The Devoted (4 page)

TedGoesUp: If you think I’M dangerous, don’t watch the news.

EdgarPikeForever79: LET THEM BLEED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Last Day –
9:09AM

“And no liquids until Downtime,” He adds. “I want to keep bathroom breaks to a minimum. We have a lot to do.”

We eat. We go slow. Not so much to savor the food as, perhaps, to grant the length of the meal normal proportions.

He doesn’t like it. I see it. No one else does.

“Go out,” He starts, but then catches Himself.

I look at Him. I know Him. He was about to disperse an order, but He sensed that it was coming out too sharp.

“Why don’t all of you,” He revises, adopting an inquisitive posture, “go out back to the patio, enjoy your meal in nature? It’ll taste better that way.”

We’re up on our feet before He says the part about taste.

Just the same, I lick the remains of my peach from my thumb and fingertips. It began to vanish at some point while I was passing out the rest.

“Can I help you with anything, Master?” Theodore asks Him on his way to the patio door.

A strange request considering that The Leader intends to sit and eat at the moment, but that would be Theodore for you.

“No, Theodore. I’ll be fine. You go enjoy yourself.”

Before he does so (or tries to), Theodore shoots me another look. Second for today. Something’s up in that unmedicated brain. The Leader flushed his pills the day before we left. Said that enough was enough already. Then smiled about the fact that flushing pills is technically disposing of hazardous waste, and probably against the law in California.

Now it’s The Leader who’s eyeing me.

Wants something from me.

“Come here,” He says. “Let me show you something.”

****

You have to understand some things.

Like: This is the guy who saved my life.

The man who marked the difference between oblivion and enlightenment.

The one who said the conservatives have it wrong because government, while not worth trusting, is not worth eradicating.

And the liberals have it wrong because too much government is indeed a killer (see, again, California).

And the moderates have it wrong because splitting the difference between two forms of imperfection is insane.

And the Christians have it wrong because they essentially tell moralistic fairy tales.

Add to that the Jews, with subtle variations.

And the Buddhists have it wrong because they suffer from cleverness. Too many yins and yangs, maybes and what-have-yous.

And the atheists are fucked, ‘cause, come on, you’re gonna tell me that our five senses give us everything?

And the nihilists are fucked ‘cause that’s just too easy.

And as for existentialism, it’s sexy and exciting, but more of a fashion than a mentality, and forever in search of its own definition.

And those who say money doesn’t buy happiness are lying.

And those who say it does are full of shit.

And tantra’s a scam ‘cause it’s all about the body, and the body, while smart, can’t be expected to outsmart the mind.

But the mind is all wrong ‘cause, hell, look where it’s led us...

And hell doesn’t exist, that’s another (grim) fairy tale.

Islam? Don’t even get Him started.

And none of this means that all of the above lack all merit.

It just means that nothing really works:

Marriage: A coin toss.

The workforce: A hamster wheel.

Cars: A death trap, for our bodies as well as the sky.

Art: Diverting, but come on? These movies, do they not recede from us, always? These books – what do we retain from them?

But ignore Him, He’ll tell you.

‘Cause He’s without alternatives.

That is, except, for the ones in the doing.

Something about action, that’s what He’s getting at.

“Have to gush,” He likes to say sometimes.

His eyes squinting, searching, ready for the next thing.

It’s all in the thrust. The charge. The gush. That doesn’t mean don’t think. Doesn’t even mean don’t think a lot.

Doesn’t mean don’t feel.

Nor pray, nor dream.

He doesn’t rule out anything. At the same time, though, He rules out everything.

And if this sounds like dualism, you’re missing the point. The point is elusive. It’s not an A-B. Not an either-or. Not even an and-both.

The point, near as He can express, is action.

Charge. Pulse. Flow. Be.

And whatever prevents you from doing that, meet with doubt and skepticism, always.

****

So we scrub. He gave us that.

We exercise. He gave us that.

We clean throughout the day. Chores for the soul. Or – fuck the soul (what’s the soul?) -- chores for the sake of doing.

On the floor. Steel wool. The cracks between the tiles. The stare emitting from your head.

Then eating: feeling the food on your tongue. Throat. Esophagus. Belly. Intestines. Dick. Ass. Pussy. Liver.

Curse words, they’re not prohibited, although He doesn’t use them.

One time, though.

One time He did.

****

We drummed.

The beach at Venice. People do this every weekend night. Until the police arrive and break it up. That sounds romantic and mythological, but it’s a fact.

They drum until the police arrive.

No arrests, ever, as far as I know.

It’s just a dance.

The drummers, saying, “Fuck you. We’re drumming.”

The police coming back with, “Yes, boys and girls. But sometimes it’s time to go home.”

Everyone half-winking as it goes down.

The word was sort of out by then. Our group was known around Southern California. Not because any crimes had been reported, but because that’s what happens when people talk to people who talk to people.

So and so meets so and so from such and such.

And suddenly we’re looked at as a cult.

The fact that we weren’t yet isolated helped. He still did talks and lectures, then. But drumming, that was something new. It made for an adventure.

We went, all sixty of us, wearing sixty smiles.

And there were so many souls at Venice that the crowd absorbed us.

Still, strange looks. Or was I paranoid? Theodore, he seemed to feel walled in. But Theodore could feel walled in in the desert.

The Leader danced. I loved Him, then.

Still do, of course.

But on that day, to watch Him dance. To watch Him release. The sun bouncing gently upon the horizon. So many girls and boys alight.

‘Cause we’re all children. He says that, also.

Anybody ever tells you they’re a grown-up, you give that motherfucker a second look.

The point is: drumming.

He cursed on that day. Like the lone curse in a PG movie, the one that resonates more so on account of its rarity.

Looking at me, clapping, He said, “Fuck yeah!”
And I laughed so deep right at that moment. Laughed so deep my heart kind of buckled.

Clapping and dancing. Sand crunching up between my toes.

Keep drumming, I kept on telling myself. I don’t know why. The words kept bubbling up. I wasn’t stoned, nor tripping nor drunk.

Just, the words kept asserting themselves.

Keep drumming. Keep drumming.

Keep on drumming.

The drums were the sound of the universe entire. The thrum. The momentum. The total depth. Depth in service of depth.

Keep on drumming.

And then I got it. It finally hit me.

Action.

That’s the thing we have. Life won’t get solved within our heads, much less our aching hearts.

I got it on all fours, while scrubbing the tiles – I really did.

But on that day-night, I got it hard.

The drumming. Perfect. An illustration penned in reality’s gushing nectar.

Keep on drumming.

Last Day –
9:19AM

And now we’re in a situation involving knives.

The kitchen. ‘Tween the island and the drawers, facing the former. We’re so close that I feel like His arm’s around me, even though He has both hands on the island.

Nine steak knives. Glistening. One of them wears the two overhead bulbs like glaring eyes.

This I didn’t know about. It raises the stakes (steaks? puns even when your minutes are draining). I expected pills, perhaps, and thought He was to be taken metaphorically when speaking of blood.

“You don’t have to say it,” He says, “I know what you’re thinking. Steak knives are all they had left. A little too Alfred Hitchcock for my taste, but what do you expect at the supermarket, right?”

I release a breathy laugh. Strange considering that I find nothing funny about this.

Last night, before I slipped out, He slipped out. I heard Him go. I was pretty certain that no one else did. That’s the bond. That’s the second’s role.

However, unlike a good assistant, I had no knowledge of where He went till now.

Although when I heard that engine grind on, I must admit that I felt a little hopef--

“Not bad for midnight shopping,” I say, making sure again not to pause for long.

My breath, however, is making that hard. All morning, it’s been at me like a son of a bitch. Heart of mine, too: a boiling toad.

“My thoughts exactly,” He says to me, and do you see what He did right there? Built me up and broke me down in one swift statement. Built me up ‘cause He agreed, broke me down ‘cause He claims to have beaten me to the thought.

This guy, I’d follow into hell. Existent or otherwise.

From KNOWING NARCISSUS by Sheila Powell (pg. 289):

Unfortunately, there is no standard form of measurement to know whether or not you’re in an encounter with a narcissist. However, if all of my experience and research has produced anything of value in this regard, it’s what I like to call the “ambient bend.”

This is a feeling that all of us have sometimes. It’s important to know the difference between when this feeling is actually occurring and when we’re imagining it. I would regret it if any reader misused this concept to label someone a narcissist who is not.

That said, the “ambient bend” is when you get a feeling from another person that, despite everything being fine and even cordial on the surface, something is really wrong. More specifically, the wrongness seems to relate to how that person feels about you.

One classic archetype who creates this haunting sensation is what we’ll call The Helper. The Helper is here to rescue you. Never mind the fact that you were doing okay, or better, before The Helper arrived; The Helper will promise to make your life better than it ever was before.

The Helper uses the same principles that advertisers use. He or she makes you feel bad about yourself, then promises to be the source of making you feel better. He or she will tell you that you’re overweight, then promise to go to the gym with you every day and night. This is, essentially, a person who will slap you with one hand and stroke you with the other.

Oftentimes, when The Helper emerges, so does the “ambient bend.” Things seem wrong. However, we often blame ourselves for this feeling, for surely the supposed Helper only has the very best of intentions. This pattern of behavior is not uncommon in overbearing employers, military chieftains, and even the leaders of religious organizations (alternative and otherwise).

Last Day –
9:20AM

From His pocket, He produces a piece of bread. Peanut butter and jelly slashed about its surface. One piece; He gobbles it down like a cookie. My salivary glands lurch forward.

As He chews, gently, He explains: “Now, everybody of course will get one for themselves. I expect reluctance there; they might want assistance.”

“I understand.”

“No, I want to be clear: We give no assistance. Each person must act on their own.”

Edgar Pike’s Journal

January, 2008

My mother would say to me, “Edgar: Be clear.”

Her mind was very itchy. Almost all the time. Sometimes she was relaxed, often in the car. Car rides north to the relatives on the weekends. Good trees at our sides and a nice glide in the vehicle. I can feel it. It makes my penis tender.

Obviously, though, the car was what put her at ease. All the motion and stimulus. Wasn’t real ease, not on her inside. NEVER! Oh, to think of her. I have a love; it’s there. But there was always “Be Clear, Edgar.”