The Gospel According to Larry (4 page)

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Authors: Janet Tashjian

BOOK: The Gospel According to Larry
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The first Larry meeting was held in Mr. Blake's Spanish room after school at two-thirty. The tiny classroom overflowed with kids from every clique—Goths, jocks, wallflowers, techies, shop rats, nerds, even a few cheerleaders. (As if jocks weren't bad enough, we needed people to cheer them on? Please.)
“Everyone!” Beth yelled. “Let's get going.”
I made Beth promise to hold the reins herself. Being involved in your own fan club was one thing; running it was something else entirely.
Marlon raised his hand. “My friend in Wichita said there's a sticker in the bathroom of a bookstore on Route 101 that says ‘Larry.'”
“My cousin in L.A. said the kids in her school set up a new Larry link that gets over a hundred hits a day,” Jessica added.
“My sister went to ski camp and saw a guy wearing a ‘Larry for President' button,” Eli said.
I tried to close my gaping mouth but couldn't. April Fool's Day was last week, wasn't it?
I was now face-to-face with the downside of living in semi-isolation. Sure, Larry was an up-and-coming site, but stickers and buttons? No one had mentioned them in the chat rooms.
Then I remembered my conversation with Flip-Off a few days ago about changing the world. And the light came on as if after a power failure—I
was
changing the world. A tiny bit at a time, of course, but still. I was out there, I was contributing. Even the undersized desk and chair I sat in couldn't contain me anymore.
Leah from my homeroom talked about Larry's commitment to making the world a better place. Had I ever uttered that sentiment to her on any given morning, the look of disdain on her face would have been enough to jackhammer me into the concrete floor. The meeting ended with Jessica singing a song she had written about Larry's influence on her life. Jessica was this Goth chick who had permanent dibs on the
spot outside the gym to smoke between classes. I usually ran from the gaze of her heavily outlined eyes, but today I found myself quite moved. These people, who wouldn't talk to me if I burst into flames in the middle of study hall, were analyzing and interpreting Larry's every word.
“It's so great to focus on the big picture, not just our stupid little lives at school.” Beth bounced down the corridor as she spoke to me. “We'll go to my house and brainstorm. You want to stay for dinner?”
Suddenly the evolution of the world's spiritual growth seemed meaningless compared to my relationship with Beth reaching a new level. I tried to remain calm.
“Sounds great.”
“Good, it's settled.”
As we passed the gym, I heard a grunt that pounded my heart like a stone. Beth unhooked her arm from mine, then wheeled around to face Todd.
“I thought you had practice?” she asked.
“It's canceled. The coach ate some bad fish for lunch.”
Speaking of bad fish … I stared at his jacket so I wouldn't have to look at his face.
He should have been nicknamed The Wizard instead of me, because Beth's personality and voice changed right before my eyes.
“Oh, no. I hope he's okay.”
I shot her a look that bordered on contempt. She elbowed me back—hard.
“My mom's still at work,” he told her. “Want to come over?”
Somehow I knew I wasn't included in the invitation.
“I think that's doable,” she answered.
I pulled Beth aside. “I thought you were over him,” I half-whispered, half-shouted.
“Look, I feel bad about this, I do. But I've got to keep my options open.”
And with that, Beth slammed the door on the elaborate fantasy I had already constructed in my feeble mind. Even worse, the idea never occurred to Todd that I might possibly be considered a threat. I was as hazardous to his position as a flea.
I got back in her face. “The big picture—yeah, right.”
“What's your problem? Can't we work on this tomorrow?” she asked.
I told her tomorrow I was working on my Frisbee robotics project.
“We'll definitely reschedule.” She waved goodbye in front of Todd, who still hadn't noticed my presence.
20
How can you do this to me? He's boring and I'm, I'm … but I knew the word
Larry
would never emerge from my lips. The sad thing was, even Larry couldn't compare to the hormonal tug of Todd Terrific. I looked up toward the heavens, or at least to the stained ceiling tile of the hall.
“Mom. This sucks. Help.”
And I stood there until I knew what I needed to do.
Then I ran.
I usually wrote my sermons sitting on the swing in my basement, but this called for a whole new level of solitude. I rode my bike past the stores, past the theater, toward the nature preserve behind the cemetery. Until I got my all-terrain, I used to leave my bike at the top of the trail and hike in.
21
Now I bounced over roots and rocks with ease. I'd have only an hour and a half of daylight, but with this much adrenaline pulsing through me that was all the time I'd need.
I pulled my bike up against a cluster of maples and hiked about half a mile. The trail disappeared, and I crawled through the brambles until I reached the familiar birch and woodpile. I brushed the leaves aside, moved the tarp, and descended into the large hole.
My underground room measured ten by twelve paces, pretty much the size of my bedroom at home. From top to bottom it was seven feet. A few years ago, it had taken me a month of afternoons and Saturdays to dig it. Since then, I came once a week to think or un-think, as the case may be.
I folded my blanket into quarters and sat down on the thawing earth. I took the fully charged laptop from my pack and began.
SERMON #113
Okay—this sermon is off the usual topic, but I've got to write about it anyway.
Can we talk about phonies? About people who pretend they're your best friend—no, they ARE your best friend—until somebody better comes along?
People climbing their way up the social ladder are just as bad as people climbing their way up the corporate one. Moving from one clique to another, checking out the people on the next rung, working their way up like freaking caterpillars until one day—poof!—they leave one rung for good, on to
bigger and better things. Then they get rejected in the new clique, of course, and come slithering back to their friends on the lower rung. And you're supposed to sit there like some dope guarding seats at a concert, never realizing your friends found a better section and have left you behind.
Well, I don't know about you, but I am sick and tired of welcoming the same old people back into the fold. Hey, once you make the choice to move on—move on! Don't come back when your new friends leave, don't come back when somebody breaks up with you, don't come back when you want to feel like yourself again 'cause you're tired of spending all that energy trying to act like somebody you're not and you just want to be accepted by people who always liked the real you.
Tired of keeping up the front of being some witty, gorgeous, happy, considerate person you're not? Tired of waiting for your “new” friends to appreciate your inner self? Well, too bad. Take two aspirin and DON'T CALL ME IN THE MORNING.
 
 
Well, THAT felt better … . As much as I wanted to, I knew I couldn't send it out right away. Beth would never in a million years suspect that I was Larry, but still, the timing of this one was a tad obvious. I'd save it and e-mail it later, let Beth think she was safe from Larry's gaze for a few brief moments.
I made a list of some upcoming topics: national antishopping day, corporate boycotts, and celebrity worship. I snapped my PC shut and took a few deep breaths. If I sat in this pit for the rest of my life, I could never get enough of the damp earth smell. It was the mixture of life and death that attracted me, nature's primordial scent. I climbed out, covered my hideout, then stood in tree pose among the maples. Almost twilight, my favorite time of day.
As a kid, I was addicted to Game Boys. My fingers punched those buttons day and night; I loved the mental and visual stimulation. It's strange, but the opposite was also true. I loved the silence, the openness of the forest. I felt humbled by its weight, and the thought of uttering anything seemed ridiculously unnecessary. Every time I came here, the same thought returned—live here, keep spreading the word,
be a hermit, escape from the crap, from the stuff, from the phonies. Could a culture junkie like me disconnect from civilization and still live? Thoreau did; could I?
I lay back against the tree. Luckily, I didn't have to decide today.
LARRY ITEMS #14 and #32
Two days later, I attended Beth's piano recital—all Bach. Even more than the music, I loved the way she grinned through her mistakes, not nervous like the other musicians, just ecstatic at being able to make music, flaws and all.
On the ride home we complained about the college application process, especially the essays. “You need a crystal ball to answer them,” she said. “Everyone says just to make stuff up, but I can't. You know how I feel about being honest.”
I slumped back into the seat and changed the subject.
When I saw her the next day, she was at my back door waving a piece of paper. Her cheeks were flushed as if she'd just heard bad news. “Have you read today's sermon?”
I grabbed the paper from her hand. With her concert, I had forgotten all about my rant in
the woods. I asked her why it upset her so much.
“It's
me
! It's the other day with Todd. I was so insensitive. And all he wanted to do was fool around anyway.”
“You can't possibly be surprised.”
“The only thing I'm surprised at is what a glutton for punishment I am … such a loser.”
She looked me straight in the eye. “Feel free to stop me anytime.”
I motioned for her to continue.
“Are you sure you didn't call Larry up and ask him to write this?” she asked. “It's so appropriate, it's scary.”
I almost dropped the glass of seltzer in my hand. “Yeah, he said, ‘No problem, Josh. I'll get right on it.'”
She asked me if I'd seen Larry's latest possession. “It's a man's watch,” she said. “But women wear them all the time. At least my mother does.”
“Maybe your mom is Larry.”
“Yeah, right. And a statue of some Hindu deity. I looked it up.”
“Ganesh. I saw it this morning.” I felt a wave of anxiety break inside me. The statue had belonged to my mom; I kept it wrapped in my
closet. The only reason I posted it so soon was because Beth had never seen it.
“Then maybe you saw this too.” Beth handed me another piece of paper and, thankfully, changed the subject.
The printout also came from the Larry site, copied from one of the bulletin boards.
COME OUT, COME OUT, WHEREVER YOU ARE. LARRY, WHY ARE YOU HIDING BEHIND YOUR ANONYMOUS SCREEN NAME? WHO ARE YOU? AFRAID NO ONE WOULD LISTEN IF WE ALL KNEW WHAT A LOSER YOU WERE?
—betagold
I'd read messages from betagold before—he/she actually wrote/shouted in quite often, but never with this amount of confrontation.
“What does this have to do with us?” I asked.
“Well, hopefully the nutjobs aren't going to start coming out of the woodwork. I mean, can Larry have some peace, do you mind?”
I took a new jar of peanut butter from the cupboard and cut up some apples from the bowl on the table. Betagold's message was certainly disconcerting; the last thing I needed was to
blow my cover in front of Beth. I handed her the peanut butter and a spoon. She dipped the spoon into the virgin jar.
“Like being the first person to walk in the snow,” she said.
I've always fought to be the first person to nail a new jar of Jif, but it was worth giving that up just to watch Beth lick the spoon clean.
Beth looked at me with her most determined expression. “I give you full permission to go into my father's store …”
“Aisle three, on the left.”
“ … take down a giant ball peen hammer …”
“Rubber handle, better grip.”
“ … and bang me on the head repeatedly the next time I jump at any guy's command.”
“I'm not sure if Pavlov himself could deprogram you that easily.”
It was that simple. We were back to our old selves. We ate apples and peanut butter like we did in grade school and talked about what kind of tattoos our teachers would get if we forced them into it. She told me about her cousin in Seattle having surgery; I told her how worried I was that Katherine might actually move in with Peter and me.
After Beth left for the hardware store, I hurried to the computer to see betagold's message for myself. “AFRAID NO ONE WOULD LISTEN IF WE ALL KNEW WHAT A LOSER YOU WERE?” Was betagold right? Is that one of the reasons why I hid behind my screen name? I typed out a generic response with phrases like “freedom of speech” and “the right to privacy.” But deep inside I worried about something much less constitutional.
What if somebody found me out before I reached my desired level of contribution? I had to get moving, step up Larry's productivity. The sermons were fun, but I was already getting tired of my own voice. Let's face it, my sermons were just my opinions, mixed in with a little rhetoric and passion. If some people were moved by them—great. The last thing I wanted to do, however, was lecture other kids. I felt strongly about these things, sure. But hey, make up your own mind. It's not like I'm an expert on anyone but me.
I decided to keep up the sermons but expand the Web site with additional features. Attract some new people, make things a little punchier.
If betagold was planning to out me, he or she had better think again.
SERMON #137
How about this for a fashion show?
On one side of the runway, you've got models wearing the trendy clothes kids spend their hard-earned money on. Cruising down the other side, you've got the poverty-stricken youth from Southeast Asia who make this “must have” collection. The contrast should be enlightening—or maybe just embarrassing.
Doesn't anyone else care about the increasing gap between the haves and the have-nots? Millions of people wearing the finest clothes, eating the best food, driving the fastest cars, while most of the world's population eat a small bowl of food, then sleep on a mat for a few hours, resting up for another eighteen-hour workday.
Did you know that HALF of the SIX BILLION people on the planet live on less than TWO DOLLARS a day? The price of a cup of designer coffee at Starbucks. Makes me sick just thinking about it.
Our STUFF lives better than most of the people in the world do.
To say nothing of how we're treating
nature. Drill for oil in the Arctic Circle? Why not. Rich white men need to get richer, don't they? Drop the emission standards so gas companies can turn a bigger profit? Sure! Why worry about the ozone layer when we've got stockholders to think about?
Nature is going to mutiny one of these days—giant earthquakes or floods just to evict our sorry asses.
I mean, doesn't anyone remember the Lorax? Who is speaking for the trees these days? We're producing and consuming ourselves into oblivion, completely out of touch with the real world, the natural world. If your life depended on it, could you tell what time it was by the sun? Could you find north without a compass? Could you tell the difference between a white oak and a red maple? Didn't think so.
We're not fit to live in the world anymore; we're tourists, clear-cutting our way across the planet till nothing's left.
(In case you're interested, the maple's the one with the wide three-pointed leaves.)

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