The Gospel According to Larry

by Janet Tashjian

  In the end I decided to go with my instincts. Why complicate things? And as scary as the Sagamore had been, it met all the necessary requirements. With the strong currents and winds of the Cape Cod Canal, a body would soon disappear into the arms of the Atlantic. I grinned like a newborn, and in a way I was.

  I spent days on the Internet. I looked through phone books and travel magazines. I searched newspaper archives.63 It was nice to keep busy for a change.

  I made another to-do list: register my bicycle with the police department; begin taking early-morning marathon bike rides to establish the habit; get a new post office box; purchase hair dye, scissors, and glasses; send away for vacation brochures from the towns on my list; contact several town halls for birth certificates; quietly sell a few stocks in my portfolio. All these steps had to be accomplished without alerting the press, a tall order indeed.

  The way my blood surged through me reminded me of the buzz I got when I first began the Larry site—the anticipation, the enthusiasm. I would need the skill of a high-wire acrobat to pull the whole thing off, but that was part of the appeal.

  My death became the act I’d been rehearsing for my whole life.

  There’d be lots of news coverage—and I use the word news lightly—then eventually the story would die down. My plan would decimate Peter, of course, but I was almost beginning to think he’d be better off without me. Maybe in his grief, his clients would finally forgive him, and he could build his business back up. The other night he sat me down at the kitchen table with a stack of eight-by-ten glossies and a felt-tip pen. He’d been drinking. He said the guys at the latest conference had been bugging him for autographs. Not for them, of course; Larry was the enemy, but what about their kids? The photos were reprints of me mowing the lawn last summer. He shoved the pen into my hand. “At least I’ll be able to pay the mortgage this month,” he said. “A for-profit prophet.” He laughed at his own joke, spilling his Scotch.

  I signed the photos.

  Although Beth had made a full-time job out of ignoring me lately, she’d probably take my “death” hard too.64 But my good thoughts outweighed the bad. I’d get to spend several months either hiding out in the woods or traveling cross-country. With glasses, different color hair, and a low profile, I should be able to move around the nation undisturbed, my precious solitude returned. Being able to be just Josh again would be worth it. Technically, I couldn’t be Josh, of course, but being anyone these days was better than being Josh OR Larry.

  I still wasn’t going to go through with it. It was a task to focus on, to keep me busy during the empty, lonely summer. Just for fun, I chose a day Peter would be out of town. I marked D day on my mental calendar.

  D for Destiny.

  D for Death.

  I worked around the clock, taking only short breaks to unwind by whiting-out comic strips and making up my own dialogue. I went back and forth on the suicide note decision: If I left a note, how would I explain it when I returned? That I survived the 135-foot fall and swam to shore? Unlikely. Besides, couldn’t most people figure out why I’d want to kill myself WITHOUT a note? If I didn’t leave one, more options opened up. I could return in a few months and say I never did jump off the bridge, that someone knocked me from my bike and I wandered around with no recollection of who I was.65 Peter didn’t have an insurance policy on me, so there could be no accusation of fraud. As the weeks went by, I sold off a few of the stocks Mom had left me; the profit was enough for me to live frugally for several months.

  I received copies of three birth certificates at my new post office box. They were from guys about my age who had died from various causes in cities across the country.66 With the birth certificates, I got copies of their Social Security numbers, and with both forms of ID, I obtained three different driver licenses from nearby states. I’d be able to go from one identity to the other whenever necessary.

  The actual “suicide” played like a movie in my mind. I’d need every bit of drama I could muster to pull it off. (If I were going to do it, which I wasn’t.) I chanted Larry’s words in my head like a mantra—BE THE HERO OF YOUR OWN LIFE, BE THE HERO OF YOUR OWN LIFE.

  It was nice to have advice from somebody you trusted.

  I’d spent more than six weeks assembling all the various information someone who was dropping out would need, but was I being honest with myself? As D day approached, I had to face the fact that a tiny part of me was actually thinking about going through with this crazy plan. Sure, I loved intricate plots as much as the next person, but this one was more serious than any of my other hoaxes. There was only one thing to do—a vision quest.

  I had used my pit in the earth for a vision quest once before. After my mom died, I told Peter I was camping but came out to the woods for several days of fasting, prayer, and thought. The Native Americans were big on spiritual transformation through solitude; I was hoping if it worked for them, it would work for me. By the time I came out three days later, I could actually live alongside my grief.

  So now I sat in my sacred place once again, trying to come to terms with my pain. The first day, my mind was consumed with the mundane—how long had it been since I’d eaten? How much time had passed? Had it rained? By the second day, the chatter subsided, leaving me to deal with the bigger questions.

  Who was Josh Swensen anyway? And why did he need to create Larry to spout his opinions? Didn’t he trust his own voice? I realized I was thinking of myself in the third person again—why? Why did I have such a hard time embracing “I,” just being Josh? Did everyone else my age have this problem too?

  I stared at the almost-full moon overhead. I chanted. I prayed. I huddled in my blanket. I waited.

  In my altered state, I recalled a biblical coloring book someone had given to me when I was a kid. The image in my mind was captioned “The Agony in the Garden”—Jesus in Gethsemane, his expression lonely, full of suffering and doubt. Contrary to popular opinion, I’d never considered myself a god, not even with a small g. But lonely, suffering, and full of doubt? That hit the proverbial nail on the head—or cross, as the case may be.

  Other pictures in the coloring book flashed before me—the Crucifixion, the Resurrection. How had I gone from being a kid lying on the kitchen floor with a box of crayons to a boy sitting in a hole in the woods contemplating his own death? Did I miss something? Anything?

  As the second night turned to day, then night again, I remembered what I’d read about Native Americans on vision quests. They either died, came back crazy, returned home, or disappeared without a trace. Those were the only options.

  On the afternoon of the fourth day, I emerged from my pit, squinted up at the sun, and knew which option was mine.

  On the appointed day, I jumped out of bed from a fitful sleep, not refreshed but full of an anxious excitement. I showered and dressed quickly, took a look around my room to see if I’d forgotten anything. I said goodbye to my sixty-three possessions. (The other twelve were coming with me.) I walked around the house, past the paisley chair my mom used to read in, past the Humpty Dumpty candle Katherine had insinuated onto the counter, past Peter’s stack of Fortune and Business Weeks. I guess I was a lot like him after all—make it work, or die trying.

  I wouldn’t be honest if I said I didn’t think about calling the whole thing off, but that thought came and went like any other. I tightened the hood of my sweatshirt to cover my newly shorn and dyed locks, grabbed my pack, and left.

  No one from the neighborhood saw me; it was two-thirty, and Mr. Munroe—the earliest guy to tool off to the rat race—didn’t usually leave till six. My pace was relaxed, almost slow motion.

  When my mother pulled me in the wagon back in Ohio, we used to wander around the neighborhood and sing, “Hello, stop sign. Hello, German shepherd.” She used to stop the wagon sometimes and turn to me with her hands on her hips, laughing. “Hello, my Joshie.” Today, I played the game in a strange nighttime reverse. “Goodbye, mailbox. Goodbye, fence. Goodbye, Josh Swensen.”
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br />   On the long ride to the bridge, I didn’t pass many cars. The Samaritan sign at the base of the bridge implored the desperate to call for help. There was still time to change my mind. I didn’t.

  I lifted my bike every few feet on the grating, peering down to choppy water below. If I were really going to kill myself, this would be one ballsy way to do it.

  I pulled my bike against one of the gray girders near the middle of the bridge. I looked long and hard to make sure no one was driving or jogging, then I kicked off my sneakers and sweatshirt and tossed them into the water. Fast as lightning, I tore off my jeans—Josh’s jeans, Larry’s jeans—and stuffed them into my pack. In my running shorts, I put on the new glasses and running shoes, then waited for the next car. I felt like I was going to throw up. The sweat I had going was a bonus; it made my running disguise all the better.

  After a few minutes, a Volvo headed toward me with a station wagon close behind. Half crazy with fear, I flagged them both over.

  “Some guy just jumped! I ran across the bridge and tried to stop him, but he didn’t listen!”

  The man in the Volvo got out and looked at the bike propped against the side of the bridge. “Was it a kid?”

  “Maybe eighteen or so. By the time I got close, he jumped.”

  The man reached inside the car for his cell phone and dialed 911. The couple in the station wagon approached. “Is everything okay?” the woman asked.

  “Some kid, some stupid kid jumped!” I paced back and forth between the three of them, my nervousness real. “I can’t deal with this. I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “You should at least tell the police what you saw,” the Volvo guy said. He moved closer to the bike, not touching anything. One good thing about all those cop shows; anybody who watches TV knows how to deal with a crime scene. “Looks like this bike is registered; maybe the police can track it down.”

  More and more cars pulled over; a wave of panic rushed over me that even in my disguise someone would recognize me. One guy in a pickup punctuated the darkness with his horn. The station wagon woman looked at me. “How traumatic —out for a run and someone kills himself right in front of you.”

  I knew I would feel a lot of pressure during this part of the plan; I hadn’t realized how physical the nervousness would be. I ran to the edge of the bridge and threw up, last night’s dinner following the path of my sneakers and sweatshirt.

  The woman handed me a wad of tissues from her purse. “You should go,” she said. “You’re just a youngster yourself.”

  I picked up my pack just in time to see two police cars weave their way across the bridge. The guy in the Volvo approached the cop driving the first car. He pointed straight at me.

  “This kid was out for a run and saw a guy get off this bike and jump.”

  The officer looked at me as if to verify the statement. I pushed my glasses up my nose and nodded. “I ran as fast as I could, but I couldn’t get to him in time.”

  The Volvo guy led the two cops to the bike. “Looks like the jumper’s registered his bike.”

  The cop turned to me. “Can you describe him?”

  “Gray sweatshirt, hood pulled tight around his face, jeans, sneakers. About the same height as you are.” I wanted to avoid all comparisons to myself.

  “And your name is?”

  “Gil Jackson. I’ve been camping here this week.” Don’t be too eager, I thought. He’ll ask you again if he needs anything.

  He moved on to the Volvo guy and the people in the station wagon. I caught a small corner of Josh’s jeans peeking out of my pack. I nonchalantly zipped it as I waited for the police to finish.

  Suddenly, a truck from a local TV station made its way down the bridge. People started getting out of their cars; more people beeped their horns. I asked the cop if I could go.

  “I need a number where I can get in touch with you if I have to.”

  “I’m leaving for L.A. tonight. If you give me your card I’ll call you when I settle in.”

  The detective gave me a long look, then handed over his card. He took the number of the Volvo guy.

  A woman followed by a cameraman ran toward us. Any reporter might recognize me, disguised or not.

  “I feel like I’m going to be sick again.” I headed to the edge of the bridge, listening to the cops talk with the reporters. By now there were twenty or so people peering down into the water, as if the body—my body—would suddenly pop up and appear. I excused myself through the crowd, moving farther away from the scene.

  “Hey, what’s going on up there?” a guy asked from his Beetle.

  “Someone jumped.”

  “No kidding!” He turned to the woman next to him. “Annie, check this out!”

  The woman bolted out of the car with her videocamera, ready to join in the circus.

  I eyed the crowd, the police, my bike. It came down, as it always did, to a visceral decision.

  I never looked back.

  PART SIX

  “And when they found not his body, they came, saying, that they had also seen a vision of angels, which said that he was alive … . And their eyes were opened, and they knew him; and he vanished out of their sight.”

  St. Luke 24:23, 31

  One of the benefits of living near a large city is that you can hide out, still be close to things, and stay incognito. I checked into the Shady Time Motel in a suburb north of Boston for one reason: to watch the hullabaloo of Josh/Larry’s suicide. The bike registration and Gil’s eyewitness account would be the primary means of identification. The bike would also save a few days of tracking—for Peter’s benefit, as well as my own. By the middle of the morning, the police had tracked Peter down in Chicago; he grabbed the next flight and was back in Boston by six.

  Even the all-invasive television coverage couldn’t document Peter’s most private moments (not that they didn’t try). I imagined the scene as if in a movie: Peter, head in hands, sitting on my bed, berating himself, the word why? echoing off the walls of the room like a bullet. Katherine would gently blot her eyes so her mascara didn’t run and tell him there’s no way he could have known. The melodrama of the scene almost sent me reaching for the phone several times. But I told myself the situation was temporary, that I just needed to hold on.

  They interrupted the local shows to cover the gruesome details of my death. One reporter stood outside the empty high school droning on about my life. 67 He had rounded up several students and teachers to come out for their fifteen minutes of fame. Ms. Phillips spoke about my early admission to Princeton, and Mr. Gibbons, about my talent in physics and photography. Debbie Holden, who never did anything but ignore me, cried so hard into the camera they had to cut to the parking lot for the reporter to finish talking. CNN ran live coverage of the canal search—the Coast Guard trawlers, the crowds on the bridge. They’d turned up one sneaker, which Peter ID’d as mine.68 The whole thing gave me the creeps. I jumped a foot off the bed when I caught a glimpse of myself in the motel mirror; the short blond hair made it seem like someone else had entered the room. Maybe someone had.

  I tried not to hate betagold, tried to listen to the Larry part of me and understand her point of view. She held a press conference saying my suicide was not her fault, that Larry belonged to the people in life and in death. She felt sorry for Josh’s family and Larry’s fans, but it was her “duty and destiny” to bring Larry to the public.69

  Over the next few days, I ate take-out salads and ice-cream sandwiches and watched CNN nonstop. It wasn’t just the what-will-they-say-about-me-when-I’m-gone curiosity, although that was partly it. Mostly I wanted to make sure there were no doubts about the suicide. If the detectives thought anything was suspicious, if Peter refused to believe the evidence, if they kept the case open, my plan would be a resounding failure.70

  BUT if they all believed Josh/Larry was dead, if they held the memorial service, if no one suspected anything, I could reappear with my alibi six months later and go back to being Josh again. I practic
ed my story repeatedly to make sure it sounded authentic: A guy jumped me, tossed me from my bike, and rode off. I wandered around the Cape until a man finally gave me a lift. I passed out in his car, then woke up at his house in Connecticut and couldn’t remember my name. I left after a few days and wandered around till my memory slowly returned. That’s when I’d quietly appear at Peter’s—or maybe somewhere else. I still wasn’t sure.

  The detectives checked every airline and train to L.A. to question Gil Jackson again. As part of the plan, I’d purchased a ticket as Gil on an unreserved train so no one could tell if he’d used it or not. They sent out several requests on L.A. radio stations for Gil to come forward for further questioning. Given Peter’s testimony about my bike rides to the Cape and how miserable I’d been, the detectives finally gave up trying to find Gil. The last person to see Josh alive was as fictitious a character as Larry himself.

  I’d purposely left my laptop and camera at home for one reason. If the police did think this whole “suicide” was a ploy, Peter would testify that there was no way I would have left either of them behind. I watched a clip of Peter on the six o’clock news telling reporters I wouldn’t go out to breakfast without my camera or laptop, never mind running away. One eager-beaver detective noticed I’d sold a few of my stocks over the past few months. That led to a flurry of speculation that I had disappeared with the money. Thinking this might happen, I had also left several letters from the Red Cross, the American Cancer Society, and other charities thanking me for my recent donations. (I’d written most of the letters myself. Some of the contributions were real, of course, but I’d also done some hacking into their fundraising databases and made myself look more philanthropic than I was.) So Josh was finally left alone and given the official stamp of suicide. Peter scheduled the memorial service for the next day.