Why Aren't You Smiling? Read online

  Suddenly I dreaded the lonesome, dull hours between getting home and falling asleep. Anything would be better than doing my homework in front of the television while my mother hovered around prying into my personal affairs. “Well, maybe I could come over just for a little while.”

  Rick smiled, nicely this time. “Far out. Let’s go.”

  We walked a couple of blocks to a slightly ramshackle wood-shingled, single story house with a patchy lawn littered with gross, dog-gnawed bones and squeaky toys. Rick turned. “This is it. We’re crashing here till we get the cash to leave for Oregon.”

  “Whose house is it?” I wondered aloud.

  “God’s,” said Rick.

  I followed Rick up the steps to the porch where a mangy hound sat, ineffectually biting a flea on its leg. It looked up at us with rheumy eyes but didn’t stop biting. I followed Rick inside and into the living room.

  “Make yourself at home,” he said, plopping down on a threadbare sofa and putting his sandal-clad feet up on the coffee table.

  I sat next to Rick, and glanced around. The room was mostly empty except for a pile of backpacks and sleeping bags in the corner and a churchy looking felt banner that hung on the wall. It depicted a white dove with a laurel wreath in its beak flying over a crowd of multi-hued people. I walked over and read: Dream Love, Eat Love, Shit Love, Fuck Love, Read Love, Write Love, Want Love, Love Love, Be Love.

  Rick sensed my embarrassment at the dirty words. “Turning your life over to Jesus isn’t about getting uptight and refusing to say ‘shit’ or ‘fuck’. God created shitting and fucking, too, you know.”

  “I know,” I sighed, sitting back down next to him. “But…” I hesitated, not wanting to admit I never swore. “I guess I don’t understand…”

  “You think you don’t understand the Truth of Jesus, but dig this, there’s nothing to understand! There’s no mystery, Little Leonard. People get confused about God because all these competing churches try to sell God like you’d sell a used car. Like they want Church to be the God store. But you know, God doesn’t come with a label or a price tag, like Pepsi or Coke. He’s like water. He’s everywhere and always free.”

  “You don’t go to church?” I tried not to sound surprised.

  “Hell no!” laughed Rick. “Organized religion exists to channel mankind’s innate spiritual impulses to serve the needs of the ruling class. The early Christian churches were radical communities where everyone took care of each other and sought out communion with God in their own way. But that was a threat to the Roman Empire. Those cats were all about power and violence. They tried to kill Christianity by killing all the Christians, but that didn’t work ’cause people kept converting, so they adopted Christianity as the state religion and turned the temples into churches. The real Christians were branded as heretics and driven out. The truth of Jesus was still there in the Gospels, though, so the priests threw out a lot of what He said or reworded it to suit their purposes.”

  This information was changing my worldview so fast I felt dizzy. “You’re saying they changed the Bible?”

  “Yup,” Rick confirmed. “But God’s message is still there if you peel away all the bullshit. Just Love, that’s it! It sounds easy, but it might be the hardest thing in the world. Here, this’ll help.” He took a tiny package of rolling papers out of his jeans then pulled out a tiny wooden box from under the sofa. I watched nervously as he extracted a baggie of brownish pot from the box, took some, crumpled some into a rolling paper, and expertly rolled a joint.

  “I’ve never gotten high before,” I admitted, relieved to get this shameful secret off my chest.

  “Oh wow,” laughed Rick, as he licked the edge of the paper, sealing the joint.

  “My brother Danny has,” I babbled idiotically. Why would Rick care?

  “This is gonna take you places,” smiled Rick. “Watch what I do.” He held up the flame and started sucking on the end of the joint. After he’d finished inhaling, he motioned to me. I took the joint, my scalp tingling with trepidatious excitement, and repeated the process. The hot smoke immediately made me cough, but Rick put his arm on my back and said, “It’s OK.” The touch of his hand miraculously put out the fire in my windpipe. I kept the smoke down for a second then let it escape.

  “I think you got a hit,” said Rick. We took a few more tokes then relaxed back onto the sofa. “What I mean is, like, acting all holy and uptight has nothing to do with being a Christian. And it’s not about your hair being long and saying you’re for peace either.”

  “But Jesus had long hair and was for peace,” I said.

  “Yeah,” agreed Rick, “Jesus was a hippie, for sure. But you don’t have to be a hippie or have long hair to Love. You just have to Love. Love your enemies, your friends, strangers, the animals, yourself. Do you love yourself, Leonard?”

  I didn’t answer because I was busy noticing that the room was both immensely big and very small at the same time, though I wasn’t sure what ‘at the same time’ could possibly mean since time was suddenly a foreign concept. “Uh,” I began, “I dunno, I…”

  Rick leaned over and examined my face with clinical curiosity. “Yup, you’re stoned,” he said with a satisfied smile. What did my stoned face look like? I wondered with an outsized panic that I realized was irrational. It couldn’t have changed that much. “Feel OK?” asked Rick in what sounded like slow motion. I couldn’t form words, so instead gave him a reassuring smile. Or rather I tried to. I could tell how phony my smile looked from the tenseness of my face muscles. I tried to relax my face, but felt it freeze. I imagined I looked like one of the heads from Easter Island. Those heads were made of stone; I was stoned. What did it mean?

  I glanced over at Rick, a poster boy for pot with his relaxed, dreamy expression. I, on the other hand, was pretty sure I could have starred in one of the anti-drug educational films they made us watch at school. The camera would show me sitting frozen on the couch while a voice-over explained, “The side effects of marijuana include short-term memory loss, confusion, paranoia…” I knew I was confused and paranoid, but had I suffered any memory loss? I tried to remember something I might have forgotten. But if I remembered it, then it wouldn’t be forgotten. The task was hopeless! It occurred to me that now I hadn’t spoken or moved for a suspiciously long time. What was Rick thinking? I didn’t have to wonder long because he stood up and announced, “We need music!”

  “Yeah, totally,” I agreed, glad for something to say.

  Rick began flipping through a stack of albums by a stereo in the corner. “The cat who lives here has all the best tunes: Argent… Emerson, Lake and Palmer… Loggins and Messina, Bread, Three Dog Night…” He turned back to face me. “What kind of music do you like, Little Lenny?”

  I wanted to like something Rick liked, but had no idea what that was. “Those are good bands,” I all but squeaked. Was ‘bands’ the right word? “I mean, groups…” Since when had inter-human communication become so difficult? “The ones you said.” I stared at my hands, which now looked alien and the wrong distance from my head. “I like all kinds of music,” I added, echoing the sentiments often expressed by my mother (of all people!) and hopefully handing the whole music dilemma back to Rick. Then I remembered that there was a new band I particularly liked. “Queen!” I shouted, my voice sounding too loud. It was my favorite band, but I had forgotten.

  Rick scowled. “Don’t see any Queen. How about Led Zep?”

  “Sure.” Suddenly I felt compelled to stand. Standing took only a small fraction of the time it normally did and I became dizzy. I must have looked like something out of a silent movie, jerky and at the wrong speed.

  “Led Zep it is!” Rick pulled the album out of its sleeve and put it on the stereo with exaggerated care. He was clearly one of those people who never scratched a record.

  How long had I been standing? It seemed like forever. And what exactly were people supposed to do with their arms while they stood? Mine were hanging straight down but that se
emed wrong. I tried them akimbo but that seemed worse. I folded them but thought I might look angry and let them fall again. Wrong. If I sat down would that be weird – to have just stood up and sat down again for no reason? Rick, thankfully, seemed oblivious to my absurdity.

  “Is Beth your girlfriend?” The words came out unexpectedly.

  “I belong to Christ,” Rick replied with an angelic smile. He returned to the couch and lit up again.

  Curiosity made me uncharacteristically bold. “What does that mean?”

  Rick exhaled. “You ask a lot of questions, Little Lenny.” He held out the joint. “Want some more?” I shook my head no, having developed a sudden, deep aversion to marijuana. Rick smiled and closed his eyes as if he were going to sleep. “This is some good shit.”

  “Do you think Jesus got high?” I wondered.

  Rick’s eyes opened. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. We know he drank wine, why not pot? Though they probably called it something different in those days.”

  “Wow.”

  Rick sat up straight. “Bible time!” He looked happy about it.

  “OK,” I said, fearing the worst.

  Rick walked over to one of the knapsacks and took out a black leather-bound Bible and set it on the coffee table. He sat down cross-legged on the floor then opened it. “We’ll do bibliomancy,” he said, fanning the pages back and forth. “Close your eyes and stick your finger on something.” I did as he asked. “OK, open your eyes and read what your finger’s pointing to.”

  “From there Elisha went up to Bethel. As he was walking along the road, some youths came out of the town and jeered at him. ‘Go on up, you baldhead!’ they said. He turned around, looked at them and called down a curse on them in the name of the Lord. Then two bears came out of the woods and mauled forty-two of the youths…” I let my voice trail off. It seemed like such a horrifically disproportionate punishment. I got teased every day and yet I’d never once wished bear mauling on my tormentors.

  Rick smiled. “That is so crazy!” I was momentarily relieved that Rick shared my opinion of the verse, but he continued, “We were just talking about how you didn’t need to have long hair to Love and be Loved, and here the Bible is telling us that even a bald man deserves Love.”

  “But… like… the… like…” I tried to unscramble my brain. “I mean, the bears, mauling or whatever the youths is not so cool, I don’t think, is it?”

  “You don’t have to take it literally,” suggested Rick. “Too many people get wrapped up in the text and forget the spirit. The spirit is Love.” He smiled and put his hand on my shoulder as he spoke.

  “I want to Love,” I said.

  “You will, Leonard.”

  “Most of the time I don’t feel Love. I don’t feel anything.”

  “I feel like dancing,” said Rick. He stood up and began swaying to the beat of “Tangerine,” the only Led Zeppelin song I truly disliked. His eyes closed, and a confident, satisfied smile graced his lips, the color of which suddenly reminded me of candy apples.

  “Will you teach me to Love?” I immediately wanted to crawl out of my skin with shame. I sounded like the worst dork in all of human history.

  Rick stopped dancing. “I can’t teach Love, but I know someone who can.” I felt a bit peeved he was pawning the job off on someone else until I saw him get down on his knees and fold his hands in prayer. Oh, right… God. I assumed a prayerful position beside Rick on the floor.

  “What do we do now?” I asked.

  “Talk to God. Tell him what’s on your mind.”

  Since I didn’t actually believe in God, this would have to be something of a theoretical exercise, but then again, what could it hurt? I closed my eyes and directed my thoughts straight up, where I’d been given to understand the bearded, white robed, Christian deity sat, flanked by angels, on a golden throne atop a fluffy white cloud: God, this is Leonard, though I guess it’s stupid to introduce myself because if you exist you know everything, which kind of brings up the point of why should I even be talking to you since you already know what I’m going to say? But I guess I’ll just do it anyway. I’m praying because I don’t think I know how to Love. And when kids at school hit me and call me a fag, I don’t just not love them, I kind of hate them. A lot. Though I wouldn’t want to send them to Hell. Burning people just seems. evil. Even if they are evil, that’s pretty uncool. Like, when I burnt my hand on the stove when I was a kid, it really, really hurt for a long time. Making someone go through that all over their body forever seems pretty psycho. But here I am telling you how to run the universe when I should be asking for your help. I want to Love! Will you make me Love everyone? I mean, sure I love my parents and my dog, but you sort of have to love your family and pets, right? I’m not sure I love anything else though. Except Rick. He’s been really nice to me. I don’t think I love Beth or his friends, though. And as for all the total strangers and people in history.

  “Yo, my man, where’s those rolling papers?”

  I opened my eyes and saw the Bandito Mustache Man tromping through the front door followed by the rest of Rick’s family.

  Beth spied the joint on the table. “You got the kid stoned and forgot all about us!”

  “Leonard is hearing The Word for the first time,” explained Rick by way of an excuse.

  “Heavy!” said Bandito Man. He was smoking a cigarette, which I thought rather unholy.

  Rick’s friends sprawled themselves around the room, taking every available seat and most of the floor space. “I think I’d better go,” I said.

  “You don’t have to,” said Rick.

  “Homework,” I shrugged.

  “OK.”

  “We’ll see each other again soon, right?”

  “Sure thing, Little Lenny.”

  I picked up my book bag. “OK, bye.”

  “Vaya con Dios!” said Bandito Man.

  I didn’t know what that meant, but was too afraid of looking ignorant to ask.

  The following day at school I felt reborn. I had been stoned. True, I hadn’t liked it, had even sort of hated it, but I had been stoned. No longer being a Good Kid, I threw as much swagger as I could into my daily routine, opened my locker with a bang, slouched in my chair, and waited a few I-can-take-it-or-leave-it seconds before shooting up my hand to answer teachers’ questions. At lunch I sauntered into the courtyard like I owned the place. A few kids on the nerd bench waved hello, expecting me to join them. I waved back to let them know there were no hard feelings, but set off in the opposite direction, into territories that had been, since time immemorial, forbidden to Dweebs. The goody-two-shoes kids seemed utterly irrelevant, perhaps even pathetic. How sad, really, that they were content to spend their lives jabbering about TV shows and brown-nosing authority figures with the hope of one day joining the great plastic suburban conformist middle class. Such was not to be my fate.

  First I passed The Lawn, home of the Jocks. Boys secure atop the pecking order tossed balls and clowned around while teasing each other and bragging in loud, confident voices. They all wore new sporty clothing, striped Adidas running shoes, rugby shirts, and flared jeans that clung tightly to their lithe, athletic bodies. A few girls, the precocious kind who’d already started wearing lip gloss and doing things with their hair, sat nearby, checking out the boys and whispering amongst themselves. As I passed, a tall kid I didn’t know cast aspersions on my assumed sexual preference and commented unkindly on my weight. I tried to increase my pace imperceptibly so I wouldn’t look scared. The kid headed my way on an intercept course, but was fortunately diverted by the arrival of a friend with a new yo-yo.

  Next came the Rear Courtyard where the Black kids hung out. Here most everyone wore flashy fashions – patterned polyester shirts, platform shoes, elephant bellbottoms, and big ’fros. Somebody’s crackly transistor radio blasted the area with infectious funk tunes, and some of the kids were so cool they could bop along to the music without looking stupid. This area was actually safe for me since, to avo
id the unpleasantness of a race riot, bullies of all ethnicities had adopted an unspoken agreement to persecute only Dweebs of their own kind. I slowed down to a normal pace, and to show my solidarity with the plight of the downtrodden, even ventured a sympathetic smile. It went unnoticed.

  Then came The Picnic Tables, home of The Popular Kids – another danger zone. Here, two dozen white kids so generic that nobody could think of any reason not to like them sprawled with regal languor, eating their hot lunches and chattering brightly about all the parties they went to and who was dating whom. Wilson, a flaxen-haired Adonis (a disproportionate number of Popular Kids were blond), pointed my way and began jumping up and down, whooping “Ooh, ooh” like an ape. His friends laughed wildly as he threw something at me. The projectile, a wadded-up paper lunch bag, bounced harmlessly off my shoulder. Without breaking my pace, I picked it up, tossed it into a nearby trashcan, and kept walking.

  Around a corner I arrived at my destination: The Benches, a long row of wooden seats affixed to the side of the gymnasium. This was the most unsupervised area on campus, and for that reason, favored by a group of reprobate boys (and a small girls’ auxiliary) known as The Burnouts. Though there were perhaps twenty Burnouts in all, one never saw more than a half-dozen at one time as they were all prone to playing hooky, getting suspended, and staying home for weeks on end due to bizarre accidents and exotic ailments. When The Burnouts did show up, they affected an air of stoned indolence with conspicuously droopy eyes, bad posture, and a demeanor of sloth-like impudence.

  The Burnouts provoked strong reactions. Popular Kids liked to hold their noses when a Burnout walked by and loudly proclaim, “Something stinks!” The Burnouts ignored these slights, smiling indulgently the way an adult might at a toddler who tried the old “Got your nose” gambit. The Jocks, for some reason, were particularly incensed that The Burnouts never wore white socks, and complained about this bitterly and loudly. They seldom dared attack Burnouts, though, because rather than meekly submitting to persecution as a Dweeb would, a Burnout might simply walk off campus and not come back for three days, or else go ape-shit and start throwing chairs and trashcans, completely indifferent to all consequences.