A Danger to Others: On Teddy Wayne’s ‘Loner’

September 29, 2016 | 1 book mentioned 5 7 min read


Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table…

covercoverTeddy Wayne is drawn to loners. His debut novel, Kapitoil, chronicled a brilliant young immigrant’s attempts to penetrate the lingual and interpersonal density of New York’s Financial District. Wayne’s next book, The Love Song of Jonny Valentine, followed an 11-year-old pop star on tour as his manager/mom slipped him pills and arranged publicity-driven “dates” with other fun-sized celebs. Each narrator failed (for the most part) to burst through his respective bubble and connect with others. Each book pulled double duty as amusing character study and troubling social commentary.

Which brings us to Loner (Simon & Schuster), Wayne’s latest first person, voice-driven, cautionary tale of societal ill. Like Love Song, the specter of J. Alfred Prufrock looms over this story — but this time Prufrock heralds more doom than gloom.

Harvard freshman David Alan Federman seems harmless enough at first, flipping words around in his head (e.g., David becomes Divad) and flopping conversationally. He bemoans his “blandly all-purpose name” and his no-purpose body — “a rectangular vacuum of charisma.” He checks his jacket for pee because he was bullied as a kid, which affords him some sympathy. David’s voice is off-putting (“quite a fancy prose style,” says a teacher; “Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse,” says T.S. Eliot), but in the early going his quirks seem like comic relief. His fashion sense comes to mind:

Earlier that week my mother had dragged me to the mall, where I’d decided to adhere, for now, to my usual sartorial neutrality of innocuous colors and materials. It would socially serve me these first few weeks to look as benign as possible, the type of person who could be friends with anyone.

(Or no one.)

David just seems like a lowly nerd with an inflated sense of academic and romantic prowess, which he may have inherited from his mother. Her advice on move-in day? Just be yourself. “You can’t go wrong being yourself,” she says, like a guidance counselor telling a student he can’t go wrong becoming a bathroom attendant, or a coach telling Andre Drummond he can’t go wrong getting to the free throw line.

There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create…

Mrs. Federman’s naivete will prove bottomless, plummeting alongside David’s depravity. A beautiful classmate reveals David’s true colors, and they are far from innocuous.

Veronica Morgan Wells is a wealthy pill-popping fox with a chip on her shoulder. David and other men fight and drool over her as if she’s prey: a thing to catch, possess, devour. His feelings for Veronica ferment overnight into a toxic obsession that drives the book, crushing any remaining hope that Loner will be a dramedy, or that David will redeem himself.

David Facestalks, he shadows Veronica around campus, he enrolls in her Prufrock class. He starts seeing Veronica’s roommate, Sara, only for her proximity to his prize. (Which stings even more given how real Sara feels as a character, and the many small ways she endears herself to the reader.) He piles lies on top of lies and commits academic fraud. He imagines Sara is Veronica while fooling around with the former. Later, “unbidden,” he pictures pushing Sara into oncoming traffic. At which point I wrote in my notes, “Is he going to MURDER HER?” (I meant Veronica, but Sara wouldn’t have surprised.)

David is in fact a psychopath, as made plain in his breakup with Sara, which lands a little too squarely on the nose:

“No,” she said stoically. “You don’t care about me. I don’t think you’re capable of caring about anyone besides yourself.”
“I’m not sure where you’re getting that,” I said.
“You’re missing whatever it is that makes you feel things for other people,” Sara said.

If that’s not confirmation enough: David also gets off on making girls cry. When Sara weeps, he rises. Not sure that’s how psychopathy works (I’m sure it’s how something works, for someone), but it is an effective way to peck away at those last few bits of sympathy for the narrator.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me…

Like Seung-Hui Cho, Dylan Klebold, and Eric Harris, David Alan Federman is a victim of bullying with a disdain for jocks. (He describes a pair of baseball players as “entitled athletes who chased openmouthed after fly balls like Labrador retrievers.”) And like that axis of evildoers, he deeply resents his anonymity.

Perhaps even more than he wants to capture Veronica and inhabit her world, David wants to be known. (At one point he whimpers, “A fictional character had left more of a mark on this place than I ever would.” He means Harvard, but could just as easily mean Earth.) It’s hard to separate David’s twin desires because a large part of Veronica’s allure for him is that, if they dated, she would pull him into her apex orbit:

My parents made good salaries practicing law, but didn’t come close to the assets of your families, where a crack about tuition and parking would never even come to mind, let alone be verbalized…You had traveled widely, dined at Michelin-starred restaurants without parental supervision, matriculated at schools with single-name national reputations, ingested designer drugs and maybe had a cushy stint in rehab.

But it wasn’t just your financial capital that set you apart; it was your worldliness, your taste, your social capital. What my respectable, professional parents had deprived me of by their conventional ambitions and absence of imagination.

David wants Veronica for all the wrong reasons, and we know he will never have her. The only question is how exactly — and how terribly — he will exact his revenge. The title, Loner, suggests a killer’s profile: “Kept to himself,” “He was always really quiet,” etc. David doesn’t own a gun or don a trench coat, but as the story morphs into a page-turner, the reader senses a deadly trajectory.

But [spoiler alert] red herrings abound. For all the talk of murdering poor Sara (it’s a running joke) — and all Wayne’s sprinkled hints that David has written this 200-page letter pre-suicide, post-massacre, and/or behind bars (“A lifetime on the inside of a jail cell flashed before my eyes. (Ha.)”) — there won’t be blood. David is not Seung-Hui Cho, or Dylan Klebold, or Eric Harris (or at least, he’s not only them). A more apt parallel is Brock Turner.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

Loner is not about bullying’s bloody aftermath, or how Mental Health Services can do more to thwart shootings on school campuses. It’s about men — in particular, white men of privilege — feeling entitled to women’s bodies, and how that is heinous and psychopathic, and how these particular men are immune to remorse and repercussion.

David Federman does not kill anyone, but (on separate occasions) he rapes Sara and tries to rape Veronica. From his warped perspective, these women have teased and manipulated him, and he will reap what he is “owed.”

Sara is too drunk to fight back, and Veronica’s struggles only power David’s conviction, “my legs doubling in size, my body lengthening and massing as you shrank in direct proportion under me. But this is how you wanted me to act all along, isn’t it.” The implication is clear: You’re saying no, but you mean yes. You want me to take this. You’ve wanted this all along.

(A year after Kobe Bryant’s accuser dropped the rape charges against him, Bryant penned an apology: “I recognize now that she did not and does not view this incident the same way…I now understand how she feels that she did not consent to this encounter.” Please read and consider “The Legacy of the Kobe Bryant Rape Case.”)

As the police cuff him and stuff him into the back of a squad car, David basks in his newfound infamy while the “cinematic montage of [his] future” unspools before him:

…A British tabloid would give me the libelous sobriquet “the Harvard Rapist”; the Parisian press would speculate about a ménage a trois gone wrong. The frozen, lopsided smile from my Freshman Register photo would fuel their fascination. The white male with whom everyone would become obsessed.

I would listen, deadpan, as the foreman read the jury’s decision in my televised trial for attempted rape. A verdict of guilty for the Harvard Rapist, David Alan Federman. Famous David.

But — as with the real-life cases of Brock Turner (the Stanford Rapist) and 18-year-old David Becker—justice is not forthcoming. David’s parents are attorneys, after all, and he’s a man of privilege. His lawyer says Veronica consented, and there is little physical evidence to dispute him. If the case goes to trial, Veronica’s name will leak and the media will pounce, shredding her character (as they did Bryant’s victim’s, among others’). David pleads to a lesser offense, agrees to stay away from Veronica for five years, and gets off scot-free.

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas…

By establishing David as a psychopath and giving him the markings of a killer, Teddy Wayne elevates (or lowers) the crime of rape to murder’s level. By the end, David’s actions seem no less dreadful for their lack of fatality.

In the case of Brock Turner, both the judge and Turner’s father painted the accused as a normal college kid who simply got carried away after one too many beers — the Boys Will Be Boys defense. Dan Turner despicably called his son’s six-month sentence “a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action.” Judge Aaron Perksy, who attended Stanford, claimed a prison sentence “would have a severe impact” on the guilty party (which is kind of the point?) and said, “I think he will not be a danger to others.”

In his apology to the victim and the Court, Turner himself blamed peer pressure and binge-drinking, stating, “I’ve been shattered by the party culture and risk taking behavior that I briefly experienced in my four months at school.” He’s been shattered? That is not remorse. That is not empathy. That is the apology of a psychopath — someone who very much will be a danger to others. (A wisp of a silver lining: Judge Persky no longer hears criminal cases, and a petition to impeach him has amassed 1.3 million signatures.)

Loner highlights the outsize influence of class on justice, but it’s also a chilling commentary on gender politics. Veronica (who is from an even higher class than David) can afford a top attorney, and she has an eyewitness (female) who saw David try to rape her. Yet she can’t hold him — or her possessive ex, or the sleazy TA with whom she’s having an affair — accountable because he is a man and she is a girl. She must have misunderstood a consensual encounter, or forgotten to take her pills that day, or taken too many. She must crave money (she has plenty) or attention (of the worst possible kind).

Teddy Wayne holds up the Ivy White Male card as the ultimate trump. He means to slap awake a country that glorifies wealth; deifies men; objectifies women; and treats victims of sexual assault like sluts, kooks, and gold-diggers. The story barely qualifies as fiction, and it arrives on our shelves just in time.

is a writer from Virginia whose work has appeared in McSweeney's, Paste, Los Angeles Review of Books, The Toast, The Billfold, and New York magazine's Science of Us. Follow and maybe later unfollow him on Twitter @evoooooooooooo.


  1. I think you could call Wayne’s character is a psychopath, from the way he’s described here. (I use that last qualification because haven’t read ‘Loner’ yet–though on the strength of this piece it’s joined my to-read list.) You could also say Brock Turner’s actions were psychopathic. But I hesitate to call Brock Turner a psychopath, because I don’t think his actions were driven by mental illness or a malevolent lack of caring about other people, per the formal definition of that term. They were driven by a different lack of caring, a fundamentally passive one that comes from what Turner was taught to value–for instance, by a father who’d call sex with someone who did not consent to it “20 minutes of action.” And they reflect the unthinking, immature callousness that comes from never having to consider the effects of your actions on other people–which in turn happens when you’ve never been asked to consider what it means to be a good person and what kind of responsibility to others and their agency that entails. Then, such responsibility often becomes a dim unease that’s easy to shake off against the prospect of easy pleasure, which is what Turner seems to have considered his crime, even if that pleasure has to be taken so surreptitiously you end running when you’re caught, as Turner did.

    All of which is to say I’m leery of using “psychopath” in the pop-psychological sense it’s too often used, these days. Using the language of pathology–even if it’s because you feel the heinousness of the act merits that language; a feeling I totally get–can keep us from calling rape culture what it is and understanding what *that* phrase means. It’s the way we understand sexual violence as inevitable in our society that would lead a perfectly mentally and emotionally capable person to say without shame *he’s* been shattered by his rape of someone else. I don’t feel that statement was made by a psychopath’s deliberate choice. I feel it’s the clumsy one of a person who knows his guilt but has been told it’s only in the eyes of some, and who comes to learn (via the encouragement of a lawyer, or parent, or whoever else put him up to making that dumb statement; somebody did) how he can make himself appealing in the eyes of others who think you *can* chalk your violation of someone else’s consent to “party culture and risktaking behavior…experienced in […] four months at school,” so as to escape that guilt.

    As I say all this I realize I’m perilously close to saying Turner’s a victim here, that he’s just been let down by our society or something, which is decidedly NOT how I feel. I guess it’s about his moral calculus, and the calculi of the many Brock Turners out there, and whether the “psychopath” label does justice to how many of these people there are and where they come from. Which is a place all too close to us.

  2. I’m trying to find reviews of this book that are not politicized or leftist in nature, anyone have any recommendations? Because it seems most of the ones I’ve read are almost instantly poisoned with venom-spewing screeds that make it obvious that the reviewer is biased, non-objective, hates white people and hates men. A review, for example, that deals with it on the level of close reading: plot, character, storytelling, aesthetics. And maybe something that frames it within the context of literature on the grander scale as opposed to making comparison to relatively meaningless “story of the week”s. Is anyone going to remember who the heck Brock Turner was in 50 years?
    I’m trying to decide whether I should purchase or read this novel and instead I can’t get two paragraphs into reviews here or at Salon or at Inside Higher Ed before I read nonsense about “white privilege” and “rape culture” and all these other specters of the far left that have nothing to do with how well it’s written and serve only as “look how liberal I am, I’m more liberal than you” calling cards that point to the reviewer’s own narcissism and solipsism. ie: Does the author evoke Prufrock in a deft and inventive way as a useful and evocative allusion, or is it pat and easy namedropping? We need real book reviews, actual literary criticism, not just self-righteousness and people who instantly politicize discussions to vent their anger, racism and misandry.

  3. Sean

    It’s hilarious that you call for non-politicization in one sentence and in the next call the reviewer “biased, non-objective, hates white people and hates men”. So what you really want isn’t “actual literary criticism” but literary criticism in alignment with your own political views. More preaching to the choir, in other words. Good luck in your quest to feel angrier about the Twilight Of The Powerful Old White Male.

  4. No, I want literary criticism without overt political views of any kind, without vitriol, without the taint of over-emotional rhetoric and hatred. I’m a centrist, equally dubious of both sides.

  5. I think Sean’s point is legitimate to the extent the reviewer sees the book through such a narrow tunnel that it’s as if he only read the parts he agreed with. Phrases like “white privilege” are so pervasive these days that they stand in for any cogency of thought — the writer instead assumes everyone is on board with his point of view, because it is a point of view no one is, essentially, allowed to waver from (unless you’re one of “those”…). In fact, though I agree that David Federman is a psycho- or sociopath, there is an arguably “problematic” plot development late in the story that casts a major character in a strikingly different light. This goes unmentioned by Evan Allgood, so single-minded is he in his quest to brand “Loner” a clarion call against the objectification of women. A reductive point of view, at least, and emblematic of modern thinking, where everybody — to paraphrase — is a hammer and so everything looks like a nail.

Add Your Comment:

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.