The Smaller Evil (2 page)

THEY STOPPED FOR LUNCH JUST
north of Big Sur, hiking down to picnic on a beach that was almost empty. The emptiness felt weird to Arman, who was used to crowds and surf wars and sand being kicked in his face—both metaphorical and otherwise. Without the usual cultural markers or territorial feuding, it felt as if they'd traveled farther than they really had. They could be in a different state, for all Arman knew. A different country. Or continent. Even in the gritty bathroom, one wretched and rank with the universal scent of human piss, the only thing that oriented him was the graffiti, which was written in both English and Spanish. All manners of obscenities and representations of female body parts were scrawled across the cement walls. One phrase in particular caught Arman's eye.

Daddy's farm.

He grimaced. Jesus. What the hell did
that
mean? Arman vaguely recalled a country song of the same name, but he didn't think that's what the words on the wall were referring to.

He zipped his pants and left the bathroom quickly.

Back in the warmth and clarity of the California sunshine, he
strolled the water's edge, not caring if his shoes got wet. The waves were more wild here than back home in Santa Cruz. There was no cove. No harbor. No break wall. Just a relentless, pounding surf that made the ground shake with every roll and slam of its tide.

With some distance between him and the scene of his crime, Arman's paranoia waned from full throttle panic to a dull throb in his head. Now, when he glanced over his shoulder, Arman saw exactly what he expected to see: the distant forms of the van's other passengers, all eight of them, sprawled on blankets they'd dragged down to spread on the dry sand. Beau lay somewhat separate from the group, with his arms folded and sunglasses on. The rest of the passengers sat a few yards downwind, eating sandwiches, drinking sodas, talking, laughing, shooting the shit, whatever.

Arman's stomach growled, a useless plea. There was nowhere to buy food and he hadn't thought to bring any. Stupid, that was stupid of him. As always, he'd packed last minute, jamming his stuff into a single bag, with little forethought and a hell of a lot of impulsivity: rumpled clothes, a toothbrush, some deodorant, his acne wash, the medications he took for his ADHD and his GAD and his GERD and all the other acronyms that conspired to make his life as painful a disappointment as possible. Lastly, he threw in the book he was trying to finish, which was
Espedair Street
by Iain Banks. Arman had picked it up at one of those sidewalk sales downtown last spring. Although not a big reader, he found the first page made him cry right in the middle of Pacific Avenue, in front of strangers and everything. That felt meaningful somehow, like the words on the pages ached for him to know their sorrow.

He had money, too, of course, lots of it—$2,800 stolen from his meth-dealing stepfather, who no doubt owed it to his supplier, who no doubt would want it back at some point in time. Dread hooked his
lungs at the thought—not because he believed stealing was wrong, which he did. And not because he cared about his stepfather, which he didn't. But because he cared about his mom. Sort of.

At least a little bit.

Stop. That's just a dumb symptom
. Arman was determined to be better than that. He was determined not to bend to the will of guilt and shame. As hard it might be, he had to try—if not for himself, then for Beau, who believed he could do it. When they'd first met, by pure chance, at that music café in Capitola, the one overlooking a part of the ocean where the sea lions came to mate, Beau had talked to Arman, in his low sensible voice, about
self-defeating symptoms
and the ways they indicated sickness.

“I'm not sure I know what you mean,” Arman had said, compelled to be honest in a situation where he'd normally lie.

Beau had smiled at him then, an expression as clear and easy to read as a full moon on a cloudless night. And there were no lines on his face. Not one. “Think about it this way. Just as a sneeze or a fever indicates an underlying infection in your body, wanting to please someone who's done nothing but neglect and abuse you is also a symptom.”

“Of what?”

“Of
disease
. A man-made disease that feeds on your misery. Mark my words, Arman, your immune system has failed you. I can see it. There are cultural forces
right now
that are sucking the life out of your autonomy and happiness in order to thrive. They're no different from opportunistic bacteria and viruses that feed on their host. You're someone else's host. But you don't have to be.”

That's when things had started to click for Arman. When he'd first felt that flicker-flame of hope. Autonomy and joy were scarce in his
daily existence, only he'd never understood why. But now he had the answer: A disease was responsible.
Social order sickness
, Beau called it, or
the hierarchical flu
—both were the terms he used interchangeably to describe the sort of cultural syndrome that needed him to be weak in order for it to be strong. Apparently Arman had a pretty bad case of it. That's what the screening test Beau had given him said. And what he needed, Beau informed him, with those pale river eyes so full of compassion and understanding, was quarantine and recuperation.

Followed by
inoculation
.

Arman scooted sideways as a big wave washed in, shooting froth and bubbles at his feet. His dirty shoes slapped in the wetness and small crabs skittered in and out of holes and over rocks. He peeked at his phone. Five minutes before he had to board the van again. His stomach was still empty, a carved hollow, but his heart felt full, thinking of the days ahead, with all their promise and potential—a whole week spent at a private campground with Beau and other people like him, people who would teach Arman and Dale and Kira and all the other visitors who'd heard about Beau and what he could do, who understood that they needed help, too.

Who would he become?
What
could he become? Arman had no idea, but the future shimmered in front of him, so bright and vivid and
real.

Giddy with his thoughts and the fresh ocean air, Arman reached down and picked up the tail end of a giant seaweed bulb that lay half buried in the sand. It had to be at least nine feet long. Cold and slimy, the thick green-brown tail slid around in his palm, but Arman held tight. He didn't let go. He began to jog, first stretching his legs and testing his muscles. Heavy sand weighted down his wet shoes and the damp cuffs of his jeans, but Arman forced his legs to go faster. He broke
into a run, then a sprint, tugging hard on the seaweed tail. Behind him, the bulb head bounced and spun in the surf, like an eager kite that didn't yet know how to fly.

• • •

Back in the van, Dale sat in Arman's row for the last leg of the trip because Kira wanted to sleep. This meant sprawling her entire leggy body across the front row and Dale moving back, sunglasses, bloodshot eyes, surfer shorts and all. Arman slid in beside him but said nothing. He wasn't feeling unsocial, exactly, but he didn't know how to start a conversation and he didn't want to come off weird the way he always did.So he just slouched down. Held his book in his lap and hoped to God his stomach would stay quiet so Dale wouldn't ask why he hadn't eaten lunch with the rest of them.

The thing was, Arman and Dale weren't friends. They weren't anything. They'd only met each other once before, and that had been at the second gathering with Beau. Dale had shown up at the café that day, along with Kira, and that was when Beau invited them to the retreat. All dark hair and sloppy clothes and casual indifference, Dale had been aloof toward Arman then. Chilly, even. But in a way that made Arman long to know him. Or at least, not be dismissed by him.

That was another symptom, wasn't it? The longing. The need for acceptance and validation. The need for something other than himself, because he found himself lacking. Or maybe he
was
lacking and that's why he was needy? It was hard to tell the difference. Sometimes the symptom could be the cause. Arman leaned his head against the seat back and resisted the urge to slam it.
His
insecurities and failures were glaringly obvious, but what could Dale need? Dale was good-looking, athletic, emotionally tempered in ways Arman wished he could be. In other words, he was
cool
.

And yet he was here for a reason. He had to be.

Struggling to be sly about it, Arman lifted his head and side-eyed Dale as the van rocked and swayed, hugging the cliff-side curves on the twisting route southward. Interesting. Dale looked anything but aloof or cool now. He looked sick, actually. Sort of whey-faced and clammy, like the way Arman felt when he took too much Adderall. Dale was gripping the front of the van seat so hard the blood vessels in his hands were popping out. Blue ridges on white skin.

Arman nudged him with his foot. “Hey. You okay?”

Dale shook his head. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat like a trapped frog. “I don't like heights.”

Heights? A wave of sympathy washed over Arman. That was unfortunate, considering. Highway 1 definitely involved heights, lots of them: breathtaking, dizzying, unfathomable heights. It was a treacherous road, one that cut back and forth, inching along narrow drop-off cliffs and spanning stone bridges that floated high above the rocky shoreline and pounding waves. No guardrails stood between the road and oblivion, either. Arman kind of liked it that way: the view, the danger, the sheer sense of nail-biting awe. He'd heard that once a year a marathon ran up this road, and that a man in full tux and tails played a grand piano for the runners from atop one of these sharp-edged cliffs. He wanted to see that someday, a concert at the end of the world. It sent a thrill through him to think about it, to experience something so rare and fleeting. But for Dale there was clearly no upside to this.

Arman felt bad about that.

“You want to switch seats?” he offered. That way he'd be on the cliff side and Dale would only have a view of the oncoming traffic.

“No, I don't,” Dale replied. “I don't want that at all.”

Arman scowled. “Fine. I was just asking.”

Dale folded his arms and let his heavy-lidded eyes flutter shut. “You know what I do want?”

“What?”

“What I want right now is some goddamn Klonopin.”

“Klonopin?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, sorry. All I've got is Paxil.”

Dale's eyes popped open. “What did you say?”

“I said I have Paxil.”

“What's Paxil?”

“It's an antidepressant. But it works for anxiety, too.”

A smirk skittered across Dale's lips. “Seriously? You take that shit?”

Arman's shoulders tensed. “Why's it shit? You just said you wanted Klonopin.”

“That's different.”

“How's it different?”

Dale waved a hand. “It just is. Anyway, I heard they don't allow your kind of medication in this place. So you better watch out. Your Paxil's about to become a controlled substance.”

“Why wouldn't they allow medication?”

“I don't know. Supposedly it
inhibits your experience of reality
or some bullshit. It was in a brochure I saw. Sounds pretty stupid, if you ask me. Reality's what we make of it, right?”

Arman felt weak. He had no idea what reality was or wasn't. He also didn't care. What he
did
care about was not breaking rules. He didn't want to get in trouble. He didn't want to do anything he wasn't supposed to.

But he needed his medication.

He turned to Dale. “You know, I meant what I said about switching seats.”

“Hell, sure. Why not.” Dale gestured for Arman to stand up, which
he did. Dale scooted toward the aisle while Arman wriggled toward the window. And even though he still held his book in his lap, he didn't read or relax. He sat up straight for the rest of the ride.

• • •

They pulled into the campground a little before four.

Their van was one of at least a dozen in the gravel parking area. There were a couple of trucks, too, and an ATV, and even an old dust-covered sailboat that looked like it hadn't seen water in half a century.

Stepping out and gazing at the steep-pitched hills around him, Arman realized
campground
wasn't the most accurate word. To him it had conjured up images of tents and bug bites and shitting in the woods, which were all things he remembered from the times his dad had taken him camping, usually up near Tahoe. Those were trips that had taken place years ago. They'd also grown less enjoyable over time; the older Arman got, the more comfortable his dad grew with abandoning him while he frequented the South Lake casinos. Arman hated being left alone in those scummy campgrounds, surrounded by bikers and drunks and the constant reek of pot smoke. But this place was different. This place, rooted deep in a desolate section of the central coastal range, wound in on a dirt road, through miles of lost canyons, miles from anywhere, and ringed on every side by some sort of geological barrier, felt more like a
compound.

First off, this was clearly private property. The hand-lettered sign on the wrought-iron scroll gate they'd driven through said as much. There were other signs, as well. One read
NO TRESPASSING
and another
KEEP OUT
, but the most curious message was the one carved into the metal archway that ran above the massive barred gate. Arman had had to lean to see it, twisting his head against the van's window, but what he saw read:

EVOLVE
ALIA TENTANDA
VIA EST

Arman knew that was Latin. It sounded familiar, too, only he didn't know what it meant, other than the
evolve
part. He couldn't even look up the rest of the phrase because there was no cell service here. There hadn't been for the last hour of the drive.