Vote for Larry

by Janet Tashjian

  We spent the night in a youth hostel; Beth settled into the women’s wing while Simon and I shared a bunk at the other end of the hall. Considering I hadn’t really packed, he was nice enough to let me borrow his toothpaste.

  I tried not to focus on his habit of stroking his beard when he spoke; the thought of those fingers also touching Beth was disconcerting to say the least.

  “Beth was hell-bent on finding you,” Simon said. “She spent all her tuition money for this semester. Too bad she couldn’t get course credit for all the time and effort she put in.”

  I told him I wasn’t sure I was worth the trouble.

  “Every activist we’ve spoken to has had a rough few years,” he said. “So Beth got it in her head that if you were around, you’d come up with some new ideas.” He looked me up and down. “Can’t say I see what all the fuss was about.”

  I didn’t disagree. Besides my work at PIRG, most of my energy had gone into studying flight or fight response in mammals.26

  “I hate to let her down, but I don’t know how much help I’d be.” I sat next to him on the bunk. “There are so many problems in the world, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “Well, you could start by making a difference in your home state.”

  Home. After being on the road for so long, it was more a concept than anything else.

  Simon shut off his light and fell asleep quickly.27 I sorted through what Beth had thrown in the box: laptop, textbook, notes. I had already planned on getting back to seventy-five possessions as my New Year’s resolution; now it would be easy.

  I skimmed my Word Search until I found a quote, this one from Martin Luther King Jr. “Take the first step in faith. You don’t have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.” The time I’d spent as a political spectator lately made the thought of contributing seem overwhelming. Was it possible to take just one step, without walking off a ledge like last time? I shoved the papers back into my notebook and climbed to the top bunk.

  I clicked on the light and took out my ethology textbook, envious of how simple and intuitive decisions could be in the animal world.

  No matter where you turned on the radio, Christmas carols filled the air. Simon had the irritating habit of misinterpreting the lyrics and singing along with his own version of every song we heard. I let “Deck the Halls with Buddy Holly” slide, but when he sang “He’s making a list, chicken and rice,” I felt I had to step in.

  “Simon, the mondegreens are killing me.”28

  “I know,” Beth said. “Isn’t it cute?”

  “I was thinking more like lame.”

  “Simon, tell him about the first time you heard the Pledge of Allegiance.”

  He blushed, she laughed, they looked at each other adoringly. Why aren’t cars equipped with barf bags?

  Beth couldn’t control her laughter. “He thought it said ‘I led the pigeons toward the flag’!”

  “I can see why you’re so in love.” Somebody kill me now.

  Thankfully, Simon shut off the radio and we went back to discussing public policy. Tax rebates for the wealthy, continued strife in the Middle East, the increasing gap between poor and rich—there were plenty of topics to discuss.

  What rankled us most was the way the average citizen viewed the political system. People felt used and manipulated by the whole process. I mean, did anyone believe in the “one person, one vote” theory anymore? On top of that, hardly anyone voted FOR a candidate; most voted for the lesser of two evils. Our democracy had been turned into a spectator sport while we sat around watching TV.29 We lamented the fact that the fastest growing political party was the group of people who didn’t vote at all.

  Combined, the three of us had traveled thousands of miles around the world and had seen firsthand many of the issues that concerned us. But after the last Larry fiasco, I knew we needed more than words to make a difference.

  When we reached the familiar exit of the Mass Pike, a more practical question concerned me: How could I possibly knock on the door of my old house and stand face-to-face with my stepfather? Would Peter hug me, glad I was still alive, then send me crashing through the wall? Would he do his famous pace-the-living-room-and-yell routine? Or maybe these worst-case scenarios were in my mind; maybe no one in the world cared one iota if I returned, including Peter.

  “I can’t do it,” I told Beth. “I’ve hurt him too much. He doesn’t deserve for this to re-surface again.”

  She talked to me like a mother soothing a child. “Maybe things can be different now.”

  I’d read in some Larry-follow-up story a while ago that my stepfather had married Katherine, his Humpty-Dumpty-crazed girlfriend who had driven me out of my mind in the years since my mother’s death. I couldn’t deal with the thought of her answering the front door.

  “Why don’t we go to the woods for a while and just sit?” I suggested. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

  “Look,” Beth said. “We’ll drop you off. If you want to go in, fine. If you don’t, we’ll hook up with you later.”

  Simon threw in his unsolicited two cents. “Beth, you forgot to tell me Josh was such a baby.”

  She swatted his headrest hard enough to make him flinch. “This is serious stuff, Simon. Let it go.”

  The thing was—I felt like a baby. Felt like a boy who had just lobbed a baseball through the window of his neighbor’s house and was walking up the front steps to apologize.30 Like the imaginary boy who hit the ball, I deserved whatever punishment I got. Bring it on, Peter. I’m sorry.

  “We’ll be at my parents’,” Beth said as they dropped me off. “Call me later, okay?”

  I stood in front of my old house like a petrified tree. My hopes of Peter being out of town were shattered by the lights shining from the living room and kitchen. Was I ready to be Josh again? To take the heat for my actions? After several minutes, I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

  The man who answered the door seemed like he was related to Peter—the same dark eyes, the same build—but with longish, graying hair and a twinkling smile. He was tan and wore a T-shirt and jeans. He let out a scream when he saw me. A delighted scream.

  Only when he threw his arms around me did I realize it was Peter.

  “I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “I never should have left like that … .”

  He wouldn’t let go of me, just held me close. “God, Josh, it’s good to see you.”

  I was embarrassed by his newfound enthusiasm. He finally let go, then held me at arm’s length and looked me over. “I missed you, son.”

  The word detonated years of emotions inside me—hurt, loneliness, shame. I leaned against him and began to cry.

  When we sat at the kitchen table to talk, I couldn’t reconcile this open, smiling man with the one I’d lived with for years. I mean, the guy wore an earring. “You’re so different,” I said. “What happened?”

  “I did a lot of soul-searching after you left, saw a lot of things I didn’t like. I paint houses now—love it!”

  I asked him where Katherine was.

  “Didn’t work out, lasted just three months.” He told me she’d moved to Boca Raton and opened a gift shop. “We still keep in touch. The shop’s perfect for her, just perfect.”

  It seemed like Peter held no animosity toward anyone.

  I felt it was my responsibility to tell him about that morning on the Sagamore Bridge, but when I started to speak, he held up his hand to stop me.

  “I don’t want to hear it. I read that book when it came out—couldn’t tell if it was true or not. Decided if you were alive, my door would always be open.” He motioned at the space between us. “Now is all that matters.”

  Since I’d left, Peter had gone from a capitalist robot to a Zen painter, and Beth had become a globe-trotting activist with an international boyfriend. What else had I missed?

  “Are you staying for a while?” Peter asked. “I’d love to hang out with you.”

  I’d love to han
g out with you. This from a guy who spent most of my high school years scheduling business trips during my school vacations so he wouldn’t have to deal with me being home. I told him I was still undecided about being Josh again.

  “Whatever you decide, I’m behind you 100 percent.”

  All this positive support began to give me a headache. I retreated to my old room.

  The room was now set up as a kind of den, but my bed was still beside the window as if I’d never gone. In the closet, I found several boxes of the things I’d left behind. I picked up the statue of Ganesh and ran my fingers across the clay of the elephant’s trunk. It suddenly seemed impossible to be in this house without my mother. A wave of grief almost knocked me into Peter’s desk. Mom. I thought about her every day, of course, but being here now made me feel as if I could never get past the loss. I tore at the collar of my shirt. I ran outside for some air, hopped the backyard fence, and walked the well-worn path between my yard and Beth’s. The Larsons’ hedges were trimmed with snow and Christmas lights; I felt as if I were ten years old again.

  She opened the sliding glass door with a smile. “Peter’s a totally different guy, right?”

  “Did they add something to the water here? If so, open the floodgates.”

  She threw on her jacket and sat on the cement steps with me.

  “Where are your parents?” I asked.

  “They’re in Florida with Gram.”

  “And Sir Simon?”

  “Doing an extra-credit paper for his political theory class.”

  “Of course he is.” I exhaled and watched my breath escape in clouds of New England air. “I feel like everyone is moving forward except me.”

  She pulled me toward her. “It’s your turn now.”

  I told her I wasn’t sure where to begin. But as soon as the words left my mouth, I knew the statement was wrong. There were two places I needed to go before I could deal with the reality of being back in Boston, of being Josh again.

  But for now, I decided to take Peter’s advice and enjoy the moment. This moment of sitting on Beth’s steps, gazing at the stars, and basking in the joy of finally coming home.

  “Mom? Are you still here?”

  I climbed onto the padded stool and waited.

  The makeup counter at Bloomingdale’s had been renovated since my last visit. The floors and lighting were different, but the same atmosphere of luxury and spending remained. Of the many places where I felt my mother’s spirit, this makeup department was where I clearly heard her voice.

  Marlene held her hand to her chest.31 “Oh, my God, is that you, Joshie? But—”

  When she finally overcame her shock, she reached across the counter for a hug. I gave her a quick recap of what had happened then made her swear not to tell a soul.

  “Honey, honey, it’s so good to see you.” She held up my face to the lights. “But you’re so dehydrated!”

  I told her I’d been doing a lot of hiking.

  “Without moisturizing?” She grabbed a jar from the shelf and applied the cream to my cheeks in tiny circles. I smiled in spite of myself. Sometimes there was nothing more comforting than the predictable, even for a hyperactive guy like me.

  “I was thinking about your mother the other day—God rest her soul. She would’ve loved the new burgundy line.” Marlene adjusted her glasses then looked at me approvingly. “You want me to leave for a few minutes?”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all, honey. Holiday traffic today—you should get lucky.” She high-tailed it over to a woman dripping cash on the other side of the counter.

  I closed my eyes and settled into the chair. Most people sat on this stool for makeovers; I suppose in some strange way, I did too. I’d been to several Bloomingdale’s in my travels, sat at other makeup counters, but never heard my mother speak to me anywhere but here in Chestnut Hill.

  The silence was deafening. Had I lost my ability to hear her? Had her spirit relocated in the past few years without leaving me a forwarding address?

  “Come on, Mom,” I muttered. “Talk to me.”

  People walked by in droves, too busy consuming to speak. Marlene circled by as she rang up the woman’s purchase.

  “Any luck?”

  I shook my head. This is what you get, I thought. This is the price for living a disconnected life, for not sticking to your path. You can’t hear her anymore. I waited a few more minutes before leaving, too upset to even say goodbye to Marlene.

  As I left the department, a woman bent down next to her toddler son who was trying to fasten his Velcro boots. “Try again, sweetie. Don’t give up.”

  I almost yelped with joy. A faded connection perhaps, but a beginning.

  Outside, I unlocked my bike from the tree and pedaled to the day’s second destination, almost giddy with anticipation.

  It was the perfect day to begin a vision quest.32

  It took me the rest of the day to dig out the hole. Years of neglect had left the bottom of my old hideaway full of soggy leaves and branches. But the physical work exhilarated me. When I returned home to grab provisions and a shower, Peter asked if he could do anything to help. I told him I was in the process of working things out for myself.

  Early the next morning, I took food and water for several days. I told Peter I’d see him when I returned; he wished me luck. (I needed a vision quest just to get used to the new Peter.)

  Inside the hole, I wrapped my down sleeping bag tightly around me. I’d missed it here, missed the smell of the damp earth and the unpredictability of the weather. I tried to empty my mind enough to begin the task at hand. I thought about Janine, wondering if she had tried to get ahold of me in Chicago. I’d call her when I got back home; she deserved a truthful explanation.

  When I got back around to the topic at hand, I knew Beth was right—it was time for me to contribute again. I needed to add my voice to those commenting on the culture, to be connected to what was vital and meaningful in our lives. The part of me that studied and outlined information told me to pick one issue and dedicate myself to it. But the part of me that enjoyed ten projects at once wanted to multi-task my way across everything in our society that needed addressing.

  The question remained—how? Was politics the answer? The local representative seat?

  My mind clicked from one thought to the next. When I was traveling through the country incognito,33 the emotion I felt most often was fear—of getting caught or being recognized. I can say firsthand that living in constant fear is one of the most unproductive, life-draining states of mind there is. What I noticed now that I had uninterrupted time to think was that the rest of the country was living in fear too. The headlines were full of one horrifying piece of news after another. War, cutbacks, terrorism, states of alert, secret government meetings, citizens’ rights being violated—the list went on and on. How had we gone from a country of peace and prosperity to one of such deep-rooted anxiety and panic? Were these feelings warranted, or was our government bombarding us with so much horrible news that no one dared question its authority? How much of this fear was justified, and how much was being sold? When you spent as much time in nature as I did, all the news and terror seemed manufactured, not real. The world I inhabited was amazing and bountiful. Was it possible for a handful of people to break through the clouds of fearful rhetoric to expose the beautiful and abundant? Sitting in this hole deep in the woods where the transcendentalist movement began, I felt like the national psyche had been hijacked by a wayward boogeyman.

  And for someone my age, the threats were greater. I would be eighteen soon, eligible for the draft if it was ever reinstated. I didn’t want to go to war—ever. Spend days and nights trying to kill other guys my age? No thanks. The longer I sat in the darkness, the more I realized how necessary it was to get deeply involved in what was going on in this country.

  On my second day, I was feeling punch-drunk and cold and almost didn’t hear the voice calling me from the top of the hole.

  “Jos
h?”

  “Beth? What are you doing here?”

  By the time she slid down into my hideout, her clothes were covered in leaves and snow.

  “How long have you known about this place?” I asked.

  “I used to come here to hike after you died.34 I found this hole one day and just knew you had made it.”

  “I think you should forget Brown and go into the private-eye business.”

  She looked up at me, her hair full of tiny bits of bark. “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No, but you’re probably the only person I’d let interrupt a vision quest. I’m getting a lot of good thinking done.”

  “I just want you to know I’m committed to Simon.”

  I didn’t know what to say to such a non sequitur.

  She pulled her jacket over her head. “But I think we have some unfinished business, don’t you?”

  Okay, I thought. You’re definitely hallucinating. Two days in the cold with just water, trail mix, and gum, searching for the true meaning of life, and this is what you get. A mirage. Shake it off.

  But when she pressed her body against me, the reality of the situation struck like lightning.

  It took me about half a second to respond.

  I back-burnered my save-the-world questions and decided to make one of my own dreams come true.

  Beth told me later that what we had done didn’t change anything, that we had important work to do, that she was serious about Simon … blah, blah, blah.

  But everything had changed.

  I don’t want you to think I reverted to some dopey guy following Beth around like a puppy. I was cool, gave her a boost up out of the hole after the rain stopped, waved goodbye with a smile.

  You know when you finally do something you’ve been obsessed with for years, and somehow afterward it feels anticlimactic, not worthy of all the hype?

  This wasn’t one of those times.

  The term “slow-motion” doesn’t begin to describe the care I took in playing back my afternoon with Beth. Her kissing my chest, my muddy hands pulling her toward me, the sky opening up and pouring down on us afterward.