The Gospel According to Larry

by Janet Tashjian

  She told me that all the bands were playing for free, and all the companies would sell food and drinks at cost, not just because of the Woodstock ’99 debacle but because of Larry’s noncommercial agenda. “It’s a festival with no crap, no junk, just music and dancing and singing and friendship and ideas. It’s going to rock!”

  Too stunned for words, I excused myself and headed to the library to log on. Sure enough, the people who had put this together had done it all secretly, as a surprise to Larry. “It’s a new culture—for you, for all of us,” the e-mail exclaimed in twenty-point purple font. “Larry, whoever you are, stay incognito, but please come!”

  I laughed so loudly, Ms. Costanzo, the librarian, slumped across the room to shush me. The room seemed bare and empty, ready for summer vacation. I turned back to the screen.

  I signed up right then and there—Josh Swensen would attend.

  I caught up with Beth outside her locker.

  “It’s incredible,” I said. “Of course we’re going.”

  “Todd wanted to catch a ride with us too, but he’s got some family thing he can’t get out of.”

  “Todd? I thought he was out of the picture.” GEEZ, WHAT ELSE HAPPENED WHILE I WAS GONE?

  “He is out of the picture; he just needed a ride. Stop wigging.”

  I suddenly felt overwhelmed with information. After school, I aimed my bike at Bloomingdale’s and pedaled like a maniac.

  Unfortunately, Marlene wasn’t on—some woman with bright pink lipstick and a mole with a three-inch hair waved me away. But Brunhilda herself had no power over me—I plopped down on the padded stool anyway.

  “Mom? Can you hear me?” I waited until I felt her presence.

  “I’m doing it, Mom. I’m changing the world. Hundreds of thousands of people coming together in peace. It’s working, Mom. I’m contributing.”

  I pictured her in my mind laughing, stuffing envelopes for her latest cause, still wearing the feather earrings she’d worn in college. “I’m so proud of you, Joshie,” she would say.

  “Will there be anything else?” the Mole Woman asked.

  “Yes. Could you please leave me alone for a few more minutes? You’re interrupting an almost perfect moment.”

  She stormed away, and I listened for the next person to walk by with a message from my mother.

  “Keep it up,” a man told his wife. “It’s your life’s work.”

  I raised my fists into the air in victory. I’d always been aware of it before, but now I had to exemplify Larry’s beliefs 24/7.

  And Larryfest would be the perfect place to start.

  But Larry’s e-mail from betagold the next day jolted me out of my peace, love, and understanding reverie.

  ARE YOU GOING TO LARRYFEST, LARRY? WITH YOUR JEANS AND YOUR BOOTS? IT SHOULD BE CALLED COWARDFEST OR HIDE-BEHIND-YOUR-SCREEN-NAME-FEST, DON’T YOU THINK? MAYBE WE CAN PLAY A GIANT GAME OF TRUTH OR DARE AND OUT LARRY? BETTER YET, INSTEAD OF A METAL DETECTOR AT THE GATE, HOW ABOUT A POLYGRAPH TEST? OLLIE, OLLIE, OXEN FREE. COME OUT, COME OUT, WHEREVER YOU ARE.

  I WILL BE THERE, LARRY.

  I WILL FIND YOU.

  —betagold

  This time, I didn’t even respond. Didn’t want to give betagold any more ammunition. Because of betagold and Billy North, I already analyzed Larry’s sermons a thousand times before I sent them out, petrified I’d make some innocuous comment about street signs or great blue herons that could lead anyone to me.

  Things were going great—school was done, Beth and I started full time at the hardware store, and the pomp and circumcision of graduation was finally over. There was no way betagold could track me down in Maine—there were already 230,000 people signed up; I would be just another face in the crowd, another teen searching for life’s deeper meaning.

  Either that or I was being set up.

  LARRY ITEM #57

  SERMON #271

  Can it be done?

  Hundreds of thousands of people coming together to celebrate being free of corporate advertising and greed? Rejoicing in not being consumer puppets, spending our hard-earned money on stuff we don’t need just so a few fat cats can get rich?

  Can we do it without violence, without anger?

  Can girls and women feel safe and respected?

  Can we do it without product endorsements?

  Can differences of opinion be tolerated, even celebrated?

  I don’t know.

  I guess we’ll find out.

  See you there.

  Love,

  Larry

  P.S. I’ll be the guy with the T-shirt and the smile.

  I stood in front of the Larryfest banner, too shocked to move. Larry’s logo greeted the hundreds of thousands of visitors—lots of teenagers, but to my amazement toddlers with middle-aged parents and senior citizens too. I had assumed most of the people attracted to Larry’s message were kids in high school and college, but here were people from all age groups settling in for a weekend of music and fun.

  People crowded around the entrance gate, but no one seemed impatient or annoyed. Several participants had crossed off the logos on their shirts and jackets, or opted instead for simple handmade T-shirts with “I am not your billboard” stenciled on them. A fifteen-year-old girl asked me if I knew which way to the main stage. Beth had already memorized the map on the drive up and gave her directions.

  “This is unbelievable,” Beth said for the millionth time. “Larry must be overwhelmed.”

  I told her that was a pretty safe bet.

  Beth’s sister and her friends set up camp near the arts and crafts booths. Beth and I carried our tents and sleeping bags down to the body-painting area.

  For the first hour, I barely spoke, just stumbled around snapping pictures. My mind reeled from the immensity of the event. Music, colors, food—everything seemed surreal, a Technicolor explosion. Instead of taking credit for Larryfest, patting myself on the back for being the guy who made it all happen, I realized a force much larger than myself at work. The universe was now behind the wheel, and I was all too happy to hand over the driving.

  Every few moments, something new caught my eye. Angel wings, tie-dyed togas, horns, fishnets, soccer uniforms, American flags, Dr. Seuss hats, camouflage, Larry tattoos. The food vendors sold the enchiladas, salads, and noodles at cost. Poland Spring gave away thousands of bottles of water. Local bands shared the stage with international stars. The lines at the charity and volunteer-back-home booths rivaled those for the Porta-Johns. People signed petitions, made pledges, sat around campfires, and exchanged ideas. Never in my wildest, most insane dreams could I have come up with something so interesting, so spontaneous, so POSITIVE. Larry had taken on a life of his own.

  Beth and I danced for most of the afternoon. When U2 took the stage to close the show Saturday night, the crowd exploded.

  Halfway through the set, Bono quieted the masses. “There’s been lots of talk about finding out who this Larry really is. Well, I’ll tell you, friends—I don’t want to know!”

  The audience cheered.

  “Larry, this one’s for you.”

  The opening chords to what the fans now called “Larry’s Theme” filled the night sky.45 The crowd shouted and sang along. It was, bar none, the greatest moment of my seventeen-year-old life. In the span of an eight-minute song, years of teenage doubts about ever being able to make a difference evaporated. I basked in being a tiny catalyst in the scheme of the universal plan. By the time Beth and I got back to our tents, we collapsed into sleep.

  The next day, we sat in on a presentation by the Salt Lake City Larry Organization discussing the way they banned billboards and superstores in their town. The Boulder, Colorado, group coached others on how to fight the gun companies in their state. Billy North had a tent where he discussed his Larry word placement theory.46 Beth and I joined a group doing yoga in a cathedral of pines. On our way back to camp, we visited several other booths, spending time with two guys from Oakland who were making a video collage about
the festival. (I made sure to stay away from the camera.)

  Beth wandered ahead for a few minutes, then returned with her hands behind her back. “Ta-da!” She held out a large purple wizard’s hat with gold stars and moons. She placed it on my head. “I now pronounce you Josh Swensen, Wizard Extraordinaire.”

  While part of me figured out which possession I’d have to jettison back home, most of me laughed at the absurdity of her thoughtful gift. Good old Merlin himself couldn’t have foreseen a day like this one.

  “Do you like it?” Beth asked.

  I hugged her close and told her it was fabulous.

  We explored the rest of the booths on our way back to the tents.

  Wedged in the end of the last row was a cafeteria table with a banner that stopped me in my tracks. SIGN A PETITION FOR LARRY TO FESS UP! I casually approached the table. A clipboard held a large stack of lined paper, most without signatures. A sign on the table explained the petition.

  I LIKE WHAT LARRY HAS TO SAY, BUT DOES IT BOTHER ANYONE ELSE THAT HE/SHE IS AFRAID TO SIGN HIS/HER NAME TO HIS/HER SERMONS?

  “These people who can’t just enjoy things have to find something to bitch about,” Beth complained.

  SIGN THIS PETITION IF YOU ALSO THINK WE DESERVE TO KNOW WHO THE PERSON IS WHO INVADES OUR HOMES AND MINDS EVERY DAY. SIGN IF YOU BELIEVE THAT THE PHILOSOPHY OF LARRY SHOULDN’T BE ABOUT KEEPING SECRETS.

  I didn’t need to see who sponsored the petition, but the answer stared back from the page anyway. E-MAIL ME IF YOU WANT TO TALK MORE ABOUT IT.—betagold.

  Most of the lines of the petition were filled with things like “Get a life, betagold,” or “Who cares? It’s working.” A few dozen people had signed the petition in support of betagold.

  “I wonder if Larry’s seen this?” Beth asked. “I wonder what he thinks about it.”

  “He probably hopes betagold will just go away.”

  “Well, that makes two of us.”

  She entwined her hand in mine. I didn’t want to put words to it, afraid to break the spell, but in the dreamlike world of Larryfest, Beth and I had suddenly become a couple. Each time my mind turned toward what would happen when we got back home, I pictured a giant red stop sign. I didn’t want to ruin the present worrying about the future.

  “Let’s go back to camp,” she said.

  My love for Beth hadn’t wavered since sixth grade. Now here we were lying in our sleeping bags gazing at the stars, my arm around her in a casual (for her) yet meaningful (for me) way.

  The success of the festival had sprung a geyser of giddiness inside me. “So you think Larry’s here?” I played with one of her braids while I spoke.

  “He’s definitely here. And I bet he’s loving this.”

  “Oh he is,” I said. “Guaranteed.”

  She propped herself up on her elbow. “What do you think he’s like as a person? Some brainwave or just a regular guy?”

  “Just another guy in a wizard hat, I’m sure.”

  She took a long look at me, then punched me in the arm. I pulled her closer to me. To use my Larry-ness as a way of having my way with Beth would be so not-Larry.47

  If I were going to tell Beth about my secret identity, this would be the perfect time. I looked at her cuddled in her sleeping bag and weighed the choices in my mind. YES, NO, YES, NO. YES. NO. YES! Our relationship could reach another level, I’d reach another level in the honesty department. And just like that, I decided to tell her.

  “Beth?”

  “Wait a minute, look.” Three girls from Chicago approached us, handing out lyrics to a song they had written for everyone to sing the next morning.

  After they left, Beth turned to me. “Yes?”

  But the moment had passed. She gave me a squeeze, then lay back to watch the fireworks. She said good night an hour later with a chaste kiss on my cheek. I watched her sleep through the canopy netting.

  Did I blow it? Should I have been more assertive, told her how I felt? I was a guy who diagrammed Rubik’s Cubes for fun but couldn’t dig deep down to that emotional place inside and tell my best friend how I felt about her. I always could do that with Mom, but a person shouldn’t be emotionally honest with only one person his whole life, should he? Shouldn’t the courtesy extend to everyone? My intentions were good, my feelings were real, but I just couldn’t put two and two together. Why don’t they make those colorful magnetic numbers for the heart? That’s where I really needed the help.

  Or maybe I was just practicing restraint? Maybe making love to Beth under a sky of fireworks—of all things—would have been gaudy and anticlimactic.48 Maybe I had done the right thing after all.

  I barely slept all night. Some wizard I was—more like Mickey Mouse trying to hold back the flood with buckets. Loser.

  I watched the sun rise over the fields of people, then made my way to one of the water stations. A grandmotherly woman dropped her toothbrush in the mud; she seemed ready to cry.

  “It’s much more crowded than I thought it would be,” she said.

  I handed her my toothbrush, still in the box. “Here. My friend brought tons of them; she’s always overprepared.”

  The woman grabbed my hand and thanked me profusely. She wore the same hand lotion my mother had always worn. I held my own hand up to my face and inhaled the familiar scent. Mom, I thought, could you ever in a million years have imagined it? The world is shifting, the consciousness is changing, we’re evolving in the right direction.

  Talk to me, Mom. Tell me what you think. Please.

  And then I waited.

  The woman in front of me took her place at the makeshift sink. She held up the toothbrush like a flag. “Your mother would be so proud of you.”

  This woman brushing her teeth would never know how she’d just made my day.

  SERMON #272

  Critics said it was impossible, but we did it!

  We did it without corporate sponsorship.

  We did it without product endorsement.

  We did it without burning down tents.

  We did it without anger and fights.

  We did it without violating women.

  We did it without people being afraid.

  We did it without cynicism and apathy.

  We did it with idealism.

  We did it with enthusiasm.

  We did it with grassroots efforts.

  We did it with hope.

  We did it with music.

  We did it even though no one thought we could.

  Change the world?

  Did.

  Are.

  Can.

  My feet still hadn’t touched the ground when I accessed Larry’s messages.

  DID YOU HAVE FUN AT LARRYFEST?

  DID YOU SEE MY BOOTH?

  I ENDED UP GETTING 4,589 SIGNATURES,

  LARRY. IT’S A REAL MOVEMENT.

  I scrolled down; even betagold couldn’t scare me today. Or so I thought.

  LARRY, IT WOULD BE DIFFICULT, BUT SOMEONE WITH THE RIGHT EQUIPMENT COULD BLOW UP THAT PHOTO, REARRANGE THE PIXELS, AND TRY TO IDENTIFY THE PEOPLE IN IT. I’M NOT GOING TO DO THAT, DON’T NEED TO.

  DID YOU GET A NEW MODEM LINE, LARRY? OR JUST A NEW CELL PHONE WITH A DIFFERENT NUMBER? WHAT’S YOUR PLAN—TO DO THAT EVERY DAY UNTIL I FIND YOU? NEWS FLASH—I’M FLYING INTO BOSTON NEXT WEEK TO TRACK YOU DOWN. YOUR PAL, betagold.

  THUD! That would be the sound of my feet hitting the ground.

  On my way to the coffee shop, I wondered who betagold really was. In my increasing paranoia, I thought it might be the new waitress. I felt her eyes on me, but she may have just been waiting for me to leave so she could wipe down the table. Betagold had to live in another part of the country if he or she was flying here, and whoever it was obviously had enough money to devote this much time and effort to a game of cybercat and mouse.

  For the next few days at the hardware store, I did 360-degree spins down the aisles, checking out every angle as I walked. Was it the man with the flip-up sunglasses buying stakes fo
r his tomato plants? Was it the girl taking her time with the plungers? The breeze coming in the open doors didn’t lessen my copious sweating.

  Screw betagold. (Well, not really. I would still change my modem line even though it was only three days old.)

  No more thinking about quitting.

  In hindsight, I should have quit, of course. Closed down the Web site after Larryfest, its greatest success.

  But I didn’t. I committed myself even further.

  I asked myself the eternal question. Fight or flight?

  It wasn’t a decision.

  It was early Saturday afternoon, and I hadn’t gotten dressed yet. Beth pointed to my pajama-and-life-jacket ensemble and asked what I was doing.

  “I keep having these dreams that I’m drowning,” I answered. “Figured I’d go to sleep prepared.”

  “Dreaming that you’re drowning. I wonder what Freud would say.”

  “Probably some deep-seated emotional problem. And we already know that’s true.” I unbuckled my life vest, slipped it onto Beth’s slim frame, and buckled it.

  She flipped her long hair back behind her shoulders. “Thanks for saving me,” she said.

  And right there in my kitchen, I decided to tell her. Tell her I was Larry, that I was trying to save her, save all of us, most of all me. That it would be so much easier to do if she and I were together. I wanted to tell her all about my secret life with the ease of holding open a sleeping bag and letting her climb inside.

  But I didn’t.

  I did something worse.

  I kissed her.

  “What are you doing?” She jumped away from me so fast I thought she would ricochet out the sliding door.

  “I just thought … you know … after Larryfest …”

  “That’s what I came over to tell you.” She moved from the door to the chair to the table. “I’m going out with Todd again.”

  “What?”