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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN#/ISBN# issue/book “Question Everything” cc&d, v280 (the February 2018 issue) Order this as a 6"x9" paperback book:  |
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Tuesday in Los Angeles
Adam Szetela
The aspiring actor with the Africa-shaped mole above his eyelid adjusts the switch on the machine that looks like an alarm clock from Back to the Future. He describes it as a “looking glass into consciousness.” I grip the two metallic cylinders. He tells me to think about something I hate about myself. I think about the two teenage girls who bolted down the red-carpet hallway, after he asked the blueberry-blonde girl the same question. I think about how our tour guide had become my tour guide.
An hour earlier, I watch Tom and Victoria share a salmon avocado roll.
It is two hours until the UCB theatre opens. Los Angeles is awash in college undergraduates and thirty-something-year-old hipsters who salivate for their stand-up comedy fix. I’ve never seen so many beards, mustaches, and tech t-shirts in my life.
Incognito: I’ve seen some crazy shit.
Techies do it in the dark.
Fuck Ask Jeeves.
“This show is going to be gnarly,” says Tom.
“Will Shia LaBeouf perform tonight?” I ask.
“Will your friend stop talking about Shia LaBeouf?” responds Victoria, as she looks at Tom.
“He has a problem,” says Tom. “He likes to troll people.”
“I’m interested in irony,” I say.
The frog alarm on my cellphone goes off. “Go meditate bitch.”
Outside on Franklin Avenue, I walk past a restaurant called bird’s that welcomes people with gluten intolerance and offers a “special doggie menu for pets,” a drunk woman sitting on a lime Lamborghini, and a homeless man drinking cough syrup. The scene reminds me of the opening chapter in Bret Easton Ellis’s American Psycho. A mix of faux cosmopolitanism, decadence, and poverty.
But no grass to sit on.
After a few minutes, I give up and plop a squat behind a dumpster. In my mind, I name it “Buddha’s trash heap of illumination.” This is the spot, I tell myself. This is where you get enlightened in the twenty-first century. The urban Bodhi tree. The dharma of Reece’s wrappers.
The great Tao of an empty pizza box. Pleasure and pain, it’s all the same.
Until I feel a small piece of broken glass bite my left butt cheek.
It has the “T” from the Tylenol label on it. I let out a loud F bomb. A man with a poodle runs by and shakes his head.
Back on Franklin, I see a stone wall with bushes hanging over the top. Long jump skills acquired from years of suburban house parties broken up by townie cops sends me catapulting over the top. On the other side, there are trees and plants with names I can’t pronounce. Two Walt Disney style pillars hug a wood door with archaic lanterns. There are people dining on baroque, presentation-emphasized dinner plates in a room surrounded by glass. A man gives a toast. A woman smiles. Green grass that reads like a welcome sign for my ass is everywhere.
Cool.
I find a large tree and take a seat behind it. Ninja style. I stare at the building. It’s some kind of hotel. Stone engravings and long, antiquated red curtains drape the windows. After a bit of mind-wandering and scenario making — How much does one night cost? I bet that guy in the window will do cocaine tonight. Rapunzel’s hair couldn’t reach the ground. Are there cameras here? — I focus on my breath. The mental chatter calms down. I feel a subtle breeze on the bare skin of my arms. I dream about Ginsberg dreaming of Whitman in California.
“Excuse me.”
“Huh.”
“You can’t sit here.”
“What?”
“I said you can’t here.”
“I’m sorry. I was looking for a place to meditate. All I found was a dumpster with a cough syrup bottle that I think punctured my jeans. Can you see a hole?” I ask.
“I don’t see a hole. But I’m sorry, you cannot sit here. We have guests coming in and out.”
“Alright.”
“If you would like to come inside though, we give tours to the public.”
“Whose we?” I ask.
“Myself and the other people that work here. Well, I wouldn’t give you a tour. But, I can take you to the front desk to meet someone who will.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.”
This old, middle-aged white guy, not quite a full ginger, not quite bald, who speaks hesitantly as he fingers the rectangular links on his gold necklace, walks me around the property to the front entrance. The iron gate, with a giant black spade in the center, is open and directly across the street from Sushi Stop. As I walk out, I read a sign with four more gold spades that decorate each corner and a giant gold S wrapped between two gold triangles that look like they are being hurled through space. The ornate letters in the center of the sign say:
Church of Scientology Celebrity Center International.
“How long are tours?” I ask.
“About forty-five minutes. You can ring this bell, if you decide to come back,” he says.
Tom and Victoria are discussing a billboard when I rejoin them.
“The billboard is totally a postmodern phenomenon,” says Tom. “Every day that guy opens his bedroom window, he sees a Godzilla-sized George Clooney looking back at him. It’s total Pynchon shit.”
“I don’t know. I just don’t see why it’s this big thing that we have to keep talking about. It’s just a billboard.”
“Who is Pynchon?” I ask
“That author you obsess over. Didn’t you chat with him in Boston?”
“I don’t think it’s possible for me to ever meet Pynchon. He’s been consumed by his own image. There’s only an idea of Pynchon, some kind of postmodern abstraction. I’ll never know the real Thomas Pynchon.”
“Both of you are academic assholes. Are you capable of talking about, like, the Dodgers, or something?” says Victoria. “And stop using that word postmodern.”
“Do you guys want to go on a tour of a scientology building? It will be totally anti-postmodern shit. And you might see, like Tom Cruise, or something. I was meditating across the street, and some dude told me that I’m essentially the next L. Ron Hubbard.”
“Do I have to sign over the rights to my possessions? Will your new friend give me a lobotomy? Will I get a last meal before men in dark hoods sentence me to wash John Travolta’s gooch for the rest of my life?” inquires Tom as he laughs and almost chokes on his drink.
“Fuck that noise,” says Victoria. “Didn’t you see that HBO documentary on Netflix? Scientology is totally fucked.”
“Yeah, I agree with Tory. I will remain here, in good lighting, surrounded by people, where I will continue to sip my martini,” says Tom.
“Plus, the show starts in about an hour,” says Victoria.
“Come on, one of you guys needs to come with me. It will be more memorable than sitting in this shitty restaurant.”
An Asian man in a waiter’s bowtie gives me a scowl.
“Sorry dude. I honestly am kind of sketched out by this,” says Tom.
“Yeah, I’m with Thomas on this one,” says Victoria.
In front of the gate with the giant spade and the black sign with gold space triangles, I press the silver button. A voice that sounds like a middle-aged man waiting for a call from his child-support lawyer answers.
“Hello.”
“I’m back.”
The half-ginger, half-bald Howard meets me at the entrance. He takes me down a cobble path and through the front door. A black chick, mid-thirties, stands at the counter. He nods to her and walks back outside.
“You’re here for the tour?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you been here before?”
“No.”
“Do you have any background with scientology.”
“Negative.”
“Have you heard anything about scientology?”
“No.”
“Okay. If you wait just one moment, I’ll procure a tour guide.”
That word procure. Was this tour guide lying motionless on a shelf in the dusty basement of a pawn shop? In-between a case of moonshine and a box of child pornography recorded on VHS tapes. Hello. I was sent here to procure a tour guide. I have a young man, with a manbun and a California accent, give him the tour.
“Hey there. I’m Maple.”
Dude.
“I will be your tour guide tonight,” he says.
“Hello, Maple. My name’s Adam,” I say.
“Great, pleasure to meet you Adam.”
We stand for a moment and look at each other. An awkward silence fills the space. Maple is a few years younger than me, in his early twenties. He looks like Seth from The O.C. without the endearing wit or charm. He asks me what I do for work. I tell him that I work at a liquor store.1 He tells me that that’s also “great.” He also tells me that scientology is against mind-altering substances, and that I will learn that soon.
The way he arches his eyebrow, the Africa-shaped mole above his eyelid moving north, to emphasize those last five words. I try not to laugh. Not at the mole. Though, I don’t feel that there is anything wrong with laughing at a mole. But at the sense of suspense and dramatic foreshadowing embodied in that careful eyebrow lift. For a few more seconds, we stand there and look at each other. Neither one of us says anything.
“So, are we going to go on the tour?” I ask.
“Three,” he says slowly, as he flashes a thumb, another thumb, and an index finger in front of Africa.
“Three what?”
“We need to wait until we have three guests, including yourself.”
Oh, ok.
“So, how long have you been, you know, a scientologist?” I ask.
“A little over three years.”
“What made you decide to become a scientologist instead of a Buddhist, a Jew, a Methodist, or a devotee in the Nation of Yahweh?”
“A lot of reasons. The movement’s central philosophy of self-transformation and personal responsibility appeal to me. Scientology is the fastest growing religion in the world. Scientology’s founder, L. Ron Hubbard, is the most prolific philosopher of all time. I am also an actor. As you probably know, scientology has been beneficial to many actors in the universe.”
I picture a group of aliens on some foreign planet reading scripts in an unknown language. Giant spade necklaces wrap around their thick green necks. Their jet-black set chairs dig into space dust.
“That’s cool.”
“Has your world outlook been shaped by any system of thought?” he asks me.
Before I can answer, Howard the half-ginger, not yet bald is back. He has two teenage girls on either side of him. They look fifteen. One girl’s name is Sam and she has blueberry-blonde hair. The other girl’s name is Miranda and she has braces.
Maple introduces himself to the girls and then tells us to follow him down the hallway. I walk behind the two girls who whisper as we march. The giant archways, stone walls, and red carpet make me feel like I am on a guided tour of Luigi’s Mansion, and any minute I will have to vacuum up a flamboyant ghost. Eventually, we stop in front of a portrait-sized HD screen framed in gold. Maple clicks a button.
A voice that sounds like someone selling an anti-depressant begins to tell us that our thoughts are connected to our feelings. There are images of a twenty-something year-old couple who sit in a kitchen and look melancholy, and then an old man watering his lawn with a deflated garden house. A voice asks us: “What if you could control your thoughts, so that you can control your emotions, and control your life”? The kitchen pair begins to smile and laugh, as they drink mugs of freshly brewed cocoa that manifest on their window sill. Hank Hill smiles at the camera as water erupts from his long green hose onto the sunburned grass. I wait for ant-size text to scroll by that mentions diarrhea, stroke, impotency, and an increased risk of heart attack.
“As you can see,” says Maple, “scientology is not a religion. It is a way to learn about the connections between thoughts and feelings, so that we can live more empowering and inspiring lives.”
As we proceed deeper into Scooby Doo’s castle, we stop at more moving portraits that reiterate the same information. That people feel “bad” when they have “bad” thoughts about themselves. And that people feel “good” when they have “good” thoughts about themselves. It sounds like a Donald Trump speech, without the hatred of Muslims. Another voice tells us that all people can attain personal freedom from the things that hold them back. That everyone can “be the person that they have always imagined themselves to be.” One clip, which features Rooster from the 1970s television show Baretta, describes scientology as a process of “drinking from the cup of knowledge” and a spiritual journey of becoming “more powerful as a spiritual being.”
I’ve drunk ayahuasca in the Amazon and sipped mushroom tea in Mexico. I’ve snorted mescaline Hunter S. Thompson style in a women’s bathroom on the Las Vegas strip. But at no point, will I ever drink any “cup of knowledge” served by this over enthusiastic C-list actor in a golf polo.
Before he finishes his monologue with a Made for TV smile, the two girls start giggling — like little girls. Maple points Africa at them. Under the duress of his unironic stare, they explain that the video reminds them of something funny that happened earlier today, but that they find Rooster’s wisdom to be really powerful. I feel bad because I realize that all three of us are trolling this guy.
The feeling, however, quickly passes.
A few more feet down the hallway, Maple stops us at a room filled with bookshelves and a monumental oak desk. “This is L. Ron Hubbard’s office,” says Maple. The lamp on top of the desk is on. An extra-large gold pen in the shape of a feather, with black letters etched between a pair of half-moons, rests beside it.
“Does someone use this office?” I ask.
“No,” says Maple, “this is L. Ron Hubbard’s office.”
He explains to us that (scientologists believe) L. Ron Hubbard will return, and that — because of this — all centers keep a desk for him to write when he does.
“How much did L. Ron Hubbard write?” I ask.
“He is the most prolific writer in the history of the world,” says Maple. “He has written over 1,000 works that we know about. He holds a Guinness World Record.”
“Didn’t he write a lot of imaginary science fiction?” I ask.
“A record-breaking amount.”
I remember a joke Russell Brand made on Joe Rogan’s podcast about Hubbard winning the Guinness World Record for writing the most bullshit on Monday. Then he starts an organized religion on Tuesday. None of his followers wonder that maybe his religion is made-up bullshit too.
“Does anyone else write books within scientology?” I ask.
“No. L. Ron Hubbard covered everything.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
There is a sharpness in his voice when he responds, and Maple’s general awkwardness becomes colored with something less benign. Luigi’s Mansion starts to have a subtle Charles Manson Family Ranch vibe to it. Even the girls aren’t giggling into their palms anymore. Nonetheless, when Maple nods toward another winding hallway, we all trail behind him in a single file. I question who the mindless followers are.
Another HD screen in a gold portrait frame tells us about “the Thetan” — the soul that inhabits human bodies. An enthusiastic brunette mom with toddler twins appears on the screen and tells us that this “Golden Age of Knowledge is uniting all of us” and that “it is making us all into this theta juggernaut that will allow us all to secure our own eternity.” Maple tells us that the Thetan is not a thing, it is the creator of all things.
At this point, I expect the next room to have a bunch of washed up 1970s actors and a fridge full of rat poison Kool-Aid. I look at my watch. I have been in the scientology building close to an hour. Maple sees my eyes locked on the elephant trunk that moves around my wrist. He says that our tour is almost over, but there is one last thing he has to show us.
My Buddha mind tells me “fuck this.” But my love of weird shit and bizarre stories to write about leads me down another winding hallway. The red carpet slowly begins to be patterned with pairs of space triangles and strange, abstract shapes.
This time we stop at a closed door, and Maple takes out a key. The oak door decorated with two ominous gold spades opens for us to enter. I am hesitant to go inside, as are the girls. But, whether out of genuine curiosity or the Milgram effect, we all follow Maple into the room. It is empty, except for a small wood table with a machine in the center. Maple closes the door behind us.
“Do you know what this piece of technology is?” he asks.
We all shake our heads.
“It is an E-meter. It quantifies and represents the electrodermal activity of your Theta,” he says.
“What does that mean?” asks blueberry as she traces a colorful streak in her hair with her thumb and ring finger.
“It means that it will show us where your spiritual disabilities are, so that we can correct them. The point is to restore your beingness and to bring you closer to your spirit.”
Blueberry nods. Brunette looks petrified.
“Would you like to try it?” he asks her.
“I’m not sure.”
Brunette prods her in the arm and tells her that she doesn’t have to do it.
She offers no response, until Maple hands her two metallic cylinders attached by two black chords to the back of the bizarre machine. He flips a switch and the vertical line with an arrow at the tip begins to move back and forth. I look over my shoulder. There is no other exit.
“I want you to recall a time when you were very happy,” says Maple. “Visualize it. The smells, the tastes, the physical sensations, the aura of the moment,” he says.
We all wait a few seconds, as blueberry closes her eyes. He then asks her to tell us what she is thinking about.
“When I went to the mall with my father and my sister.”
“Great,” says Maple as he hits a switch on the face of the machine and the E-meter’s marker catapults to the left.
“Now think about a time that you felt really terrible about yourself.”
Blueberry’s friend looks at her. I look at Maple. Maple smiles at me. He is smiling for the first time on the tour.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks the girl.
“An argument I had with my mom.”
“What was it about?” he asks.
“She has a boyfriend who I don’t like.”
“Why don’t you like him?” asks Maple as he taps the machine again and its arrow goes careening to the right. “Be detailed.”
“He drinks. He doesn’t treat my mom or my younger sister right. He punched a hole in my bedroom wall.”
“I want you to think about how he makes your mother feel. How does that make you feel?” asks Maple.
“You don’t have to answer this guy,” says the brunette with a crackle in her voice.
“It makes her feel terrible and it makes me feel terrible too.”
“And what do you do when you feel terrible?” asks Maple.
The girl tosses the cylinders back on the table, as her friend wraps a hand around her upper arm. She tells Maple that they have to leave now, because their ride is here. Maple asks them if they would be willing to fill out a survey, but they have already turned toward the door. When it shuts behind them, Maple looks at me and holds the oblong silver joysticks.
“It’s your turn,” he says.
Before I pick them up, I commit to mentally ignore everything Maple asks me to do. Instead of visualizing positive and negative moments, I decide to focus on my breath.
This is Buddha in scientology land. The nirvana of debunking bullshit.
Maybe it’s because I have resting bitch face, but I don’t get the happy question. Maple begins by asking me to think about something that I hate about myself. An image of the girls pops up. Then, an image of my mother. I ignore them both. I focus on the bottom of my nose. The warm breath passing across my upper lip.
In and out. In and out. In and out.
“What are you thinking about,” he asks.
“Umm, a bad habit I have.”
“What?”
He’s got you now.
“I have a habit of, uhh, showing up late,” I say.
Maple pauses. Just as he is about to tap the machine with his ring finger, he looks at me perplexed. Africa sits motionless on the side of his face. I can tell he expected something much worse. Much more terrible.
Alcohol addiction. Depression. Oedipal fantasies. Paraphilia.
“Showing up late?” he asks.
“Yeah. To like dentist appointments and stuff. To work. You know, the liquor store?”
“Can you think of something more emotionally significant? What is your worst characteristic? The thing you are least proud of. The thing you hate most about yourself,” he asks. I can tell that I am making him uncomfortable. The images of the Kool-Aid and bodies stuffed into the castle walls disappear.
I try to be like Kyle Mooney. I try my hardest not to laugh.
“My failure of punctuality . . . it really takes a toll on my life. I can’t hold down a job, Maple. I can’t hold down relationships with the loved ones I care about. Last week, I was supposed to feed my girlfriend’s cat. Her name was Ritz Bitz.”
“Rits Bits?” he asks.
“The little crackers with cheese. Sometimes peanut butter. She is a small cat.”
He hesitantly adjusts the switch on the E-meter. The vertical arrow begins to point right. “The E-meter can tell it upsets you,” he says, as I smile this time.
“Unfortunately, we don’t have time for a survey.”
Back at Sushi Stop, Tom orders a round of Summer Ales to celebrate my “still being alive.”
“So, what did you learn?” Victoria asks me.
“I learned that the anticlimax is the postmodern trope par excellence,” I say. “I also learned that L. Ron Hubbard does not like security cameras in his office.”
In my hand, I twirl the feather pen with the initials “L.R.H” trimmed across the side in black. The fluorescent half-moons remind me of the ending to White Noise, when Jack wanders the supermarket looking at tabloids. This is the language of fiction and nonfiction, or how the dead speak to the living. The cough syrup, the E-meter, Buddha breaths, and blueberry-blonde streaks. Los Angeles is where we wait together, amidst the noise, our heads packed with brightly colored fantasies.
1. This statement is partially true. After college, I worked at a liquor store for four and a half hours. As I entered the fifth hour, the manager pulled me into the back room and asked me if I had read his homemade pamphlet about “leaning,” when I could be “cleaning.” He then told me that I looked like I did not want to be a “partner” in All-Star Liqueurs’ all-star cast. I agreed.
