She sat, still holding Art’s hand, as though he were a parent who had just safely guided her across a busy street. “I’m off,” he said, “to orchestrate madness into order. A special talent.” He kissed her hand before letting it go.
“A very great man,” said Ted from behind her as she turned to see where Art was headed. The theater was filling rapidly. “He was my group’s facilitator at a weekend workshop.” Ted seemed to be proud of this fact.
“What happens at a workshop?”
“We go through Bobbi’s program step by step. It’s a truly amazing experience. Everything I thought I knew and all the opinions I had ever formed had to be reevaluated and for the most part thrown out. When my turn came, I got so in touch with my feelings that I was in tears within five minutes. I had so much energy invested in protecting myself from those feelings that it was a tremendous relief to just surrender and let myself be entirely vulnerable.”
“Where did this all happen?” she inquired, not at all sure that what Ted was describing sounded attractive to her.
“Oh, up at Serra Retreat in Malibu. A perfect setting. I’m going again in October, if I can afford it.”
“Why, is it expensive?” She couldn’t imagine spending money to break down and cry in front of a group of total strangers.
“Oh, well, of course there’s some expense involved. But considering what happens to you in here—” he gestured to his heart “—and in here—” he tapped his head “—there’s really no way to put a dollar value on it. I mean, it doesn’t even equate.”
She sensed that there was something defensive about Ted’s response. “Well, if I wanted to go, how much will I need to spend?”
“The food is excellent and the view is amazing. It’s like a great vacation, except you’re getting all this critical work done. The whole thing runs fifteen hundred dollars.” He stared at her as if this were a challenge: Dare to say it’s too much.
The lights dimmed and the room became quiet. She felt annoyed at the possibility of being pitched on a fifteen-hundred-dollar workshop that she would absolutely never join.
A woman walked up to the podium and adjusted the microphone. She was of medium height, slightly stocky, and dressed in a rather drab business suit. With her short-cropped hair and black-rimmed glasses, she looked like a no-nonsense executive secretary in an investment banking firm. Holly had expected something quite different, a more commanding, glamorous presence.
“My name is Bobbi Bradley and I’m here to save my life.”
“Hi, Bobbi,” came back in unison. Holly was surprised to realize she had said it too.
“There’s a reason we do the things we do,” Bobbi began. “It traces back to when we were very small, when every time we were frustrated in our legitimate expectations for safety, love, and physical affection, for the attention and reliability of the adults around us, we made an adjustment. We protected ourselves. We built a suit of armor. Eventually we confused the growing of armor with growing up. We never realized that the growing of armor is the development and solidification of deformities in our psychic make-up. So we think that we have grown up, we look like adults, we may or may not have the responsibilities associated with adulthood, but we have this pain, and we don’t know where it comes from and we don’t know what to do with it. So we overeat, we drink, we feed the flames with drugs, we immerse ourselves in obsessive relationships; anything to dull the pain, to live with our condition. You see, the fact is, our armor is our prison.”
Something about the woman’s voice had picked up and carried Holly’s attention from the moment the lecture began. It must be the same for the others, she thought, as the room was imbued with a quality of rapt attention. For the next hour she found herself laughing with the audience at Bobbi’s perfectly wrought ironies, nodding her head at connections she had never made before, and tearful as Bobbi related the childhood experiences of a convicted serial rapist.
“The point,” Bobbi was saying, “is that we need to consciously become as children again, because underneath the armor that’s what we have been. And it’s only from that place that we can then build in order to become adults in the best sense of the word, able to live responsibly and have real relationships. So, we need a method for becoming children again, and a setting. And, crucial to the process, the setting must be safe, and the method true.
“The SOL movement, born out of my first book, Saving Our Lives, offers the method and setting required. We use a synthesis of psychoanalytic principles, metaphysical concepts, twelve-step work, and groundbreaking new technology to effect powerful long-term change in anyone who is committed to the process. The intensive workshops provide the framework for the initial catalyzing effect and later ongoing development. Many of you have already been to an intensive. We now have meetings all over the city and in many other states, in which we continue our work and commence to show, by example, how much for the better our lives can change. Thank you.”
There was a silence for several seconds, followed by an explosion of applause. People around Holly stood, still clapping, until she was the only one in her row sitting. It made her feel conspicuous so she, too, stood.
Bobbi Bradley remained at the podium with her hands slightly outstretched, palms up, as though encouraging the audience. With a simple twist of her wrists, her palms faced outward and the room fell silent. Holly, like the rest, settled back in her seat.
“All right, now it’s your turn. Who’s got something to say?”
At this point Art appeared in the aisle with a microphone. Several hands shot up, and Art handed the mic to a woman a few rows behind Holly.
“My name is Denise and I’m here to save my life,” the woman said.
“Hi, Denise,” the audience echoed. Denise was in her late thirties, well dressed and self-assured, Holly thought.
“I just wanted to share with you that I first came to hear you two years ago because my friend thought it would be good for me. I was in complete denial at the time and perfectly convinced my life was okay.”
“And was it really okay?” Bobbi asked.
“Somewhere in your pitch, when you spoke of having to undo the armor, I found that I was feeling scared and angry. I actually left the room. The next day I realized that what I was afraid of was being unprotected, and that you had told me a truth about myself.”
“So what did you do?” Bobbi encouraged from the podium.
“I called the SOL hotline and they signed me up for the intensive. My life has totally been rocketed into a new dimension since that experience. It’s not something you can describe; it’s something you’ve just got to do.” The woman sat down and more hands went up.
Holly listened to more glowing testimonials of the SOL intensive workshop experience. She had the feeling she was being set up for a pitch and was not surprised when two women began passing out flyers. Sure enough, there it was—fifteen hundred dollars for three days at the Malibu retreat.
Bobbi chose a man in the back. He was attractive, maybe fifty but trim looking, and when he took the mic he said only, “My name is Ron.” There was a moment where Holly expected to hear the rest of the SOL statement, but it never came and the group remained silent.
“Bobbi,” Ron continued, “I paid forty-five dollars to be here tonight. Your workshops cost fifteen hundred dollars. A set of your tapes runs ninety-five bucks. Don’t you think there is something fundamentally inconsistent in offering work of this depth at such great profit to yourself?” Holly wondered the same thing but hadn’t wanted to draw attention to herself.
Bobbi seemed unruffled. “The most useful thing for you to bear in mind is that the results of the work stand independent of the cost. In fact, putting up the money will intensify your commitment to the work. And that in turn will result in a greater sense of being a part of our fellowship, an increased sense of well-being, of wholeness that will launch you into so much higher a state of creat
ivity and productiveness that the few dollars you pay here will be the best investment, the wisest placement of that energy we call money, that you ever made. Furthermore, I invite you, once you’ve got it, to give it away.”
It was a smooth response, Holly thought, to Ron’s challenge. A higher state of creativity, wholeness, well-being, rocketing into a new dimension—it all sounded so very attractive.
Bobbi thanked the audience to new cheers and applause and then left the stage. Art walked up to the podium and took the mic.
“Okay, does anyone not have an application for the next intensive?” He held up a copy. “Look around and you will see someone in your section standing and holding up one of these. Take your application to them and they will walk you through the enrollment procedure. Don’t go home and think about it. The time to save your life is now.”
The house lights went on and the theater burst into commotion. Holly turned to see Ted: he had a look of triumph on his face. “Really something, wasn’t she?”
Holly wasn’t yet sure what she thought—she was baffled by the juxtaposition of serious issues, tantalizing promises, and blatant hucksterism she had just seen. She was saved from having to answer by the appearance of Art.
“Holly, deck the halls. Why look so dour?” He really was very charming, she thought. “You’re worried about the price of a miracle. Put it out of your head—we’ll have a talk about it later.”
CHAPTER 8
⍫
Ron Pool left the theater and walked to the parking lot. He unlocked the door to his old Land Rover and stepped up into the seat. In the quiet interior of his car, he closed his eyes and tried to still his thoughts. Instead, they took him back to a particular night in what almost seemed like another person’s past, the end of a twenty-year nightmare, the night of his last drink nearly fourteen years ago. He remembered his first few weeks off booze, the horror of the first sleepless nights, the shaking hands. The thoughts, the guilt, and the pictures that wouldn’t stop.
Driving home, he decided to give Joe Greiner a call.
“Joe. Ron Pool.”
“Hey, Ron, ’sappening?” Joe was at home, probably drinking, never drunk. “Did you get my fax? Eight girls in less than two years, including Marilyn Fenner.”
“I got it. Hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, like they’re in some damn club or something,” Joe said.
“Joe, I’d really like to look at each file, photos and everything. This is worth looking into, and those case summaries aren’t enough to go on.”
“Ron,” the detective replied, “I don’t see it. Matter of fact, I think you’re chasing a dead tale,” and he made a garbled laughing sound that turned immediately into a fit of coughing.
“Jesus, Joe, you get worse all the time.”
“What, this cough? It’s nothin’.”
Ron turned up Beachwood Canyon. “No, I mean your goddamn sense of humor.”
“Come over to the station tomorrow and spend some time with the files. It’s depressing, is all, so I have to make funny to get by, you know?”
He pulled into the driveway of his small canyon home and turned off the engine and the lights. Sitting in the still darkness, he realized how much he liked the cop at the other end of the line.
After a pause, he said, “You okay tonight, Joe? Something getting you down?”
“Naw, fuck no, same old same old.” The Land Rover was still making its cooling off pops and clicks. “Where are you, anyway?”
“I just got home from a lecture. It was good except for the goddamned sales pitch at the end.”
“You like all that New Age shit, don’t you? Me, I think it’s a waste of time.” Ron could hear the clinking of ice cubes through the phone. He pictured Joe at his computer with a bottle of Tanqueray.
“Joe,” Ron said, “you know what they say about contempt prior to investigation. I like to go out there like the world is a big banquet and I can pick a little of this and a little of that and come back with some useful information. It’s kind of like digging for gold.”
“More like scrounging in the fuckin’ dump, if you ask me,” Joe replied. “Hey, I’ll bet these New Age shindigs have great looking chicks, am I right?”
“Well, now that you mention it . . .”
“Yeah, contempt prior to investigation my ass. Hey, Ron, catch me tomorrow—my inner child has to take a piss.” Ron heard a chuckle and a click, and then there was nothing but the sound of a solo cricket chirping in the darkness.
CHAPTER 9
⍫
Jeff woke for the fourth time and decided this time he would get up. He had made the same decision earlier, but then revoked it because it was dark outside—too early, he had thought, and had gone back to sleep.
For some reason, the sun wasn’t up yet. Puzzled, he looked at his clock and saw that it was 9:30—he had slept all day. His cell phone said that he had twelve messages. Usually that was good news; it meant people were ready to do business. Right now, though, it filled him with dread. He ignored it and left the ring volume off.
He realized that he was still dressed. Gradually, the pieces of the previous three days began to assemble themselves, culminating in his arrival home from Rich’s at nine in the morning. God, what a nightmare. He must have fallen asleep right away.
He stripped and made his way through the dark room to the bathroom, where he finally turned on the light. Squinting in the bright illumination, he turned on the shower, waited for the hot water, and stepped in. The water felt good as he let it beat on his face—he had a moment of pure luxury before the reality of his situation began to filter into his thoughts.
Aiming straight down between his feet, he urinated into the drain for what seemed like forever. He was lightheaded from hunger and knew he needed to eat so he could think more clearly. Several things were very clear to him: that Lilah could cause him a lot of trouble if she talked, that he was short on the San Francisco investment now that most of it was in Rich’s carpet, and that the messages on his phone were probably mainly angry calls from Rich. And that none of it mattered: only Marilyn mattered now.
He cleaned up, then dried off and dressed in jeans and, because it was still hot, a tee shirt. The shirt was white with a logo on it that said Channel Island Surfboards. He chose a contact from his phone’s list and thumbed the dial icon.
“Hello?” He heard voices, laughter, and music blaring in the background.
“Gary, hey, it’s me. Gotta see you. Meet me at Pop’s in half an hour; can you make it?” Jeff felt a little shaky—it seemed like a long time since he had talked to anyone.
“Bad timing, man,” Gary said through the noise. “We’re like, ah, already committed, you know?”
What Gary meant was that he had company, probably a friend and a couple of women, and that they had already ingested enough drugs to make leaving the house impractical.
“I’ll make it worth your while, big time. Listen, do something that’ll straighten you out, leave some for the chicks, and tell them you’ll be right back. Really, you’ll be right back.” He knew that Gary was only five minutes from Pop’s, and that Gary’s visitors weren’t going anywhere.
“Worth my while, eh? Well, okay, I’ll see you there,” Gary said, and he hung up.
During the whole conversation, Jeff had been staring at the bag on his desk. Now he pulled out the large zip-lock baggie full of white chunks. He reached in the drawer and got a spatula and then opened the bag. He poked around until a long ridge of flaky powder sat on the flat end of the spatula. He looked at it and thought of the night before at Rich’s, then placed it back in the bag. No, he wasn’t even going to start. In fact, he should probably avoid it for a while, get rid of the whole bag of goodies, maybe even go to Kauai and chill for a while after he had taken care of business. Tonight, he would eat, work with Gary, relax with a coupl
e of drinks, and maybe get back to sleep so he could wake up on a decent schedule.
He pulled an Ohaus triple beam scale from under the desk and carefully weighed the bag. He then inventoried the contents of his briefcase and added the coke to it. He put the inventory list, the cash, and the gun in a false-bottomed waste basket that was filled to the top with nasty trash: beer bottles with cigarette butts in them, Burger King wrappers covered with crusted cheese, and a dried-up apple core.
CHAPTER 10
⍫
Holly walked into the most beautiful living room she had ever seen. An entire wall was filled with recessed niches, each about twenty inches square and subtly lit from within to display an exotic carving or statuette. She recognized a bronze Kali and a four-armed Shiva, next to which was an African carving with a wooden phallus so massive it looked as if it were about to tip forward. A tapestry depicting a medieval court scene hung above a gleaming grand piano. Four people were present, seated around a marble coffee table. Art led her across the room to them.
“Holly, I’d like you to meet our hosts Joanie and Diane.” Two women stood up and welcomed her. Joanie was a petite blond in her forties, beautiful, thought Holly, and yet unpretentious. Diane was at least six feet tall, with thick black eyebrows and very pale skin. Joanie took Holly’s hand warmly and told her she had come to the right place.
“This,” said Joanie, gesturing toward a thin balding man with very bright eyes sitting on the sofa, “is George . . . and Amy.” George and Amy greeted Holly without getting up—Amy had Tarot cards spread on the table in front of her in five groups of three, Holly noticed, and the rest of the deck in her hand.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” Joanie said, “and Amy has been entertaining us with the occult.” She smiled slightly at this, as if amused, and then said, “Perhaps we should do your cards, Art. The hanged man and the tower have figured so prominently for the rest of us—perhaps you are the key.”
Trust Me Page 4