He clasps his hands together and brings them to his mouth as he lets out a deep sigh, as if this feeble discussion is above him. Psychologists, familiar with body language, would tell you this is often a sign of perceived omnipotence. Of course scientology is waging a war on psychology, so I dare not say a thing.
As he exhales he begins to speak again, with his hands still at his mouth. Never making eye contact with me. Only looking off into the distance, with a deep contemplative look as if his insights into my psyche are a stress to his regular pattern of pristine thought.
“You see Bart, what you do for a living is a want in our society. It is not a need. You have no idea of what it is to provide something that is necessary for our society to perpetuate itself.”
Considering I’ve been spending most of my nights in the room he’s renting out to the spunky girl from Italy…I’d say I’m very keen on what it takes for our society to perpetuate itself.
“You, Bart, simply have not experienced what life is all about; you’re young of course. Not as young as me when I realized what the world was about, but that is OK." As he says “OK” he gently puts his hand out has if to stop an over eager car at a cross walk) “I’m one of the fortunate ones of course. Due to this lack of experience you simply have no idea what life is all about. You, my young friend…cannot fathom.”
“It occurred to me that you never crossed over Bart. Yes you entered the adult world. Yes you live outside of your family’s reach. Yes you provide for yourself. But no…you have never even remotely crossed over. I can remember when I…”
I interrupt him, “what the fuck does crossed over mean?”
He puts his hands together, palms flat this time, as if he’s preying, his knuckles move to his lower lip and press to it as he makes an expression of deep, straining thought.
He exhales a long slow breath...
He exhales again, the look of his thought process growing more intense...
He then shakes his head and says, “you know Bart, …you simply could not comprehend it.”
“Ahhh, of course, now it all makes sense to me…” I think to myself.
“L.R.H once said, Bart, that life is a long journey, and blah blah blah blah blah blah, P.T. Suppression, blah blah blah, according to L.R.H. blah blah blah…”
When he begins to talk in terms of scientology that’s all I hear. Slurs and random meaningless acronyms. Sometimes I pick up nothing at all. This is a good thing.
“Bob” I say, “This is very simple, you promised me a four month lease. And now I have less then one week till the end of the month and you have suddenly decided that you’ll only sign a one-year lease. I have no time to find anyplace else to live and I can’t afford to sign a one-year lease. My life is too uncertain right now. I’ve been laid off twice in the past yea…”
Bob cuts in, “You know Bart, …that right there is the problem. You see, I don’t know where you spend all of your time, but you’re never home here. And if you’re always getting laid off, that tells me that you aren’t working very efficiently in whatever job you are working on. If it were me, I’d make myself, unexpendable. I would work so intensely, and so hard, that they could never even afford to lay me off. Clearly Bart…this is not the case with you.”
I feel my fists clench. The only thing I remember from Karate in 3rd grade was the instructor telling me “do not punch the board, but punch THROUGH the board, see your fist on the other side.” At this moment I am imagining my fist on the other side of Bob’s face, resting comfortably in the soft squishiness of his brain tissue. If L. Ron. Hubbard is looking down on me from that shiny sci-fi heaven which is his…he is not happy with me right now, dare I say he’s reserved a special section for me in scientological hell.
“But Bob, I think my situation is a bit dif…”
“You see Bart. You speak to my point. You need to settle and stay in a place, and focus all your effort and physical energies on a single purpose. Don’t set yourself up for what LRH would call…oh never mind, you wouldn’t understand anyway.”
I can’t help but giggle to myself. Yet I want to tell him what type of person the man he idolizes (almost as a god) truly was. Is it cruel that I do not? Would he even believe me if I did? Launderer, plagiarist, con artist, wife beater, paranoid schizophrenic, drug abuser…
"...This is why I’ve decided I’m only going to offer you a one year lease. The rent is cheap...but more importantly... You need to be in a situation where you are forced to settle Bart. To deal with life, and not just get up and move to a new place when you are faced with adversity. I can help you with these things.”
God, what did I do to deserve this crap? God being whichever one is listening that is not affiliated with this fruitcake.
Without wasting a second more of my precious time I pick up my cell phone and dial a number. Bob stops speaking, curious to see who I could possibly call that would be important enough to break in on one of his rants.
“Chris, what’s up, hey man, this is Bart. Month to month lease right? Great, I’ll take it”
I snap my cell phone closed and walk into my room, slam the door, and begin packing. Without waiting for him to knock and continue his rant I crank up track 9 on Sticky Fingers.
And this is how our precious time together ends. With me telling him to fuck off via Mick Jagger.
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