The High Road
Where am I?
I know where I am in a physical sense. I am in the basement of Palace, South Park's most popular and frequented night club. The throbbing pulse of the music seems so distant, which I suppose is a bad thing. It's much closer then it sounds.
Kyle looks over at me. It's hard to convey in words what he's trying to say, but I'm pretty sure he's apologizing. I'm too far gone to pay any attention, I lean back and feel the wood chafe against the back of my skull. Everything just fucking sucks right now. Everything. I have nowhere to go. Nothing to do.
No one to live for.
It was a Tuesday awhile ago. I don't exactly remember when. Years, though, I'm fairly sure. One of those days that makes you feel good the moment you step outside, where the sky is an icy clear blue and you get the feeling the wind is cold but you can't really tell because you're very warmly bundled up. I was heading down to Kyle's house to hang out.
I was actually upset at the time. I don't exactly remember about what, probably Wendy. Now that I look back, I spent the best years of my life moping over a bitch who doesn't even matter. Not in the grand scheme of things, at all. Worthless, like me.
Anyway, I rounded the corner and stopped in my tracks. Two police cars were parked outside Kyle's house, one legally and another parallel parked in that serious, dramatic way you generally only see in crime dramas. I was surprised, sure, but even then I don't think I really grasped the gravity of the situation until I saw Sheila.
She looked like a skeleton. And for a woman with her figure, that's truly a near impossible feat. I swear, her eyes were sunken so deep into her head they could've just rolled out the back of her skull. Her skin had the same healthy glow as a dying beached whale.
Officer Barbrady was nowhere to be seen. That made sense, actually, he was sort of retarded and douchebag, so during the more serious cases often times they would send more professional officers from bigger counties. I recognized the ginger-haired officer who'd been around a few times before, but other then that I didn't know the five or six cops scuttling around the place like beetles.
I stood for a little while, not sure if it was okay for me to walk up or not. There was no caution tape, but then again I didn't know if I could just wander on by. When Sheila burst into tears and I still saw no sign of Kyle my mind immediately raced to the worst possible conclusion and I decided to go for it.
"Mrs. Broflovski!" I called out awkwardly, heading over. Ever since Kyle and I were kids she'd asked me to call her Sheila but I'd never gotten quite used to it. Especially now.
She looked up, as did the officer with mousy brown hair who'd been writing something down on his clipboard.
"Hey, hey kid!" He waved his hands in a distracted kind of way. "You're not allowed in here - dammit, Foley, I told you to keep pedestrians out!"
"No, no," garbled Sheila. "He's a...f-friend of my son's, he could...he might know something."
Then she continued with "He and Kyle..." and then descended into a complex language of moans, sobs, and muffled little noises. The police officer next to her offered her a back pat and then recoiled in disgust as her tears hit his jacket.
"What's your name?" The officer asked, looking slightly annoyed and rubbing at his jacket.
"Stan," I told him. "Stan Marsh."
A lick of ice cold wind whipped around the corner and I shivered, shoving my gloved hands into my pockets. "What's going on?"
"Yesterday at around 10 PM," began the officer, flipping through papers. "Ike Broflovski was discovered missing. Were you a close friend of Ike's?"
My first response was relief. Really, that was what this was all about? Preteen kids disappear for a day or two all time. I'd even done it, once or twice, as a kid. Mrs. Broflovski sure knew how to dramatize a situation. "Um, sort of...I'm closer with his brother, Kyle. We're around Ike a lot, though."
"Did anything seem odd about Ike last time you saw him?" The officer asked. His voice sounded a little odd, kind of like those automated messages you get from your school where your name is just inserted in. 'Hello and good evening, parents of South Park High! We're calling to inform you that your child...stuh-an mar-sh...has passed freshman year with flying colors!'
Anyway, this guy sounded like that. Tired. Like he was just spitting out lines, and he could have just as easily said, 'Did anything seem odd about Jimmy last time you saw him?' He said Ike like a tired croak, not a name.
"N-No," I said, thinking back. I'd gone over to Kyle's two days ago to watch Terrance & Phillip. We were way too old for it, but we sometimes still liked to watch to remind us of when we were little kids. "He seemed fine. He wandered into the living room once or twice, I think."
"Nn," grunted the officer. He wrote it down and shrugged. "We may bring you in for questioning later. Just for any additional information."
Then, a blonde officer appeared at the doorway and motioned for the brown-haired officer to come with him and look at something. The two disappeared into the house and a third officer placed a hand on Sheila's back and steered her towards a police car.
I was now unattended. I cast a quick glance around, wondering if anybody would care, and then wandered in. I'd expected something matching the scene outside, caution tape and maybe the outline of a dead body on the floor, but it looked surprisingly...normal. If I hadn't just been outside I would never have been able to tell. Sheila was sitting on the couch, crying, and the officers sat with her. There had been another one loitering around the kitchen, I think, but other then that it was pretty much untouched.
I don't really remember what happened next. I think I stood around awkwardly for a little while, wondering if I should go upstairs. Regardless, I think I did.
Kyle was lying face down on his bed. His door was open, so I did that thing where you step over the threshold of the room and just kind of rap your fingers on the door, even though you're practically inside already.
"Hey," I said, not really thinking of anything to say.
Kyle flinched, presumably because he hadn't known I was there. Then he rolled over so I could see his eyes, which were puffy and bloodshot. He didn't look half as bad as his mother, but he looked pretty wrecked.
"I-I wouldn't worry, dude," I consoled. "What is Ike, now, eleven? His hormones are probably just kicking in, you know, and he's being a rebel and all the little kid stuff."
It was a pretty stupid thing to say, now that I think about it.
"I've been thinking," Kyle said hoarsely. "But it's just...Ike's not that kind of kid, you know? I've been replaying it in my mind over and over, and I just don't think he would do that sort of thing."
There was a long pause.
"I'm really worried, Stan," he said even lower, and I took a few steps further to hear. "I...he talked to me. Before. There were some kids at his school, kids who pushed drugs and shit like that...I told him he should ignore it, but...I told him it was just hormones, Stan. Told him 'boys will be boys'."
"Did you tell the police that?" I asked him.
"Of course I told the police that!" He howled, but I'm fairly sure his anger was directed inward. He rolled over again, burying his face in his pillow. "It'll probably all blow over in a few days. But still, what if...what if he's in serious trouble?"
"It doesn't make sense, Stan," I could distinguish through the muffles. "Ike's always been straight as an arrow. Straight A's, never tardy...oh god, Mom is totally wrecked...her over reaction is infectious."
"It's just one night," I told him, and then I sat down on the edge of the bed and offered a reassuring pat on his calf. Kyle didn't even acknowledge me, just clenched the pillow harder.
For a few minutes Kyle just rambled, replaying events in his head, talking about Ike's character and flaws, descending into mumbles of, "but it doesn't work. On Thursday he ate all his dinner so he couldn't be upset...so it must have happened after then but before Sunday...no, no, on Monday he didn't give Mom a hard time about brushing his teeth...no, that doesn't work...maybe on Tuesday something...no, no that can't be it..."
I sat there like the stupid idiot I was and spat lies. "It's just a boy thing." "He'll be back soon." "I'm sure he's fine." It hadn't been that long, after all. Boys disappear for a day or two all the time, right? I think, despite my charade that this was common and Kyle analyzing it over and over, both of us knew some serious shit had gone down.
Tuesday melted into Wednesday, which in turn melted in Thursday, and so on. By the next Tuesday even I wasn't getting out of bed in the morning.
Seven days of bleary-eyed Kyle wracking his brain for some clue as to where Ike was. Seven days of Sheila sobbing non-stop. Seven days of walked into a house heavy with sadness, where even the air seemed gray and sad. Seven days of a quiet, withdrawn Gerald saying no more then two words. I couldn't stay home, I couldn't abandon Kyle in that hellish pit. But I hated going there, breathing in the same stale air those people were breathing.
I keep trying to think about the first Tuesday, when I stepped out on the porch and my biggest concern was Wendy. I tell myself to go back inside, but instead I turn and wander on down to Kyle's. Turn back. Then I round the corner and I'm reliving it, looking at Sheila by the doorway and seeing Kyle buried in his pillow.
But the worst part, by far, was the redundancy. By the third day the air was so stifled I wished it was the first day again. And by the fifth day I wished it was still the third day, and each day was just this endless thing of me wishing I was in the past, when in fact I'd spent the past wishing I was even farther back.
Anyway, by Thursday it had been nine days. What had started as another angsty pre-teen being rebellious had gone to a possible child abduction case, and now there was never a time when an officer or two wasn't loitering around in Kyle's house.
I headed over Thursday evening. The clear, cold weather was broken up; nowadays shreds of flat clouds stained the sky and in the air hung the telltale sting of a coming thunderstorm. I rounded the corner and smacked into the back of Kenny, who'd been standing on the edge of the corner in the dimming light.
"Oh, hey Kenny," I mumbled, and Kenny looked up at me and dipped his head.
There was a deer across the street. We got them all the time, sometimes they would graze or wander by. On one instance we'd even seen one leap out in front of a car and narrowly escape death. This one was a doe, kind of on the small side, and not doing anything particularly interesting. For about ten minutes, Kenny and I stood on the street corner in the cold dark and watched this deer root around in the half an inch of snow on the ground.
The deer left. Kenny turned towards Kyle's house and I followed wordlessly behind.
"Hey guys," Kyle said from where he was sitting on the porch. The angst was really killing me by this point. I think, even though I hate to admit it, that I was getting a little tired of Kyle's attitude. I mean, you're supposed to take care of your friends when they're depressed. But it had been nine days, and I was starting to get...jealous? I don't even know. All I knew is that things were getting worse and I was just the tiniest bit tired of Kyle getting all the attention.
Selfish, I know. But it's the truth.
"Boys," said Gerald upon watching us enter. "Sheila and I have organized...we've organized an...event, I suppose...for...awareness about..." he trailed off, then realized we all knew who he was talking about and just started over. "It's on Sunday. Can we count on your attendance?"
"Mmhmm," nodded Kenny.
"Of course, Mr. Broflovski," I said stiffly, and Gerald nodded and leaned back into his chair, breathing a long, drawn out sigh.
Kyle swallowed and then something happened, I think. I'm trying very hard to remember, but I can't. We didn't do a lot during those days, Kyle and Kenny and I. Fairly dark. Anyway, days passed and before I knew it, it was time for the "event", as Gerald had so called it. Kyle told me it was marking the fifth day since the police had organized search parties, and the twelfth day since Ike had disappeared.
Mrs. Broflovski had hired a woman to help her plan it, a sort of joint fundraiser and awareness party of sorts? I don't even think party was the right word. Anyway, I tossed in my 20 bucks and my Dad gave a lot more.
"No bright colors, Stan," reprimanded my Mom from the kitchen, smoothing out her black dress. I turned to catch my reflection in the television. I was wearing a black suit with itchy brown shoes and a black tie. I shot a questioning glance back at my Mom.
"Your hat, Stan," she motioned at my trusty hat, poofball and all, perched on my head. I frowned and then took it off, feeling slightly less confident.
"Where's Shelly?" She called out to my Dad, who was fiddling with his sleeves.
I really hated this. A few years ago we'd had to go to a Sunday matinee showing of some movie. My mom had put on that same dress and she'd called for my sister, who had been holed up in her room. This was not a movie. Ike was gone and my Mom was dressed up like this was just another weekend outing. But it wasn't, really, not at all.
"Now, Stan," My Dad turned to me, rubbing the back of his neck. "There's a lot of etiquette involved with...vigils and events like this, I guess. You have to be very polite, okay, Stanley? Be very respectful and keep your head down."
"I know, Dad," I responded mechanically.
These people didn't know Ike. Neither did I, really. This wasn't a joke. Someone was gone. Why was everyone acting so stupid? This wasn't an exciting event. It's not a thing. Ike is gone. It's not a joke and it's not funny. Stop acting like the lint on your dress bothers you, Mom, Ike could be dead. Stop fiddling with your shoes, Dad, there are more important things.
Then Shelly came down the stairs and we all shuffled out of the house like a good little family and piled into the car. I tried to keep a blank but respectful expression on my face, staring at the laces on my shoes.
The car was pretty stuffy, especially because it was my Dad's and we rarely rode it all together. A few years later he ended up getting a new one, but back then he still had his crappy old blue one that squeaked when it moved.
Uncomfortable silence.
The drive was pretty okay, I remember. Shelly stared stiffly ahead and I stared out the window, watched the world speed by. It was gray out, clouds drifted across the sky like big puffy ships. We passed a deer and I idly wondered if it was the same one Kenny and I had watched, back outside Kyle's house.
The vigil was out in a field, which was supposed to be (as the woman helping plan had put it) "mournful, yet dramatic; symbolic of hope". I think some of the drama was taken out of it for me, though, considering Kyle and I had played in this field a lot as kids. That and there were fields all over South Park, the planner had clearly come from the city, where birdsong and snow were considered "rare beauties".
"Hey, dude," Kyle said and then scuffed his feet. He was standing at the edge where cars were jammed in a line, welcoming people. His parents stood behind him a show of solidarity, his mother not crying but on the verge of tears and his father drained. Next to them stood a short woman with curled blonde hair and too-white teeth. She had on a gray skirt and gray suit jacket with a fuzzy white turtleneck underneath.
"Hi, Kyle," I responded automatically, warily eyeing the mysterious woma.
"Hello, you must be Stan," the woman with too-bright teeth smiled at me, straightening her brown suit jacket. "I'm Ellyis Mayer, coordinator of this fundraiser and sympathy get-together. May I direct you to the lawn chair to your right?"
I wanted to slap that bitch across the face, saying things like that in front of Kyle. "Sympathy get-together"? She was a fucking joke, this girl. She'd set up a full circle of metal lawn chairs and two black tables laden with chips and fruit punch. This whole pitiful layout was on uneven, dewey grass that made my feet itch even in their too-big shoes. Pictures of Ike were plastered everywhere, and another "coordinator" was handing out flyers. A make-shift fire pit was at the center of the whole catastrophe, and people in formal clothes were hunched around it, glasses of champagne in hand, looking distastefully at the stains on their expensive shoes.
"This is to promote awareness about Ike Broflovski," Ellyis said to the couple arriving behind you. "Can I put you down for a $200 pledge?"
"I don't even know what this is," Kyle told me, his voice cracking. "That Ellyis woman is just...god, Stan, I don't even know. We got Ike's phone bill from the phone company yesterday. He hasn't called anyone in three weeks. We're doing a bus check tomorrow. Mom's already filed for camera footage from nearby shopping malls."
I didn't know how to respond to that. Even now, years later, I can't think of anything I could have said to lessen Kyle's pain. Ike was gone. It was even weirder, because Ike had never been a big part of my life, you know? Here's this kid, my best friend's brother, who has suddenly become the center of my universe.
Ellyis directed people into chairs and, at one point, directed them in hopeful singing until Sheila broke down again. The entire thing was so pitiful it was excruciating, not to mention embarrassing.
"Let's get out of here," Kyle finally moaned, watching Ellyis comforting a crying woman in a deep purple dress who wasn't even related to Ike.
I should have protested, insisted he stay with his famiy. But watching people donate and then sit around and talk was painful enough that I just nodded. We both casually walked side by side until we were close to the sidewalk and then bolted off, racing down the sidewalk.
"I don't," huffed Kyle, coming to a halt. "I don't like...being around my family...or those...those people."
Again, my throat was dry. No response. Nothing to say. Worthless. Helpless.
"Everything sucks, Stan," Kyle finally finished. "I just...I can't imagine why...or what..."
He repeated everything he'd said before. Ike wouldn't do this. Ike was smart. Ike was nice. Ike was good.
Ike was gone.
We wandered around the town late Sunday afternoon, hands in our pockets. Kyle had what could have been five pounds of flyers, he wandered into shops and asked people to post them on their bulletin boards. Shopkeepers and customers alike expressed their sympathy and soon Ike's face covered more wall space then all of the "Lost Cat" posters combined.
I hate that I can't remember. I hate that I can't relive these moments, can't go over them clearly in my head. I guess I wish there was something I could have done, something I could have said. It was there all along, the perfect solution on the tip of my tongue, and I never got to say it. I was a useless fool, and while Kyle was proactive and good I just wandered along, silent and aimless.
Sunday ended. So did Saturday. Monday started, and I had to go to school. Kyle didn't.
When Kyle wasn't around they whispered, and a few even approached me and asked how Kyle was doing. Cartman was, to his credit, less of an asshole then he usually was - still, when Kyle finally showed up on Tuesday (two weeks since Ike had gone missing) the first words out of his mouth were, "Where've you been, Jew rat?"
When Kyle was around things were worse. People didn't approach me. They didn't want to get caught up in the whirlpool that I had, getting sucked into family matters. They silently offered sad looks and then turned away, back again in their own little bubbles. Kyle was practically a ghost.
More days passed. Twenty days after Ike went missing the case started to fall from public eye. No cell phone calls, no bus records. Ike hadn't been spotted on caught on any security camera in all of Park County. Mrs. Broflovski didn't stop there, of course. I spent that weekend alone: Kyle and his family drove a county down and checked their bus records, too.
On the three-week anniversary of Ike disappearing things were looking extremely grim. Kyle and I didn't really talk about things, we were both so absorbed in our own thoughts, so in a desperate attempt to make him smile I'd busted out my old copy of Monopoly. Pretty tattered and ripped up, but something to fill the void. Kyle and I played with minimal talking. Kyle was the scottie dog. I don't remember what piece I chose.
I turned on the radio. Fill the void, right? If anything, the plastic upbeat pop just made it worse. And the slow songs highlighted the heavy air. After ten minutes or so I turned it back off, and then the silence seemed even more stiff.
"He made a call," sniffed Kyle finally, in a quiet tone.
"What?"
"Mom and Dad don't know this." Kyle told me, his tone even and calm. "But Ike's phone made a call yesterday."