Why Aren't You Smiling? Page 2

  My father put on a wry smile. “Looking for the Holy Grail, no doubt.”

  “He was just talking about how all you need is Love.”

  My mother leaned toward me as if imparting a secret. “Trust me on this one, Leonard. Love is not all you need.”

  “Right,” agreed my father. “Try going without food for a few days and you’ll see what she means.” My parents had grown up in the Great Depression and liked to remind me that I’d been horrifically spoiled.

  “I don’t think he meant that you don’t need anything else ever,” I said, improvising madly. At that point, I couldn’t have truly said what Rick had told me. “I just think he meant that Love is good.”

  “So is an education,” said my father, stabbing at the pork chop on his plate for emphasis.

  “And an open mind,” added my mother. “Something the Christians don’t always seem aware of.”

  “No, he was just.” I gave up in mid-sentence. Why had I even bothered? “He was just talking about Love and I said it sounded cool and that was it.”

  My parents shot each other wary looks (my father arching his eyebrows, my mother beading her eyes). They knew I wasn’t telling everything but were letting me off the hook. Oh, how I hated their weirdly semi-permissive parenting! The conversation returned to Washington, and I spent the remainder of the meal in sullen silence. By the time we were tucking into our strawberry ice cream they must have forgotten what had happened because my mother said, “Aren’t you the Gloomy Gus tonight, Leonard. Anything wrong?”

  “Nothing at all,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’m fine. Just fine.”

  That night I couldn’t get comfortable in bed. I felt somehow too aware of my body. My limbs felt ungainly. The sheets and blankets were touching my skin. As I tossed and twisted, my mind replayed the events in the park. It had been going so well till that blonde girl showed up. There was something gross about her. My dislike immediately embarrassed me. I should love her! I decided to practice Loving. My mind’s eye called up the faces of people I saw every day – my math teacher, the guy at the 7-11 – but I felt nothing, not even a fond regard. I switched to a more abstract strategy, imagining Love beams shining out of my heart into the dark night. Still nothing. My coldness disturbed me and I vowed to practice Loving every night right before sleep.

  My brother Danny, seven years my senior, was much cooler than me. He wore his curly, carrot-colored hair in a tangled halo around his big, freckled face, and charmed everyone with his goofy, sideways smile. Though like me he was allergic to sports, he was still well liked by jocks and popular kids because he was a gifted clown who fearlessly mocked authority figures. Sassy retorts rolled off his tongue and he had a way of pursing his lips when mimicking persnickety teachers that everyone found hysterical. My imitations of his imitations, alas, fell flat because for the most part (o shameful truth!) I liked my teachers just fine. Before moving away to college, Danny had taken a keen interest in my intellectual development. At least once a week, he’d invited me into his bedroom for a chat.

  The place was a total stoner den and stepping inside always gave me a through-the-looking-glass sense of entering an alien, magical world. He’d covered his windows with tinfoil and seldom used his lamp, preferring the room to be lit solely by a string of Christmas lights and candles. His floor, desk, and eternally unmade bed were all buried under an avalanche of clothing, magazines, records, paperbacks, comic books, empty food containers, and whimsical junk like the head of a parking meter, a model of Monticello, and a bowling trophy painted fluorescent green. It never felt cluttered or claustrophobic, though. Rather it was a comfortably chaotic sanctuary from the bright, tidy world of striving and responsibility. Danny liked to hole up in there for days on end, living on pizza and pot while listening to brooding guitar rock with his friends, a crew of slouchy reprobates who never deigned to acknowledge my existence.

  When Danny called me in, I’d seat myself on his ancient armchair, so worn its stuffing came out in fluffy white clouds, while he put something ambient on the stereo, Tangerine Dream or Yes. Then he’d stretch out on his laundry strewn bed and lecture me about things that really mattered: anarchism, elves, the Beats, underground comix, the Yippies, pot, Buddha, tarot. He had a natural flair for drama, and could speak casually, orate didactically, or babble excitedly as the subject demanded. He seemed impossibly knowledgeable and wise yet quite frequently, he’d bolt up to consult one of his many books in order to learn something new, add to his ever-growing synthesis of trippy knowledge. In addition to knowing all about everything, Danny was full of theories: grades were counterproductive and fascistic; Marvel Comics sprang from the eternal truths of the Collective Unconscious but DC was crap; American literature was just now achieving the sophistication France had achieved with Alfred Jarry and Lautréament in the 19th century. I loved straining my brain to follow his twisty logic and always paid rapt attention, even when I had no idea what he was talking about. Only if totally and utterly lost would I interrupt with a question. During Danny’s lectures, time seemed not to exist. It felt as if the words could stream on forever, as if we had no bodies or worries and could flit about examining ideas, facts, and stories the way tiny winged fairies might flit about a garden examining flowers.

  Eventually, Danny would feel the need to fire up his bong, a glass contraption that looked like a mutant wine carafe. Afraid of getting a contact high, I’d stand up to leave. Danny would hand me a book and tell me to stay mellow. Back in my own room, respectably decorated with maps and animal posters, I’d lie on my bed trying to digest it all. I never doubted that anyone with any sensitivity, style, or substance would become a hippie on reaching his or her teen years. Kids who stayed square after puberty all seemed either damaged and fearful or calloused and reactionary. Furthermore, I believed in each and every one of Danny’s iconoclastic opinions and badly wanted to join The Underground. And yet, to do so I’d have to renounce my status as a “good kid” and forfeit the high esteem in which my parents and teachers held me. For that, I just wasn’t ready. I had every intention of turning on, tuning in, and dropping out. but not quite yet.

  The next morning, I found school insufferably irrelevant, a torture beyond anything from the Middle Ages. Geometry in particular made the Iron Maiden seem like a welcome alternative. Only the giant wall map of the United States that hung in my homeroom held any interest. Oregon was large. I’d have to hitchhike around for a while before I found Rick. I’d never hitchhiked anywhere, but it certainly looked exciting in movies. Most drivers who picked up people were fascinating eccentrics, though of course a fair number were psychopathic murders. With a shiver of pleasure, I imagined myself explaining to a stranger in a voice full of sangfroid, “Yeah, I hitched around for a while till I found the place.”

  When lunchtime finally arrived I went to the splintery bench near the safety supervisor reserved for Dweebs. Forever the victims of wedgies, poundings, and kung fu assaults, these kids did their best to be invisible, and were pretty good at it – wisping through their days like the wind through the trees, their existence only inferable by the slight rustling sound of pitying compliments handed out by teachers who had once themselves been unpopular. As I arrived, the usual half-dozen faces looked up from their books and sandwiches, and nodded or mumbled hello. Our lowly social standing had convinced us nobody would ever be pleased to hear our voices.

  I sat down and pulled out my sandwich. As I feared, it contained sprouts. Just at that moment, sprouts were a cause célèbre among culinary progressives… one that my mother had seized upon with evangelical zeal. I, on the other hand, felt strongly that a more traditional lettuce leaf best complimented the rich gaminess of liverwurst.

  “Finish your homework?” asked Mary Ellen, a fragile blonde girl from my English class.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Me, too.” She primly nibbled her banana.

  Silence fell. None of us had anything to talk about. Finally, I could stand it no more. We
were human beings, were we not? All around us kids were laughing and telling stories and playing catch and rough-housing. Surely we could work up a little enthusiasm for something.

  “Anyone see the The Carol Burnett Show last night?” I asked. Success: conversation broke out. We chortled and grinned as we reminisced about the comic skits, doing our best to mimic the funniest lines as delivered by the stars.

  Then a boy, out of breath and sweaty, ran up to the safety supervisor and barked, “Fight over by the cafeteria!” The supervisor jogged off to restore order and there we sat, undefended, scanning the courtyard in front of us like rabbits in an open field. Trying to act as if nothing were amiss, I bit into my sandwich. Douglas Schmidt and two of his henchmen immediately ambled over from the hot lunch counter and stood before me, belligerence oozing from every pore. The two boys to my right fled, their faces pale with terror. Just got up and walked away. The three girls to my left suddenly forgot that they knew me and began speaking amongst themselves in subdued tones. My body’s metabolism switched from digestion to fight or flight mode, trapping a bite of liverwurst sandwich uncomfortably in my throat. Douglas had actually beaten me up before with the (to my mind) rather showy gimmick of having one hand tied behind his back.

  “If it isn’t Leonard,” taunted Douglas. “Leonard the Lezzie.”

  “You are so ignorant,” I shot back as I shoved the remains of my lunch into my book bag, preparing for a hasty getaway. “Boys can’t be lesbian.”

  “You think you’re a boy?” sneered Douglas as he pulled my book bag from my hands and tossed it into a nearby trashcan. “You’re a chicken.” His long, dishwater blond hair fell in his face as he laughed. I stood to retrieve my bag but was pushed down by a single blow to my sternum. Then Douglas slapped my face as if challenging me to a duel. My parents had always counseled me that when getting picked on I should fight back, that I might not win but at least I’d be respected. On the other hand, I knew what Jesus and Rick would have said about cheeks and enemies. I sat back down and stared straight ahead, holding my body rigid against attack but my heart open to Love.

  “He’s not a chicken, he’s a pussy,” spat one of Douglas’s friends as he socked me hard in the arm. It stung but I restrained myself from flinching, my adrenal energy entirely deployed into the act of keeping my body perfectly motionless.

  Douglas’s face peered into mine. “What’s with the zombie bit?”

  Girls considered Douglas handsome. He was always making out on parked cars near campus after school let out. With a bit of a shock I found myself thinking he resembled the boy in the TV commercial for Honeycombs cereal whom I envied for his rakish good looks. I imagined one of my Love rays piercing Douglas’s body and finding his heart, as small, shriveled, and dark as one of the rotted plums that spread themselves promiscuously under the plum tree in my backyard. I visualized the light of Love, my Love, restoring it to plump redness. Douglas and his friends went at me all at once. Someone kicked my leg while someone else socked my other arm and Douglas hit my stomach. I doubled over in pain but didn’t try to defend myself or even cry out.

  The bell rang announcing the end of lunch. “We’ll finish you up later,” promised Douglas, almost apologetically. He and his cronies turned and walked off. I pulled myself up, retrieved my book bag from the trash, brushed off some rotted banana, and went to class. For the remainder of the day I could feel the slap of Douglas’s hand on my face, as well as the ache of several developing bruises around my body, but so what? Wasn’t the material world an illusory trap to be transcended on the road to spiritual enlightenment? This persecution was my hair shirt, a saintly mortification of the flesh, a lucky opportunity for spiritual growth and letting go of ego. I couldn’t wait to tell Rick all about it.

  The instant I was released from school, I raced directly to the park. I didn’t see Rick, but spotted Beth and a few of his friends. They were sprawled out on the grass singing along with a guy who was playing guitar. They’d know where he was. Though mightily impatient, I didn’t want to interrupt their song (something about Michael rowing a boat ashore and a lot of hallelujahs), so I sat down a few yards away and waited. Within moments I felt conspicuous and, on wild impulse, removed my shoes and socks. My feet looked blindingly white in the sunshine but the warm grass felt wonderful. No wonder hippies preferred to go shoeless. To kill time I rummaged a copy of Robert Heinlein’s Stranger In A Strange Land out of my book bag. It was taking me forever to get through it but I instinctively felt the book contained much Truth and Wisdom. Eventually the hallelujah song stopped. Rick’s friends immediately began discussing what to sing next so I knew I had to act quickly. Without even putting my shoes on, I walked over to them.

  “You’re that kid,” said Beth in a raspy voice as she squinted at me.

  “I’m looking for Rick. Is he around?”

  A man with curly black hair and a Mexican bandito mustache spoke. “You just missed him. He went for rolling papers.”

  My throat was constricting. “OK, thanks,” I mumbled. As I walked away I felt Rick’s friends’ eyes on my back, which made me shiver.

  I heard Bandito Man’s voice. “Wait, kid, do you like to sing?”

  I turned back. “Not really,” I stammered, my throat so tight I could barely get the words out. “I think I’ll go find Rick.”

  “OK. Peace, man.”

  I quickly put on my shoes and walked the half-block down to the retail corridor on the south side of the campus. Its sidewalks were lined with rows of tables selling handcrafted pottery, beaded necklaces, buttons, bumper stickers, wind chimes, incense, hand-tooled belts, Indian fabrics, and novelty candles. The whole area was permanently mobbed with students and hippies, some of them sprawled across the sidewalk so that pedestrians had to step over them to walk by. Normally I found the street dauntingly claustrophobic and stayed away, but the thought of seeing Rick again propelled me through the crowds to the head shop.

  I paused outside for just a moment (I’d never been inside such a disreputable place) then pushed open the heavy door. The air inside was thick with spicy incense and soothing sitar music played softly, a pleasant contrast with the noisy bustle of the street. Behind a long glass counter, a sales clerk whispered heatedly into a phone. His eyes rose up to meet mine, but he didn’t stop what I guessed was an intimate personal phone call. There was nobody else in the store and I would have left immediately, but worried that walking out without examining at any merchandise might look silly or suspicious. I avoided the counter with its thoroughly incriminating display of pipes and bongs, instead examining the shelves of gifts and toys in back. I was enjoying the double trippy effect of looking at a lava lamp through a kaleidoscope when Rick surprised me by walking out of an adjoining room I hadn’t noticed because it was behind a beaded curtain.

  “Hey, Little Lenny,” he said. The “little” would have sounded condescending from anyone else, but from Rick it just seemed affectionate. It also made me notice that Rick himself was tiny, only a couple of inches taller than me. I hadn’t noticed the other day in the park because he’d been sitting down.

  “Hi Rick. Funny running into you here.” I felt myself blush. “I mean, what a coincidence.”

  “There are no coincidences,” Rick replied, his head bobbing slightly in agreement with himself.

  The fact that I’d been looking for him escaped my mind and I immediately accepted the view that fate had decreed he and I were meant to connect. “Oh, wow.”

  Rick gestured for me to follow him out to the street. “Let’s split.”

  “Do you really think there are no coincidences?” I asked.

  “The universe is God’s dream,” said Rick. He smiled at a woman in purple velvet robes blowing bubbles as she strolled down the street. She smiled back beatifically.

  “So if the universe is God’s dream, does that mean he’s not in charge of what’s going on?” I asked.

  “What does it look like to you?”

  I’d never followed th
is line of thought before and had to puzzle it out. Rick didn’t seem to expect an answer right away, or maybe at all, so we walked in silence for nearly a full minute before I replied.

  “Maybe that’s why bad stuff happens, like the Holocaust and Vietnam, because God’s having a nightmare.”

  “But it’s not real,” said Rick, “because it’s all a part of the dream.”

  “What happens to us when God wakes up?” I wondered.

  Rick shot me a funny look, then smiled. “Perhaps the dream and the dreamer are one.”

  “Huh?”

  Rick explained. “Like God isn’t a man, God is God, and we can’t even begin to comprehend what that means. God’s dreams could be more real than our reality, but maybe he has more than just two states, dreaming and not dreaming, he could have three, dreaming, being awake, and something else. Maybe more than three, maybe sixty, maybe an infinite number.”

  “Chuang Tzu dreamed he was a butterfly,” I said, bursting with pride at having something more or less pertinent to contribute, “but then he woke up and asked how did he know he wasn’t a butterfly dreaming he was a man?”

  “Wow,” said Rick.

  “Chuang Tzu was a Taoist,” I explained.

  “Cool,” said Rick. “Wanna come over to my place? We can get stoned and read the Bible.”

  I froze for a few panicky, blank-minded seconds. I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to be the single teenager in all of America who never tried marijuana, so although getting stoned was worrisome (would I have a bad trip?), it would have to be faced sooner or later. The prospect of reading the Bible, however, seriously creeped me out. I’d glanced through a Gideon’s in a motel once and been bored to tears by begats and spooked by Revelations. Worst by far was the whole thundering judgment of God thing, which I found teeth grindingly ungroovy. “Uh, I think I have homework to do,” I stammered.

  Rick smiled condescendingly, like he thought having to do homework was cute. “OK, maybe next time. This is where I turn.”