.  Maxwell pointed to the ground beneath his feet.  “If you see anyone approaching, or if anyone sees you and looks suspicious, let me know so we can bolt.”

            “Ten four, good buddy.”  And just like that, Maxwell uncapped the spray can, and started unloading paint in sweeping, arching movements across the façade of the building.

            Ten minutes later, the boys sat idly in the swing set.

            Just like clockwork, a car pulled up into the parking lot.  It was Maxwell's mother, Joyce.  Maxwell opened the door and his mother immediately noticed the twitch.

            "Are you okay, honey?", she asked.

            "Yes mom, I'm fine.  My face just started doing this today.  I don't even know what's going on!"

            "Baby dear, it must be all the stress," his mother sighed, "you've been through a lot in the past year and it must be starting to catch up to you!" 

            Jimmy chuckled as he chimed in, "I know baby dear, we are so worried."  Both Maxwell and his mother looked at Jimmy scornfully.

            "What?" Jimmy said.

            "Don't you have a bus to catch, douche-bag?"

            "Language, Christopher!  We must watch our language!"

            "Yeah, Maxwell, listen to your elders!  Watch your language!"  

            "Jimmy!" Maxwell and his mother both shouted at the same time.

            "Okay, okay.  I'm gone."  And just like that, Jimmy was off.

            “You are going to have to explain to your mother how a bag of feminine hygiene product is a disparaging name to call another,” his mother remarked as she drove the car towards home.     

           

            As much as he hated to admit, his mother was right about the stress.  Truth be told, it had been a very unusually stressful year.  It all began when his ....Maxwell’s thoughts trailed off. 

            Why had it been a stressful year?   He was at a new school, and he had to adjust to a new home out in the middle Deliverance country.  And of course there was this 'other' thing.  It was something Maxwell didn't really like to think about.  Having to meet new people wasn’t an easy task in the first place, and as probability would have it, there seemed to be an exceptionally large idiot to normal human being ratio at his new school. 

           He tried to mind his own business.  Minding your own business, as he would find, doesn’t always mean that business won’t find you.  Maxwell certainly got picked on every now and then, but mostly he went completely unnoticed.  He was just another face in the crowd.  

           The ride home was quiet.  Maxwell was glad to be done with the day.  He was finally going to get a chance to relax and watch some television.

            "It’s Thursday Maxwell, so you know what that means.  We're going to go to church tonight."

            Upon hearing these words, expletives began flying through Maxwell's head.  It now became obvious that he was not going to get to relax after all, and he was definitely not going to get to watch any television.  His eyelids continued to convulse uncontrollably.  

            He started thinking to himself how he didn't really want his mother to know that he didn't really want to go.  She'd been through a lot in the past year herself, and he always tried to keep that in perspective, so he looked at her and said, "That’s great, mom," then after a brief pause, "I'll look forward to it."

             Maxwell was even slightly ashamed in this moment. He was lying to his mother.  He had to because she wouldn’t be able to understand.

              In this moment he knew that he was a poser and Maxwell very much hated posers.

              'I'm not looking forward to it at all, thank-you-very-much.  I definitely don't understand what anyone gets out of going to such a place.  I don't get 'it' whatever 'it' is, because all this preachy stuff simply doesn't seem to speak to me very much.'  All these things he thought, but none of it really made any difference.  And he would tell his mother if he could, but he couldn’t as this would present an obvious set of problems.

              He was definitely going to go to church. 

              Maxwell didn't like being phony with his mother.  After he and his mother ate dinner, they cleaned the table and did the dishes, then got back inside the vehicle and drove to church. All the while Maxwell's eyelids continued to twitch.    

 'St. Joseph's Catholic Church'  

              These words were inscribed on the keystone of the door leading into the chapel.  Inside, there wasn’t much activity.  It was a small congregation, this, and the building itself was indicative of the parish size as it was no bigger than a duplex. 

              The priest was a middle aged man named Father Wimbly.  Father Wimbly, much like Ms. Butternut, had a certain predisposition for wantonous ramblings.  It wasn't as if what he had to say that was boring, 'per se', but his delivery was sometimes lacking.  Every now and then he'd even forget what he was saying, would fumble his words while giving his homily, and ultimately freeze on the spot.

             It was a really painful thing to watch when it happened.

             Maxwell felt bad for the man, first of all because he'd never before experienced biblical knowledge of a woman (so far as Maxwell could assume, since Catholic priests are pledged to celibacy), and secondly because he was just so awkward. 

            In a way, Maxwell felt like he really had a connection to Father Wimbly for whatever reason.  He connected with him in the sense that they were both outsiders, not really well understood.  He felt a tinge of sadness as he imagined how lonely Wimbly must be.  Even though he doesn't have much of a personality, he still needs some form of social contact, Maxwell thought.

Blink, blink.  Twitch, twitch.

            And so Maxwell's mind continued wandering from thought to thought.  He of course tried to pay attention to what Father Wimbly was saying, but this never seemed to last very long as Maxwell's mind would soon race right back to the clouds from which it came.  Every now and then he'd pick up on something Father was saying, but it wouldn't make much sense considering it would always be entirely out of context.  Before long, he'd eventually find himself thinking about something else  Some might consider this condition Attention Deficit Disorder.

            Mass proceeded onward into the mid-afternoon. 

            Just when things couldn’t be any more boring, and for no apparent reason, Maxwell looked up just as Father Wimbly was closing his homily, and the two made eye contact. 

            "We take a look at the gospel of John and we see that the Lord is both the truth, the light, and the way.  He's a messenger, and he's receiving this message from the Holy Spirit.  For all of those who believe that Jesus Christ was turned into a human to save all of mankind, to be made into the ultimate sacrifice, we are guided by this light.”

              Eye contact continued.  “This 'light' is the light of God's love, and those who have this understanding of Christ, know this love and have a true experience of Christ within this love."          Then Father Wimbly suddenly stopped.  He was still looking directly down at Maxwell.  This made Maxwell deeply uncomfortable as he could feel his cheeks blush and his glands begin to sweat. 

            Finally, Maxwell was able to break free from Wimbly’s creepy mind lock. He looked around to see if anyone else had noticed.  All eyes were facing forward towards the altar.  Maxwell looked back at Father Wimbly who was now walking around and looking elsewhere, talking, again, to his congregation.

            This was all very strange to Maxwell.  He simply couldn't help but think that Father Wimbly had been talking directly to him.  Furthermore, the words he'd spoken seemed to bounce around in his head like a rubber ball, resonating within like no other homily before.  Back and forth, up and down, all around his cranium. 'The lord is the truth, the light, and the way?, The message?, The Holy Spirit?,  A sacrifice?'  Why did these words seem to stick out to him, and what did they really mean, anyway? 

            The twitching and the blinking became even more pronounced.  His mother glanced at him nervously while shifting in her seat, then looked forward again.  Maxwell noticed this, but he was too preoccupied with what he'd just experienced to worry about what his mother was thinking of him.  He didn't even seem to notice how rapidly his eyelids were now twitching.

            After the service concluded, Father Wimbly began shaking hands in fellowship with the congregation as they left the building.  When Maxwell came by to shake Father Wimbly's hand, Father said nothing more than, "peace be with you, Maxwell," then quickly moved on to the next person. 

            'Perhaps,' Maxwell thought to himself, 'I'm making this situation out to be more than what it really is.  It's probably just a coincidence that we happened to make eye contact at the very same moment, when I just so happened to actually be paying attention.' 

            He and his mother drove off into the night without speaking a word.  Once they arrived home and he put his stuff away, his mother kissed him on top of the head as she sent him to bed.  He climbed into his covers and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.