Land of Sunshine (667 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.72 on 19 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by charminglybeef (View user info) at 2006-08-18 01:54:42 EDT
"Yeah Cyncia, for real -- I'm fucked up. Like, real fucked up."
"Well yes, and at first glance, this all looks pretty discouraging, but the important thing to realize David is that this here," she says, motioning towards the personality test in front of us, "is not the real you. These results are clouded by what we call your 'reactive mind' -- that is to say, the culmination of all the negative and traumatic events of your life. What we do here, David, is isolate the reactive mind through an exercise called 'auditing', and essentially remove it -- leaving nothing but the real you," she concludes, narrowing her eyes and clasping her hands as if to seal out all doubt.
"Our founder, L. Ron Hubbard, likened it to looking at the world through a pair of dirty glasses -- your true self still sees the world with perfect clarity, but viewed through the glasses, the world seems --"
"-- Dirty!" I conclude, and with no shortage of enthusiasm.
She nods appreciatively, as a teacher might towards her star pupil. And I feel something odd -- something entirely irrational: it is a faint glimmer of pride. I glow with memory similar: the proud expressions shared between me and my favourite teachers. This woman, she has made me feel, even in my lies, an actual emotion. I ponder this odd circumstance and the sensible lady seated before me, noticing for the first time her beauty. Not a shade of what I expected. No -- not even a shade.
But what had I expected? A middle-aged man, sporting the official cult crew-cut, flapping his lips over an index finger? No -- foolish. What I should have expected was just this: a gatekeeper. Someone smart enough to hide the deep schism between Scientology and the real world. Someone capable of turning the doctrine into bits digestible by those of us not yet clear. Someone capable of standing fast between their isolated community, and the ill-meaning jokers like myself. Someone capable of disarming even me. A salesman.
And it occurs to me: perhaps she is too clever for this.
"You said it Cyncia -- the world looks real dirty to me, you know? But I know that ain't what it's really like -- it's not all fucked up, dirty sidewalks and shit. It's not all pussy this; heroin that. It ain't even all about money -- it's about being happy. And I'm tired man -- like, real fucking tired -- of being pissed off and strung out and hungry all the time. I can feel it, like God is telling me -- go, David, figure this shit out; get off the junk; quit fighting people; pay for your daughter's food and shit, you know?"
I stare her directly in the eyes while expounding all this fabricated misery, expecting at least a hint of shock or discomfort, but there is nothing. She merely stares back through squinted eyes and a thoughtful visage.
"So, did you just fill this out randomly, or did you actually answer the questions," she asks, once again gesturing to the graph between us. "You finished awfully fast. In fact, I don't think I've ever had anyone finish so quickly."
Her tone is almost confrontational.
"Shit yeah I did," I exclaim. "I did it just like it says right here: Don't stop and think too long -- just answer with whatever you feel at the moment. That's what I did," I say, and try my best to put on a pained expression -- as if my entire life has been filled with similar false accusations and assumptions.
"Okay," she says, quick to diffuse her offending comment. "Good. You did exactly what you were supposed to."
"Hell yeah. And it worked good too -- like, that's me right there, Cyncia. That's me right there on that paper. Like, shit, I'm depressed. I'm nervous. I'm uncertain. Like, if I was a piece of paper with a graph on it, you know? -- that would be me, sitting right there." I pause briefly. "I want help, Cyncia. I want help."
"Through our auditing that's exactly what we'll do, Dave," and she draws a straight line along the top portion of the graph. "With auditing, this is where you're going to be." It is a perfect score -- absolute in terms of stability, happiness, composure, certainty, activity, aggression, responsibility, estimation, appreciation, communication, and intelligence.
Nirvana, in other words.
"So when you first came, were you all fucked up too?"
She laughs; slightly uncomfortably, but not quite awkwardly. This seems her first admission as to the legitimacy of my character. "Well yes -- I guess you could say that. I was in a surprisingly dark place: I had a great job, a loving family -- and yet still, I was entirely unhappy."
"And now you're happy right? -- like, way up there," I ask, pointing to the line she had just drawn.
"Well, no -- not quite yet. It takes time, Dave."
"But you're better, right?"
"Oh yes -- much better. Much better," she repeats.
"And what about me? -- can you help me?"
"Absolutely," is her immediate and unequivocal reply. "We normally suggest that people start with the book -- 'Dianetics' -- but in your case, I think it would be advisable to begin with auditing right away."
"Alright, but what is this auditing shit anyways," I ask, immediately aware that my crudeness is perhaps overboard. She continues without hesitation -- as if I were speaking the Queen's English. "Well, we sit you down and hook you up to the electropsychometer, (we call it the 'e-meter', for short) and someone will ask you questions about your life. Using the information provided by the e-meter we get a sense of where your troubles lie, and from there, we work on isolating those troubles, and getting them out."
"So the e-meter, is it like, needles and shit?"
"No, no, no!" she assures me. "You see that device that the girl is holding on that poster over there? -- that's an e-meter -- just those two conductors. It's absolutely painless and unintrusive."
"Cause I don't mind needles."
"Nope -- no needles," she states emphatically and apparently without judgment. "So, the book: 'Dianetics' -- which I highly recommend you read -- is the foundation for Scientology and runs eighteen dollars. The first session of auditing is forty-eight-fifty, all in." This mention of money is slipped in as if it's an unimportant incidental, and the 'all in' seems to alter her tone -- still friendly, but business-like, and almost abrupt.
"Well shit Cyncia -- I ain't got that kinda money. I don't even got a buck to my name," I lie.
"I know what you mean," she confides, "I have days where there's nothing in my pockets either," and she tugs at the hip of her pants as if to demonstrate. "Why don't you do a little saving then, and come back when you've got enough?"
I wonder if she is paid by commission.
"Cyncia -- I'll never have enough. What comes in, must go out. I wanna kick the junk, honey, but it don't just happen like magic. And it's not like I haven't tried either; shit -- I've tried everything. But it's got a hold on me, you know? Like, I got an itch, you know? -- and I can't just not scratch it. You ever tried not scratching an itch? It'll put you right out the window. And that's like me: I try not to scratch, but then I start thinking about putting myself out a window. Like, a real high one, you know?" I stop briefly, as if to contemplate what to say next, and suggest: "Ya can't just help me out like, until I get a little better and I can pay it back?"
I search her face for signs of a moral conflict boiling within, but there is nothing. She responds quickly, and without emotion: "I'm sorry Dave -- we just can't do that."
"Please Cyncia -- please!" I beg, opening up. "I mean, this Scientology, it sounds like just what I need, don't it?"
"Well, yes --"
"-- Then why can't you help me out!?"
"Because we can't just give you auditing for free -- it costs money!"
"Look," I begin, "I'm here. Ya got me. I'm sold. This is it -- this is the path, right?" I demand, seeking either an admission of doubt or a green light to continue on my train of thought.
"Yes Dave, this is it."
"Okay then, and ain't nothing else gonna make me happy -- happy like that," I say, pointing once again to the line she had drawn. "And I ain't got the money to do this 'orbiting' --"
"-- Auditing," she corrects.
"Auditing. And I ain't got the money to do the auditing, but without it I ain't never gonna be straight enough to afford it," I reason, lower jaw trembling. "So you see the problem -- I feel like I gotta pull myself up with my own feet, you know? And that just ain't possible."
"Yeah," she agrees, somewhat hesitantly, "-- pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps." She shifts in her seat and cocks her head; suggesting to me that the first seeds of pity have sprouted. Sympathy seems soon to follow. But no -- more of the same: "well, Mr. Hubbard has put out a book on overcoming addiction that I think might help -- it's only twenty-nine dollars."
"Might help? Twenty-nine dollars? You know that ain't what I need -- I need the good shit, and a full dose of it Cyncia. Help me out here. Help me out."
"I'd love to Dave -- I really would, but I can't." Her eyes look bigger now; softer. "I'm afraid you'll have to save some of that money until you've got enough to come back. On the whole, I agree -- what you need is some auditing, so come back when you've got enough, okay?"
Finally, a hint of what seems like genuine concern in her voice, and I find myself wondering, is her's just an act too? -- how far does it go? -- are all the recruiters in on it? -- are they being paid to actively exploit the weak and impressionable? -- or do they really just believe enough to try and convince others?
What she says next, only serves to deepen the mystery:
"Hey -- why don't you just do half as much drugs, and save what you would have otherwise spent?" she suggests, with either either the ignorance of someone entirely unfamiliar with addiction, or the greed of someone rather well-acquainted.
I grab at the back of my head and slide my hands forward, and down my face. "Same old shit, ya know? Everybody's go the answers, but no one can ever help. It's grinding me down, man. Like, I see the broken glass on the street and I start eyeing it -- thinking about what it would be like to slide it across my wrists, or better yet -- my throat. I can almost feel the blood leaking from my fist as I grab it tightly enough to really do some damage, ya know? And that's what I saw -- that's why I paused -- when I walked in front of this place. And I come in, all full of this hope, you know? -- cause it felt like something brought me here -- something made me stop.
"And I see you Cyncia -- and you look just like an angel to me -- sitting at the gates of heaven! And this is it! The keys to my happiness -- they're sitting right here -- in my pocket maybe even -- and you say I can't have them, and for the sake of a few measly dollars!
"Do you know how that feels? Like a thousand days without junk! Like a fucking punch in the gut. Again. And again. And again!" I stand up. "And there you are, pleased as punch and hiding behind your fucking rules. 'Oh, I'd love to help, but my hands are tied,' you all say -- well how about I tie your fucking hands behind your back and slit your fucking throat?" I grab violent for my bag and she slides her chair backwards, terrified by my outburst.
"I don't hate you, Cyncia -- I hate this whole twisted morality you got here. You got the answers. You got englightenment, nirvana -- whatever you want to call it -- and you're whoring it all away. Well let me ask you, what gives you the right to sit on something that by all reason should be a gift to all of humanity? I can tell you something -- if I had true happiness, like this here -- I wouldn't have any need for money, you greedy cunt," I declare, allowing myself to slip into a vernacular slightly more familiar.
She says nothing. Just sits with wide eyes and open mouth. And it occurs to me that I have been speaking very loudly -- more voluminous than I had ever intended! -- and everyone in the office is now staring.
I am allowed to leave, without a word of protest or otherwise.
Two days later, I am sitting at my friend Dave's house. He is relating the story of a rather odd phone call he received: "And it's this chick, saying that she's from the Church of Scientology, and she wants to talk to David Thomas. Well yeah, that's me, and she says she's given it a lot of thought, and that she's willing to pay for my auditing or some shit, provided I don't tell anyone else, and I promise to see it through. Well I'm like -- what the fuck woman, where did you get my name and phone number? -- and she's all like -- I just looked it up in the database after you left. After I left? I've never been to the Church of Scientology, ya crazy cult bitch! And then she starts to sound all worried and says to me in this tiny, saddened voice -- my God, David, are you alright? So I tell her -- I'm in Heaven's Gate bitch, I don't need any more direction! CLICK!"
We all laugh, and just like that -- I'm in.
User Reviews
Submitted by simple_catalyst (user info) at 2006-10-16 02:42:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: -1
no.
Submitted by wookie (user info) at 2006-09-18 15:01:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by morontian (user info) at 2006-09-18 14:45:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This was good, a solid +1. But since I reviewed it, it has to be +2. heh
Submitted by Snark (user info) at 2006-08-18 18:15:08 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Thank You
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-08-18 16:19:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
As an Operating Level Thetan, I can tell you that your troubles are caused by billions of dead souls that infect your body.
I just saved you $68,000.
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-08-18 16:05:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I enjoyed this a whole lot, because I generally support any and all scrutiny of scientology, and I like the way you wrote it.
"Cuae I don't mind needles" made me laugh.
Submitted by Susie_Derkins (user info) at 2006-08-18 15:53:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Thought so.
"Does emotional music have quite an effect on you?"
Submitted by charminglybeef (user info) at 2006-08-18 15:31:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Yeah -- that song was written by Patton while 'experimenting' with sleep deprivation.
The lyrics are borrowed from questions on the Oxford Capacity Analysis test (the personality test, referred to in the story), and the contents of chinese fortune cookies.
"Do you often sing or whistle, just for fun?"
Submitted by Susie_Derkins (user info) at 2006-08-18 14:58:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Awesome. The title reminded me of a Faith No More song....was this on purpose?
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2006-08-18 10:55:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Charming, beef.
Submitted by BLITZKREIG_BOB (user info) at 2006-08-18 08:33:31 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I had that title in ubermadness a few years back.
Submitted by JoeyG (user info) at 2006-08-18 05:56:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
wouldn't normally rate this so highly, but I'm in a good mood because my manager is in the shit, big time: http://www.ubersite.com/m/91972
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-08-18 04:54:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
That was closer to my original interpretation, but the Heaven's Gate thing bugged me for some reason and I overthought it.
Submitted by charminglybeef (user info) at 2006-08-18 03:33:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Nah Stagger,
The idea was that the narrator was trying to manipulate the recruiter into allowing him free access to the CoS's programs using guilt or whatever. He ended up leaving, figuring that the recruiter didn't buy his story or couldn't let him get audited for free. It is assumed that his motives were sinister -- perhaps learning the secrets of scientology and then exposing them? Who knows...
In filling out the signup forms, he used one of his friends names, and sitting at that same friend's house later on, he learned that the recruiter had changed her mind, and called 'him' to say that she would foot the bill for his auditing, of course calling the wrong guy.
Hearing his friend tell the story, he realized the recruiter would probably still be willing to pay his way, especially if he could convince her that she did indeed reach the right 'David', and that it was probably just a bad drug day or something.
That was the idea, anyways.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-08-18 03:06:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
People like to skip to the reviews though.
What I think I didn't get at first is that Heaven's Gate is another cult he was actually trying to get into...or something.
Submitted by whysenheimer (user info) at 2006-08-18 03:05:33 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by charminglybeef (user info) at 2006-08-18 02:44:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Don't be shy -- tell us!
No one will read to the bottom of something this long anyways.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-08-18 02:38:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Ok, I think I got it now... but I'm not going to say what I thought it was in case I'm wrong... can't look silly in front of the internet...
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-08-18 02:03:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I never heard the name Cyncia before.
Also, I was loving this, and then suddenly it ended, and I did not understand the ending.