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ABSTRACT ROCK N’ ROLL WILL SAVE US by Joseph Daniel Thornton Rock n’ Roll Will Save Us is a collection of largely fictional short stories that deal primarily with issues of identity, deception, closeted queerness, heritage and familial legacy. Music critics, ranchers, pre-vet students, and waiters are forced to occupy uncomfortable spaces through circumstance or necessity, but almost never by choice. Others must either confront their own self-deception via delusion, or deal with the implications of the deceptions of others around them. Some must confront the possibility of deceiving themselves or others. Regardless of who they are, all of them must confront themselves and live with the consequences of their actions. ROCK N’ ROLL WILL SAVE US A Thesis Submitted to the Faculty of Miami University in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Arts Department of English by Joseph D. Thornton Miami University Oxford, OH 2015 Advisor: Dr. Joseph R. Bates Reader: Professor Margaret Luongo Reader: Dr. Stefanie K. Dunning TABLE OF CONTENTS ROCK N’ ROLL WILL SAVE US ........................................................................................................................... 1 GOLEM ................................................................................................................................................................... 17 DINNER PARTY ................................................................................................................................................... 23 HOW TO FEEL GUILTY ...................................................................................................................................... 29 FROMAGÈRE ........................................................................................................................................................ 36 PUT IT AWAY ...................................................................................................................................................... 44 GLENN GOULD MISTAKEN FOR GLENN GOULD ........................................................................................ 53 PALPATION .......................................................................................................................................................... 61 GAUDI MAKING HIS PLANS FOR THE SAGRADA FAMILIA ...................................................................... 65 A RESTAURANT .................................................................................................................................................. 67 STEVE MCGINNIS MAKES HIS APARTMENT INTO AN ELTON JOHN RETROSPECTIVE ................ 70 BRIEF HALF-TRUE INSTANCES IN THE LIFE OF MY GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GRANDFATHER JAMES PATRICK THORNTON ......................................................................................................................... 75 ii ROCK N’ ROLL WILL SAVE US I pulled into the parking lot at two in the morning, still slightly buzzed and reeking of alcohol, nicotine, sweat, and shame. I put the car in park and looked down at my white button- down, cursing the fact that it was half-open and buttoned the wrong way. But I was more concerned about the fact that the traces of sweat that was a mixture of my own and Javad’s. His sweat had found its way onto me at an album release party just a few hours ago. He was the lead singer of the up-and-coming local favorite band, Obnoxious Solutions, and they were releasing their sophomore album to as much fanfare as a mid-level band could dream of. I gave it a glowing review in Gluestick. I was too drunk to remember exactly how one thing led to another. It was an open bar for maybe the first two hours. I was three whiskeys in before Obnoxious Solutions even started their set, tearing through a live performance of the new album and then ending with “Light It All Up,” the single from their first album that’d gotten moderate airplay in Athens. I sat at the bar and had a fourth while they played. I’d just ordered my fifth drink when Javad walked up and put his hand on my shoulder, his long fingers almost reaching down to my chest. “You’re him, right? You’re the guy?” “Who?” “The guy from Gluestick?” “Yeah,” I said. “And you’re…?” though I knew who he was. I was surprised he knew who I was, though, and I guess flattered. My picture doesn’t appear with my column or reviews, so someone must’ve told him. And he’d read the thing, obviously. All of this made me feel flattered, and then there were those whiskeys. His arm was still around me so I had to crane my head to look at him. “You’re the guy,” he said. “I am,” I said, “I am the guy.” In the haze of booze and sweat and bodies, I’d somehow gotten backstage with him after that with our tongues wrestling. I pressed him up against the wall as he wrapped his legs around my waist. 1 I got out of the car and went up the stairs inside, almost stumbling on a couple of steps before catching myself. I put my keys in the lock and opened the door, feeling as though every tooth going into every pin sounded like a miniature explosion. I crept through my darkened apartment, not turning on any of the lights, doing my best to take my time and sidestep every creak in the floor, every potential trip-hazard, but I knew every spot where the floorboards creaked. Tasha was a light sleeper, though, so I knew that even though I could slip quietly into bed, there was a good chance that she would notice that. I stood stock-still between the door to the bathroom and the door to our bedroom, where I could make out the lump that I knew was Tasha. I wondered if I should take a shower. How long would it be before she would smell something of Javad’s on me, smell his musk, which was like citrus and cloves? I was sure that I didn’t smell like I usually do, which is that sandalwood smell of a regular Speed Stick. I closed the door to the bathroom and looked in the mirror, quietly wishing to myself that I had never come home. I ran my fingers through my hair and tried to forget about Javad's long fingers running through my thinning red hair as I pulled back on his, kissing his neck. I looked down and noticed that my hands were still visibly shaking. There was no way that I was going to play this coolly. In the shower I tried to scrub Javad away. The hot water almost scalded me. I worried that I was so hot that when I got out of the shower, no matter how much I tried, I wouldn’t be able to get myself to dry off. I was still sweating, even under the water. But was I really sweating because of the heat of the shower, or because of Javad? I watched the water rush down into our slightly clogged drain. I’d only ever felt that way about one other boy, Jordy Marsclione, when I was fourteen. Jordy wore tight pants that skaters wear that let you see everything. His bangs slightly covered his eyes. He sat in the back of Physical Science, his arm absent-mindedly slung over the back of the chair, feet out, spine slowly sliding down the back of the seat. He came there from gym, blonde hair slightly tousled, skin covered in a light mist of sweat. He was beautiful and I wanted to tell him so every time I saw him. But all I could do is sit in my chair and squirm. I never got the guts to ever say it out loud to him. I tried to turn the faucet to get the hot water to scald me, I wanted it to, but I could only feel it getting slightly hotter. The steam billowed out and fogged the windows, and after I was sure that this was as clean as I would get, I stepped out of the shower, dried myself off, and crept 2 slowly into bed in the darkness. I slid into the warm sheets. Tasha, underneath a mound of covers, stirred. I had been so paralyzed the entire time, hoping that she wouldn’t ask about why I’d taken a shower, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t talk to me, that we would just say our pleasantries and I could go to sleep. “How was it?” she sounded half-hearted, but she was also half-asleep, so there was that. “It was good,” I said. I didn’t want to sound like I’d said something too quick. I wondered how much longer I was going to keep this up. I wondered if she’d looked at the bedside clock and knew how late it really was. “I wish I could have gone,” she said. “Oh, you didn’t miss much,” I said. But I could tell that she was already asleep again; her heavy breathing returning, which made me relax. At least I was telling the truth somewhat. Like me, Tasha was already a fan of Obnoxious Solution. Tasha had been in a band as well, a Runaways cover band called Heartless Bitches. When I met her, I was just a student intern at Gluestick, and she was basically Joan Jett sans the husky voice, with more curves and tan. She’d later tell me that she suspected that she was Cherokee, but she’d never bother to see if that was true, which in my naiveté added to her mystique. She was also more self-possessed in so many more ways than I ever could be. After all, she fronted the band and used her mic stand in ways that made me ashamed to be in public, especially when she stuttered out the phrase “cherry bomb.” I was on assignment when I first saw her, covering the goings-on of Athenians altogether uninterested in the success or failure of the football team, which involved going to many house parties. My evenings usually ended up with me attempting to blend in with a crowd of other undergrads amidst a sea of full red Solo cups in a cramped room while a band played and I attempted to discreetly take notes, which was difficult to do shoulder-to-shoulder in an all-too- crowded house and not be noticed. Groups of frat brothers and their girlfriends would take turns staring at me with suspicion, as though I was some undercover reporter doing a think piece for The New Yorker, or some ambitious anthropology student trying too hard to ace his introductory course and impress the instructor.

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