Why Aren't You Smiling? (2 page)

“You're going to die,” hissed Melanie. She sounded awfully smug about it, which made me mad.

“Am not!”

“Are so!”

“Am not!”

“Are so!” Melanie paused and announced, “You'll probably get electrocuted by lightning.”

“Or stop breathing in your sleep,” suggested her friend, Kevin.

“You'll burn in Hell forever and ever and ever,” chimed in a little brat named Gretchen. “And you won't even get a glass of water if you wait for infinity.”

“Nuh-unh,” I mumbled, “ I gotta go.” I ran home, eager to get inside before godly vengeance could do me in. Why had my parents put me in this horrible position? I found a corner in the living room and dropped to my knees, put my hands together the way I'd seen it done on television, and begged God to spare my family and me. Just then, my mother walked into the room. “What are you doing?” she all but shrieked.

Without looking up, I muttered, “Praying. So we don't get killed by God.”

My mother sent me to my room till my father came home. Then there was a serious conversation about God, who doesn't exist; and Jesus, who was a nice man who lived a long time ago but was not God's son; and the people who believed otherwise, who were superstitious, though it wasn't polite to say so in public. We were “atheists” and believed in science, instead of faith. We needed reason and evidence to believe things. I didn't exactly understand all of this, but seeing my parents' calm assurance put my worry to rest.

My mind came back to the present. What was Rick doing right now? I envisioned him sitting cross-legged on the floor of someone's pad eating his own dinner, most likely something spiritually advanced like brown rice. Suddenly I just couldn't keep him to myself any longer.

“I met this guy in the park today,” I blurted out. “He was really cool.”

“A guy?” asked my mother suspiciously. “How old was he?”

“I dunno, maybe early twenties or something.”

“Cool is a rather vague term,” said my father. “Could you be more specific?”

“This guy, Rick, was… really interesting,” I began. “He knew a lot about religion and Jesus and stuff…”

My mom cut in. “Did he ask you for money?”

“No! He was, like, on a spiritual quest,” I explained.

My father put on a wry smile. “Looking for the Holy Grail, no doubt.”

“He was just talking about how all you need is Love.”

My mother leaned toward me as if imparting a secret. “Trust me on this one, Leonard. Love is
not
all you need.”

“Right,” agreed my father. “Try going without food for a few days and you'll see what she means.” My parents had grown up in the Great Depression and liked to remind me that I'd been horrifically spoiled.

“I don't think he meant that you don't need anything else ever,” I said, improvising madly. At that point, I couldn't have truly said what Rick had told me. “I just think he meant that Love is good.”

“So is an education,” said my father, stabbing at the pork chop on his plate for emphasis.

“And an open mind,” added my mother. “Something the Christians don't always seem aware of.”

“No, he was just.” I gave up in mid-sentence. Why had I even bothered? “He was just talking about Love and I said it sounded cool and that was it.”

My parents shot each other wary looks (my father arching his eyebrows, my mother beading her eyes). They knew I wasn't telling everything but were letting me off the hook. Oh, how I hated their weirdly semi-permissive parenting! The conversation returned to Washington, and I spent the remainder of the meal in sullen silence. By the time we were tucking into our strawberry ice cream they must have forgotten what had happened because my mother said, “Aren't you the Gloomy Gus tonight, Leonard. Anything wrong?”

“Nothing at all,” I said through gritted teeth. “I'm fine. Just fine.”

That night I couldn't get comfortable in bed. I felt somehow too aware of my body. My limbs felt ungainly. The sheets and blankets were
touching
my skin. As I tossed and twisted, my mind replayed the events in the park. It had been going so well till that blonde girl showed up. There was something gross about her. My dislike immediately embarrassed me. I should love her! I decided to practice Loving. My mind's eye called up the faces of people I saw every day – my math teacher, the guy at the 7-11 – but I felt nothing, not even a fond regard. I switched to a more abstract strategy, imagining Love beams shining out of my heart into the dark night. Still nothing. My coldness disturbed me and I vowed to practice Loving every night right before sleep.

My brother Danny, seven years my senior, was
much
cooler than me. He wore his curly, carrot-colored hair in a tangled halo around his big, freckled face, and charmed everyone with his goofy, sideways smile. Though like me he was allergic to sports, he was still well liked by jocks and popular kids because he was a gifted clown who fearlessly mocked authority figures. Sassy retorts rolled off his tongue and he had a way of pursing his lips when mimicking persnickety teachers that everyone found hysterical. My imitations of his imitations, alas, fell flat because for the most part (o shameful truth!) I liked my teachers just fine. Before moving away to college, Danny had taken a keen interest in my intellectual development. At least once a week, he'd invited me into his bedroom for a chat.

The place was a total stoner den and stepping inside always gave me a through-the-looking-glass sense of entering an alien, magical world. He'd covered his windows with tinfoil and seldom used his lamp, preferring the room to be lit solely by a string of Christmas lights and candles. His floor, desk, and eternally unmade bed were all buried under an avalanche of clothing, magazines, records, paperbacks, comic books, empty food containers, and whimsical junk like the head of a parking meter, a model of Monticello, and a bowling trophy painted fluorescent green. It never felt cluttered or claustrophobic, though. Rather it was a comfortably chaotic sanctuary from the bright, tidy world of striving and responsibility. Danny liked to hole up in there for days on end, living on pizza and pot while listening to brooding guitar rock with his friends, a crew of slouchy reprobates who never deigned to acknowledge my existence.

When Danny called me in, I'd seat myself on his ancient armchair, so worn its stuffing came out in fluffy white clouds, while he put something ambient on the stereo, Tangerine Dream or Yes. Then he'd stretch out on his laundry strewn bed and lecture me about things that
really
mattered: anarchism, elves, the Beats, underground comix, the Yippies, pot, Buddha, tarot. He had a natural flair for drama, and could speak casually, orate didactically, or babble excitedly as the subject demanded. He seemed impossibly knowledgeable and wise yet quite frequently, he'd bolt up to consult one of his many books in order to learn something new, add to his ever-growing synthesis of trippy knowledge. In addition to knowing all about everything, Danny was full of theories: grades were counterproductive and fascistic; Marvel Comics sprang from the eternal truths of the Collective Unconscious but DC was crap; American literature was just now achieving the sophistication France had achieved with Alfred Jarry and Lautréament in the 19
^th
century. I loved straining my brain to follow his twisty logic and always paid rapt attention, even when I had no idea what he was talking about. Only if totally and utterly lost would I interrupt with a question. During Danny's lectures, time seemed not to exist. It felt as if the words could stream on forever, as if we had no bodies or worries and could flit about examining ideas, facts, and stories the way tiny winged fairies might flit about a garden examining flowers.

Eventually, Danny would feel the need to fire up his bong, a glass contraption that looked like a mutant wine carafe. Afraid of getting a contact high, I'd stand up to leave. Danny would hand me a book and tell me to stay mellow. Back in my own room, respectably decorated with maps and animal posters, I'd lie on my bed trying to digest it all. I never doubted that anyone with any sensitivity, style, or substance would become a hippie on reaching his or her teen years. Kids who stayed square after puberty all seemed either damaged and fearful or calloused and reactionary. Furthermore, I believed in each and every one of Danny's iconoclastic opinions and badly wanted to join The Underground. And yet, to do so I'd have to renounce my status as a “good kid” and forfeit the high esteem in which my parents and teachers held me. For that, I just wasn't ready. I had every intention of turning on, tuning in, and dropping out. but not quite yet.

The next morning, I found school insufferably irrelevant, a torture beyond anything from the Middle Ages. Geometry in particular made the Iron Maiden seem like a welcome alternative. Only the giant wall map of the United States that hung in my homeroom held any interest. Oregon was large. I'd have to hitchhike around for a while before I found Rick. I'd never hitchhiked anywhere, but it certainly looked exciting in movies. Most drivers who picked up people were fascinating eccentrics, though of course a fair number were psychopathic murders. With a shiver of pleasure, I imagined myself explaining to a stranger in a voice full of sangfroid, “Yeah, I hitched around for a while till I found the place.”

When lunchtime finally arrived I went to the splintery bench near the safety supervisor reserved for Dweebs. Forever the victims of wedgies, poundings, and kung fu assaults, these kids did their best to be invisible, and were pretty good at it – wisping through their days like the wind through the trees, their existence only inferable by the slight rustling sound of pitying compliments handed out by teachers who had once themselves been unpopular. As I arrived, the usual half-dozen faces looked up from their books and sandwiches, and nodded or mumbled hello. Our lowly social standing had convinced us nobody would ever be pleased to hear our voices.

I sat down and pulled out my sandwich. As I feared, it contained sprouts. Just at that moment, sprouts were a cause célèbre among culinary progressives… one that my mother had seized upon with evangelical zeal. I, on the other hand, felt strongly that a more traditional lettuce leaf best complimented the rich gaminess of liverwurst.

“Finish your homework?” asked Mary Ellen, a fragile blonde girl from my English class.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Me, too.” She primly nibbled her banana.

Silence fell. None of us had anything to talk about. Finally, I could stand it no more. We were human beings, were we not? All around us kids were laughing and telling stories and playing catch and rough-housing. Surely we could work up a little enthusiasm for something.

“Anyone see the
The Carol Burnett Show
last night?” I asked. Success: conversation broke out. We chortled and grinned as we reminisced about the comic skits, doing our best to mimic the funniest lines as delivered by the stars.

Then a boy, out of breath and sweaty, ran up to the safety supervisor and barked, “Fight over by the cafeteria!” The supervisor jogged off to restore order and there we sat, undefended, scanning the courtyard in front of us like rabbits in an open field. Trying to act as if nothing were amiss, I bit into my sandwich. Douglas Schmidt and two of his henchmen immediately ambled over from the hot lunch counter and stood before me, belligerence oozing from every pore. The two boys to my right fled, their faces pale with terror. Just got up and walked away. The three girls to my left suddenly forgot that they knew me and began speaking amongst themselves in subdued tones. My body's metabolism switched from digestion to fight or flight mode, trapping a bite of liverwurst sandwich uncomfortably in my throat. Douglas had actually beaten me up before with the (to my mind) rather showy gimmick of having one hand tied behind his back.

“If it isn't Leonard,” taunted Douglas. “Leonard the Lezzie.”

“You are so ignorant,” I shot back as I shoved the remains of my lunch into my book bag, preparing for a hasty getaway. “Boys can't be lesbian.”

“You think you're a boy?” sneered Douglas as he pulled my book bag from my hands and tossed it into a nearby trashcan. “You're a chicken.” His long, dishwater blond hair fell in his face as he laughed. I stood to retrieve my bag but was pushed down by a single blow to my sternum. Then Douglas slapped my face as if challenging me to a duel. My parents had always counseled me that when getting picked on I should fight back, that I might not win but at least I'd be respected. On the other hand, I knew what Jesus and Rick would have said about cheeks and enemies. I sat back down and stared straight ahead, holding my body rigid against attack but my heart open to Love.

“He's not a chicken, he's a pussy,” spat one of Douglas's friends as he socked me hard in the arm. It stung but I restrained myself from flinching, my adrenal energy entirely deployed into the act of keeping my body perfectly motionless.

Douglas's face peered into mine. “What's with the zombie bit?”

Girls considered Douglas handsome. He was always making out on parked cars near campus after school let out. With a bit of a shock I found myself thinking he resembled the boy in the TV commercial for Honeycombs cereal whom I envied for his rakish good looks. I imagined one of my Love rays piercing Douglas's body and finding his heart, as small, shriveled, and dark as one of the rotted plums that spread themselves promiscuously under the plum tree in my backyard. I visualized the light of Love, my Love, restoring it to plump redness. Douglas and his friends went at me all at once. Someone kicked my leg while someone else socked my other arm and Douglas hit my stomach. I doubled over in pain but didn't try to defend myself or even cry out.

The bell rang announcing the end of lunch. “We'll finish
you
up later,” promised Douglas, almost apologetically. He and his cronies turned and walked off. I pulled myself up, retrieved my book bag from the trash, brushed off some rotted banana, and went to class. For the remainder of the day I could feel the slap of Douglas's hand on my face, as well as the ache of several developing bruises around my body, but so what? Wasn't the material world an illusory trap to be transcended on the road to spiritual enlightenment? This persecution was my hair shirt, a saintly mortification of the flesh, a lucky opportunity for spiritual growth and letting go of ego. I couldn't wait to tell Rick all about it.