Simple Simon

by William Poe

  The year of the Jonestown tragedy was a particularly difficult time to be in the church. People looked upon anyone belonging to a nontraditional religious group as potential suicide. The first thing I did when the news broke was to call Vivian and Lenny to reassure them that our teachings could never justify such an action. Despite my assurances, Vivian’s voice broke, and she held back fearful tears when I’d finished explaining.

  “Sometimes, it feels we’ve already lost you,” she cried. “I couldn’t bear it if you did something to yourself.”

  Lenny took what I had to say with less circumspection. He would never accept the authenticity of my religious beliefs, but he had come to understand enough to realize why I claimed that Reverend Moon was no Jim Jones. In short, we believed this life was our one shot at paying indemnity for sin. Lenny believed in grace, but he understood that we believed in works. Ending mortal life was the worst crime of all in the Divine Principle view. It was possible to benefit after death by influencing the actions of the living, but the prospects of doing so were slim.

  The murder-suicides of Jonestown spurred Connie and Derek to become more involved with anti-cult groups. Churches paid them increasingly large sums to address their congregations. I shuddered to think about them meeting Stanley one day and plotting to kidnap me.

  Whenever I could arrange it, I went to Sibley, especially as Lenny’s heart condition worsened. His bypass surgery had helped, but over the years, the arteries again deteriorated. On those visits, Connie and Derek never came to the mansion, and neither Vivian nor Lenny mentioned them.

  What I knew about Connie and Derek’s activities I learned from magazine articles and, disturbingly, from members who had escaped the clutches of deprogrammers and returned to the family. Many had met Connie and Derek toward the end of their ordeal. It seemed that Connie had come up with the technique of defecating on a copy of the Divine Principle in order to show the kidnapped member that lightning would not strike down the perpetrator. The disgusting act always backfired, instead serving to demonstrate a lack of respect for people and a willingness to engage sacrilege for the dubious purpose of disproving sincerely held beliefs.

  Occasionally, I saw Connie on the news. She would repeat well-rehearsed vitriol against Reverend Moon and renew the accusation that her brother had become a “brainwashed zombie.” At times, the characterization sounded like such a pleasant state of mind, given my constant struggle to suppress homosexual desires.

  While in Texas, I had a better relationship with Lenny than at any other point in my life. Several times, he and Vivian made the five-and-a-half-hour drive to Grapevine. The organized way I put the members to work in a candle factory that I had established in a refurbished shed impressed Lenny. He even purchased a few candles to take home.

  “My son’s got a level head,” Lenny would say to people, in a remarkable about-face from my days as a high school journalist when he’d said that my articles “didn’t make a lick of sense.”

  When relatives asked about me, Lenny insisted that I had “done all right” for myself.

  During one of my visits to Sibley, Lenny spoke on the phone with Connie. He knew I would overhear when he said, “Your brother lives in a big house, and people respect him. You ought to give the boy some credit.”

  I wish I had been privy to her response.

  As the public became more aware of the Unification Church and Reverend Moon, legal problems grew worse for the MFT. Mitsui eventually replaced Joseph as commander in Chicago and, at Kawasaki’s insistence, chose an American to take his place. Joseph took charge of MFT legal affairs. By that time, he was well acquainted with Maury Fender and had a firm grasp of First Amendment law as it applied to the church’s fundraising activities.

  Maury won a significant victory against Wisconsin, and based on that ruling, he persuaded other states and municipalities to withdraw legislation intended to limit fundraising. In some cases, Maury had to file for an injunction in Federal Court, coordinating legal actions with the American Church leaders in New York. Joseph provided oversight and guided communications.

  Due to the notoriety he had gained by successfully representing the Unification Church, Maury relocated to Los Angeles to become partner in a firm with international scope in cases involving civil liberties. It was a major change of culture for a man born in New Orleans, steeped in Cajun traditions, but Maury adapted.

  My friendship with Maury deepened while I was in Texas because of a personal lawsuit he had brought on my behalf.

  I had taken one of the Dallas teams to the unincorporated North Texas town of Arden. The sheriff, professing hatred of “Moonies,” pulled me over and dragged me from the van, throwing me down with such force that my forehead scraped the pavement. He took me to the Denton County jail, where I spent a miserable night in a cold cell. Maury sued the county. A private investigator uncovered the fact that the city had hired the sheriff knowing he was a thug. They wanted him to prevent teenagers from joyriding through town on Saturday nights. But the man was an indiscriminate bully who had his own list of people to persecute, with Moonies at the top. Maury won such a large judgment that the county instituted a mill tax to pay it. I added the money to my region’s earnings for the month and set an all-time record.

  That year, I was the top commander in the nation. Father lauded me during his annual speech on “God’s Day,” which coincided with New Year’s Day for most people. He noted that, once again, I had not “backed down” when confronted by our opponents. It was a heady experience to play a tape of Father’s speech to my region and hear Father mention me by name.

  I was beginning to understand that Father admired leaders with a certain degree of independence. That partly explained the divisions and controversies within the church. The meek might inherit the earth, but the bold got noticed by the Reverend Moon.

  Despite the many successes and my growing confidence in our beliefs, not to mention the prestige and honor my position as commander had afforded me, my true self fought to express itself.

  I blamed “satanic influence” for every sexual thought and every temptation. I had no sense that it was “me” all the time, my heart yearning for the touch of another man, my identity trying to come out of the closet. Rarely did I allow myself to consider that being gay might be normal and that I should explore my desires, not deny them.

  Satan was at the root of sin. Anything interfering with marriage between husband and wife was evil by definition. God is male and female. Man and woman reflect God’s nature. It was simple—no room for argument.

  Seared in memory was the day that delusion lost its power: June 6, 1979, the sixth day of the sixth month of my sixth year in the church. Church members considered providential numbers important. The Divine Principle explained history through the application of numerological principles, claiming that each age since Adam and Eve had occurred as a cycle—first on a symbolic level, then on an image level, and finally, in our age, on an actual level. My providential number turned out to be 666.

  At a commanders’ meeting in New York on June 1, Kawasaki announced that a brother named David Jetter would be coming to my region.

  “He is a good brother,” Kawasaki said. “The members on David’s team have made good results, but he has problems. He needs an American brother as leader.”

  Many of the American captains struggled under the Japanese leaders. Their insistence that “the nail standing highest gets knocked down first” led to more bruised heads than humbled personalities. I assumed that the “problems” related to David’s struggles were with his commander.

  I decided to hold a meeting of all my captains and use the opportunity to introduce David to the region. We had been successful, in part, because I encouraged camaraderie between the leaders. Gathering for periodic meetings allowed us to share ideas and to get to know each another. If the captains got along, that sense of togetherness transferred to the teams. I valued our success at creating a family atmosphere most of all among the regio
n’s accomplishments.

  Kawasaki had taught me early on that staying in a nice hotel was an appropriate reward for hard work. I wanted the captains to relax, enjoy a sauna, and forget the hardships of a life largely spent behind the steering wheel of a van. I reserved rooms at the airport Marriott.

  The evening before the meeting, I greeted David at the airport. I had arranged for him to arrive in Dallas before the other captains so we could become acquainted. In the age of fancy coifs and colorful apparel that was the mid-1970s, David was easy to spot with his short hair and drab clothes. An ingratiating smile and intelligent eyes greeted me.

  “Hello, David,” I said, choking on the simple words. His unexpected good looks had shaken me.

  David set down his carry-on bag and shook my hand, perhaps a bit longer than what might have been appropriate. Our eyes locked in what became something like a contest to see who would look away first. David seemed surprised when I didn’t flinch. It wasn’t by choice; I was frozen in place, as if paralyzed by the scent of musk from a feral god.

  Such powerful attraction was what I had fought to avoid my whole life in the church. I had never forgotten the guilt I felt over the encounter with Jim my first night as a member, nor the angst over my violation of the sleeping brother in St. Louis.

  Lead me not into temptation, but deliver me from evil.

  The hollowness of my conviction matched the futility of the plea. I had reserved enough rooms so two captains could share and I would have one to myself. Every brain cell screamed not to do it, but I told David he would be staying with me—in the one room with a single bed. David didn’t react to the accommodations, except to comment on the sauna.

  My voice trembled slightly as I said, “Nothing more relaxing after a long trip.”

  “You’ll join me, won’t you?” David asked.

  “Oh, no,” I stammered, “I’ll just get ready for bed.”

  As David adjusted the sauna, I undressed and slipped under the covers. Ordinarily, I would have kept on my briefs, but I got into bed naked.

  David left the bathroom door open as he undressed. He unbuttoned his shirt, first turning away, but then twisting around to face me as he pulled his tight-fitting T-shirt past his rippled stomach. The fabric raked across his nipples. Fine black hair began at his belt and tapered toward his navel. I stared as David unfastened his belt buckle and released his trousers to the floor, stepped out of them, and slipped off his boxers.

  I must have gasped, because David poked his head into the bedroom and asked, “You okay?”

  The vanity lights silhouetting him in the doorway outlined his perfect form.

  “Thought of something funny, that’s all,” I said.

  David moved into the full light and stood for a moment. Was he allowing me a chance to get a good look? He turned away and stepped into the sauna, but not without a quick glance in my direction.

  I kept hearing Darsey’s comments about Mr. V-Shaped Chest Hair and imagined the squeal he would emit at the beauty I had just beheld. I switched off the bedside lamp and uneasily turned onto my side. I tried to pray, but quickly realized the futility of the effort. Finally, I jumped from the bed and dressed, determined to do the smart thing and move to a different room. I would make excuses later as to why I had disappeared.

  My hand refused to turn the doorknob. I’d never experienced desire so strong that it weakened my muscles.

  I took off my clothes and got back into bed, tortured by an arousal that became more intense the harder I tried to fight it. My years of fending off masturbation was about to end as I convinced myself that it would be less consequential than the action I contemplated when David got into bed with me.

  David opened the sauna door and caught sight of me in the mirror before I had time to throw the covers over my body. He lingered in the bathroom with a towel around his waist while he brushed his teeth. I curled sideways to hide my erection but kept my eyes partially open. David came toward the bed without switching off the bathroom light.

  In a quick motion, he ripped off the towel and pulled back the covers. “Well,” he said, “what have we here?”

  I rolled onto my back to show him exactly what we had here. David flicked off the bathroom light and crawled into bed with me. I knew I should have jumped to my feet and run for my spiritual life, but in that moment, all that mattered was the prospect of satisfying my aching desire.

  My mind went dark, even as my body came to life. Six years of abstinence came to a passionate end.

  Before dawn, David fell asleep. Judging by the look on his face, he felt completely untroubled—opposite from the way I felt. God seemed light-years distant, as if sin had put me on course toward the center of a black hole. Was this the way Adam had felt when he realized what he’d done?

  The only course of action was to perform an act of indemnity to demonstrate my remorse. I took a book of matches from the ashtray on the nightstand and locked myself in the bathroom. Images of burning witches filled my thoughts as I lit the entire pack and held the flame under my left hand. Searing pain shot through my arm as the combined odor of scorched flesh and sulfur struck my nose. My face contorted in a silent scream.

  David remained asleep while I awkwardly dressed, took the keys to the van from the dresser, and fled the room. It felt as though blood cells had turned into razor blades slicing through my arteries, but I managed, on wobbly legs, to get to the front desk. I told the night clerk that my van’s radiator had overheated and that I’d burned myself attempting to remove the cap. Then I blacked out.

  The next thing I knew, I was in a trauma center. Someone had bandaged my hand, and a cold compress lay on my forehead. A nurse stood beside me, writing something on a chart.

  “It’s not so bad,” he said, noticing that I was awake. “You were in shock.”

  “My hand feels like a balloon.”

  “It’s going to be uncomfortable for a while. But you can leave whenever you want. Just go by the desk and sign the release form.”

  I had intentionally chosen to burn my left hand—Satan’s hand, as Klara had informed me. Having learned to use my right hand over the years, I would have no trouble with the needed signature.

  Paperwork complete, I found a pay phone. I would tell Kawasaki what I had done, fully expecting him to confirm the decision I was ready to make. The act of self-flagellation had done nothing to allay my feelings of guilt. I felt no closer to God after torturing my flesh. I would leave the family a wretched sinner.

  Why even bother contacting Kawasaki? I should just go.

  Fundraising money collected by the Dallas teams was sent by wire to the New York account on a weekly basis. Unofficially, each time I went to the bank, I put some of the cash in a safety-deposit box. I added the extra money to members’ totals whenever Mitsui announced a competition between the regions. Consequently, we always did well.

  If I were to be damned, I may as well add theft to my list of crimes. Perhaps I would return to Sibley and pick up where I’d left off at college, reclaim my sacrificed Isaac, and pursue a career in art. This time around, my resolve would be stronger. Stanley was right about one thing—the family had gotten us away from drugs, even if the transformative alchemy had failed to make me heterosexual.

  But I couldn’t help feeling that I owed Kawasaki some kind of explanation. He had been a mentor and a friend, as far as friendship could develop given the strictures of religious life. If I just disappeared, the church might think deprogrammers had kidnapped me and start a search. Everyone knew about Connie and Derek’s connection to the worst of them.

  Plus, I didn’t want members to be worried and then find out the awful truth from Mitsui. I would rather have my own statement on the record. Kawasaki would honor a request to pass on my love to the members. Mitsui would find a way to use my leaving to his advantage.

  I decided to make the call.

  “I need to tell you something,” I said when Kawasaki picked up.

  “Did you hear already?” />
  “What do you mean? Hear what?” His response caught me off guard.

  “Father wants members over three years in the family to come to New York for a matching ceremony.”

  “My captains are in Dallas for a meeting. Most have over three years,” I said, swept up by Kawasaki’s enthusiasm and the miracle that I would call at just that moment. “But I had an accident. I’m at the hospital.”

  “Are you all right?” Kawasaki’s voice shifted from excitement to concern.

  “I’ll be fine. A van overheated. I burned my hand unscrewing the radiator cap.”

  “We have much to do, Simon-san. Mitsui wants you to help organize.”

  “Don’t worry. The hand won’t slow me down. I’ll let you know when I have the flight information.”

  Now I could see God’s plan. Satan had done his best to defeat me, but connecting to God through my Abel figure had saved me from eternal destruction. If I had not reached out, Satan would have won; I would have missed the ceremony and never met my future wife.

  I phoned the hotel and spoke to each of the captains. They had called the center when I wasn’t at the gate waiting for them. Nancy gave them instructions to go to the hotel and wait in their rooms until they heard from me. My story about the radiator brought laughs. All the captains had experienced trouble with their vans from time to time, and they all knew I was no mechanic. When the captains heard about the matching ceremony, they reached a similar conclusion as I had, though with different facts—that Satan had struck a blow.

  From the hospital, I took a taxi to the Marriott. Whatever my interpretation of events, no one must know that David and I had engaged in sexual activity. If he told anyone, I would be back to my first plan, taking cash and leaving town. I didn’t dare see David in the room, lest temptation win the day again, so I phoned from the lobby.

  David groggily answered.

  “This is Commander Powell,” I said, trying to sound as businesslike as I could manage. “I’m in the lobby.”