alone ainât always lonely (âspecially not with you)
mike hanlon has known isolation almost his whole life.
he got unwanted attention as soon as his father decided he was old enough to help with deliveries. he was the only black child in derry. henry bowers sure gave him shit for it. his poor dog, too.
by the time, he met his first real friends (meaning ones that responded in sounds he could understand), mike had more or less got used to the silence. the isolation. the loneliness. and then he wasnât alone anymore. afternoons that used to be spent making up new work to do out of boredom or rereading books heâs read more times than years heâs been alive were quickly replaced with afternoons at the quarry in his underwear, jumping into the murky green-grey water. and bike rides turned high-speed chases away from one henry bowers. and eventually sleepovers at stanley uris or bill denbroughâs house.
he was alone, reading books with bill, until georgie got tired of being quiet.
he was alone, beating richie at streetfighter until bowers came in, looking for trouble.
he was alone, doing research with ben until the library closed.
he was alone, skipping rocks with eddie, until he had to get home.
he was alone, buying bev pads so she didnât have to steal or talk to dr. keene.
he was happy.
even after richie and eddie packed up for some college in california. and ben and bev headed off to chase sunsets in chicago.
he had good olâ husson university in bangor. and he had a nice little car, affectionately dubbed âbluebirdâ. and he had big bill and stan the man.
and was never alone again.
he was with stan, kissing bill on his left cheek, in the back of his truck.
he was with bill, cuddled into stanâs side, as he read to them.
he was with them both when they walked across the stage at graduation.
mike hanlon has known isolation long enough to know that alone isnât always lonely.
