Why Aren't You Smiling? (15 page)

Everyone exploded in laughter again. “Marijuana!” repeated the blond boy mockingly.

I realized my mistake and corrected myself. “I mean, Pot.”

“Pot,” said the girl, now utterly seized with hilarity. “Pot!!”

A ruddy-faced boy with dark hair stood up and peered into my face as if wondering where to punch it. “What the hell are you trying to pull? Who the fuck are you? Can you give me one good reason I shouldn't pound you to shit right here and now?” Behind him were two more girls and another boy, all of them looked over my way with gleeful, expectant expressions.

“I'm just here in town living with some friends, my name's Leonard, and we have some extra pot is all.”

“Bet he's from those Jesus Freaks,” said the girl, the word “freaks” delivered with icy contempt.

The blond boy drew back his arm in the way one does when preparing to deliver a punch. “OK, you get till the count of three.”

“One!” screamed the girl, still laughing.

I looked back at Jonas who was staring at me quizzically. Would he protect me?

“Two!” shouted the blond boy with muscles.

I turned and ran out of the park as someone yelled, “Three!” A car came down the street just as I tried to cross and I had to jump back onto the curb. The three boys came my way, smashing their fists into their palms in unison and grinning. Before they caught up with me, I ran to where Jonas stood. He looked at me with a wondering expression and then at the boys, who stood on the other side of the street glaring. “Guess that didn't go so well,” he muttered.

I shook my head, too humiliated to speak.

He exhaled heavily, but his face relaxed. “OK. What happens, happens, I guess.” He turned around and started back toward the commune with a resigned trudge that bespoke a profound dissatisfaction with his place in the universe. Without looking at me, he asked, “So what'd you say that made those kids want to fuck with you?”

“Practically nothing,” I said, feeling a hot flush of shame on my face. “I'm sorry.”

“Nothing?”

“They called me a fag.”

Jonas thought a second, then pronounced his verdict. “Buncha uptight small town jock assholes. Probably don't even turn on.”

We walked in silence for a few blocks. I felt horrible that I'd failed Rick, but also relieved. Sure, being an outlaw was sexy and exciting, but there was shame and fear involved, too. I hated the idea of having to hide from cops or consort with juvenile delinquents who called me names. Innocence was overall just less worrisome.

These thoughts were interrupted by Jonas blurting out, “Fuck Marjorie. You shouldn't have to help deal to stay. We're not a business conglomerate here.”

“Marjorie's kinda uptight,” I observed.

Jonas nodded. “Yup.”

“How come you stay at Pleroma?”

Jonas glanced down at me then looked away. “Rick and I go way back. We used to hang out together on the Strip.”

“Like the Sunset Strip in L.A.?”

“Yeah. Rick roadied for my band. I was confused back then, but it was fun times. At first, anyway. But there was a lot of negative energy in that scene. I made some deals I shouldn't have and got in some trouble and I was being… pursued. Rick gave me sanctuary. I grew up Christian, not like Rick, so I'd already heard the Word but never really
heard
it. Dig?”

“Oh, absolutely,” I lied. “What kind of deals? Pursued by who?”

Jonas seemed not to have heard me. “Rick really is like some kind of spiritual genius. But now that Beth has got him off on this Cathar trip, I dunno. The other day she accused me of psianthropism. I mean, what kind of fucked-up shit is that?”

“Psianthro-huh?”

“It's when you believe Jesus was a human. She says he was Divine Love incarnate.”

“Incarnate, like in a body,” I said, proud I'd remembered the meaning of the word. “But then wouldn't that make him human?”

Jonas groaned. “Apparently not. Once you start with all the theological shit, it never fucking ends.”

“I think it's important to remember is that Love is the Answer.”

Jonas nodded. “Sage advice, little man. Like Jesus says in Matthew,
Whatever ye do for the least of my brethren, ye do for me.
So when you love the poor or the sick or the fucked-up, you're loving Jesus, too. I mean, I don't care if Jesus was God's son or part of a Trinity or any of that shit. I just try to stay full of the Holy Spirit, and when I am, Love and compassion come natural. And if I find myself low on Holy Spirit, there's always Holy Smoke.” He chuckled. “But, seriously, if everyone loved Jesus we wouldn't need laws or prisons. We wouldn't need money. We could just be.”

My mind conjured its stock image of A Better World: people in white robes carrying sheaves of wheat through a field of wildflowers. “That would be cool,” I said.

“Yeah, things could be Mellow.”

We walked in silence for a while till we finally arrived back at Pleroma. In the brilliant sunshine the place looked less funky than just poor. Back home cool people's houses might be run down, but they all had wind chimes, stained glass peace symbols, unusual potted plants, or exotic flags and banners. Pleroma's only distinction was its unmowed front lawn. “How come you don't groovy this place up a little?” I asked.

“Long as we're dealing, we gotta blend in.”

I nodded my head at this piece of sharp business acumen. “Oh, right.”

“I seriously think we oughta go back to California, maybe Mendocino or Sonoma. There's just as many souls to be saved there as here, why suffer?”

“You don't like Oregon?”

“You kidding? With the cops breathing down our necks and no freaks for forty miles in any direction? I think that's half the reason Beth and I get on each other's nerves. Claustrophobia.” He gave me a tiny smile. “Hey, off the record. OK?”

“Of course,” I nodded, following him into the house.

Bob and Susan were necking on the couch while Marjorie and Beth sat in chairs reading. When Jonas and I came through the door they all looked up. “Hey,” said Bob, “how'd it go?”

“You got a nice big wad of cash?” asked Beth.

Jonas shook his head. “No sales.”

Marjorie's forehead crinkled with consternation. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” said Jonas. “The kids were not receptive.”

Bob turned to me. “No?”

I felt my face burn. “No.” I couldn't think of anything more to say.

Susan spoke to Jonas but cocked her head towards me. “You had Lenny make the approach?” I seriously hoped Jonas wasn't going to mention that the kids had called me a fag and chased me out of the park.

Jonas shrugged. “Just didn't work.”

“Rick ain't gonna like this,” said Beth. “We are flat broke.”

“Damn,” said Bob. He scowled, but I couldn't tell if he was angry with me or just disappointed in general.

Marjorie glared. “You've been here a full week now, Leonard.” It had only been five days, but I thought it best not to correct her. “I hope you'll find some way to contribute to Pleroma since obviously you're of no use at the one thing that brings in any cash.”

I offered the only thing I could. “I know I've been eating and stuff, can I give you some money?”

Marjorie looked pleasantly surprised. “How much?”

I pulled the brown wallet I'd crafted at summer camp from my jeans pocket and looked inside. “I've got thirty-five here I saved from my paper route.” I didn't mention the wad of cash in my suitcase my parents had given me “just in case.”

“That'll do for now,” said Marjorie. I handed her the money. “But this doesn't mean you're off the hook with the pot. You'll need to try again with different kids.”

I felt a pit of nervous dread develop in my stomach. “Now?”

Marjorie shoved the money in her blouse, a move that reminded me of old movies. “Nah, too late in the day. Tomorrow.”

“Only one thing to do now,” said Jonas with a serious look on his face. He and Bob then broke into huge, crazy grins and howled in unison: “Get stooooooned!”

“Let's use the hookah,” Bob suggested.

As everyone set off for the backyard, Susan asked, “Coming Lenny?”

“No thanks,” I said, craving solitude in which to hide my shame. When everyone was gone, I plopped down on the sofa for a think. Nothing was working out the way I'd planned. I'd envisioned myself as an integral part of a thriving agrarian commune full of brilliant and spiritually curious hippies. Pleroma was smaller than I'd ever imagined and lacked the intellectual zing I'd hoped for. Everyone just wanted to talk about Jesus all the time. In theory this should have made them more spiritual, but in practice they argued with each other and obsessed over money way more than my heathen parents ever did. Another disappointment was the gardening. I'd expected physical labor to be meditative and uplifting, but it was more boring than even geometry or woodshop. I decided that this probably indicated some deficiency in my character. All sorts of Holy Men lived simple lives of humble service, why couldn't I? Was my aversion to wholesome labor some form of ego-tripping? And was this related to my inability to Love Jesus?

I wandered over to the big table on which sat the Jesus picture I'd noticed on first arriving. It was actually sort of cheesy, but there was something compelling about its subject. Jesus stared out at the viewer with a look on his perfectly symmetrical face that you didn't see in real life. His dark orbs were – yes, brimming with compassion – but also some sort of hypnotic suggestion. If that suggestion had been to Love without limits, I'd have been sold, but that wasn't it. The look was asking me to do something I couldn't quite put my finger on but was pretty sure I didn't want to do.

The next day was so blisteringly hot and humid everyone retired for a nap after lunch. Though I was sleepy too, I had trouble drifting off because I knew that on waking I'd be expected to go out with Bob to try to sell pot again. Eventually I managed to fall into a fitful sleep in which I nightmared about the blond boy with muscles from the park beating me up while wearing nothing but underwear. The
brrring
of the doorbell woke me. I panicked. Might this be the police raid I'd been waiting for? No, they usually smashed the door down. The bell
brrrringed
again and I heard footsteps in the hall. Instinctive timidity made me keep my eyes closed, pretending to nap. I heard the front door open and then Rick's voice. “Lucas!”

I opened my eyes just enough to see Rick, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a sleepy smile, holding the door open with one hand while scratching his ribs with the other. A thin stoner boy, about seventeen, stepped inside. I was instantly transfixed by his face, which exhibited the sort of unblemished beauty I associated with kids whose parents drove Audis and went on extended ski vacations. “Rick, my man!” The pair embraced like old buddies. As they did, Lucas's eyes fell on me. “Who's this?”

“This is Leonard. He just arrived.” Rick didn't sound exactly jazzed that I was there.

I opened my eyes all the way and pretended to wake up with a manufactured stretch and smile. “Hey.” I tried (and failed) not to stare at Rick's body. He was perfectly proportioned, like the Da Vinci drawing of the guy in the circle.

“Lucas lives down the block,” explained Rick, “but he's thinking of moving in.”

“Parents.” Lucas gave a sarcastic roll of the eyes.

“The early disciples,” noted Rick, “did not believe in families.”

“I'm all for that,” agreed Lucas. “Fuck families.” He sounded suspiciously like a bratty kid, not Jesus Freaky at all.

“I just left my family,” I said coolly.

“There's always room for a fellow seeker,” encouraged Rick, speaking to Lucas, not me. He beamed at Lucas for another few seconds then glanced down at himself as if he'd just noticed he was nearly naked. “Be right back.” He trotted off.

“How'd you two meet?” asked Lucas, sitting in the stained chair across from me.

“In a park. Down in California. Rick invited me up to Oregon.”

Lucas took that in. “Right on. You into the whole Jesus bag, too?”

I tried to manifest some pious inscrutability. “There are many paths.” Lucas just looked at me blankly. “What about you?” I asked.

Lucas smiled sheepishly. “Well, you know…”

Rick returned, still in his underwear, holding a tray of pot paraphernalia. “So how's Dean?” he asked Lucas. He set the tray on the coffee table and started de-seeding, de-stemming, and bong-loading with ritualistic meticulousness. Lucas explained that Dean was great, as were a bunch of other people I didn't know. No effort was made to include me in the conversation, so – feeling third-wheelish and hoping to escape the marijuana – I excused myself and drifted into the kitchen. I sat at the far end of the table where I could hear Rick and Lucas without being seen. Lucas whined about teachers and Rick interrupted to counsel that even pig-headed power-trippers deserved Love. This shocked me. Loving bullies, strangers, or even parents struck me as an epic and worthwhile challenge. Loving people who assigned math homework just seemed perverse.

As Rick and Lucas got stoned, their voices lowered softer and softer until I could no longer make out their words. Then there was silence. I stood up and moved to a spot from which, if I craned my neck, I could just see them around the corner of the doorframe. I worried that they, in turn, would see me snooping, but I needn't have. Rick and Lucas were leaning into each other, oblivious to the world. I couldn't quite tell what they were doing from my vantage point, but there was no mistaking the intimacy of their positions. Then the pair slowly twisted around, allowing me to see something I had never imagined, nor wanted to imagine: a long, passionate kiss between Rick and someone who wasn't me. I felt the ground beneath my feet evaporate and would have been sure I was falling, except that I wasn't.