Children of the Program (9 page)

chapter 13

lifers

During an uncomfortably long plane ride to London, Benjamin did his best to sort through his lifetimes and travel anxiety.  No shrink, nor priest could absolve his riddled mind.  His current troubles paled in comparison.  It was like the scales of universal law had tipped, lofting his ill-focused future agenda.  He suddenly understood the complex visions he’d been given, their symbolism and the urgency of his adolescent night terrors.  In a wintery snow globe's haze, his new memories blended with the old.  He could recall the girl in the right Borromean ring, from the dream, but was slow to calculate the lifetimes they'd shared.  It was a blur.

              He knew they'd talk again — they had to.  They had fallen in love during their first Program lifetime and developed a complacent thirst for stable companionship — it was the same trap Neco and Ash were destined to fall, if clarity failed to trump their raging hormones and rebel yells.  Dismayed by reason, Ben's social life was a ship long lost at sea.  He had no one else.  Caution to the wind, he remained content to repeat life's vicious cycle, if it meant drifting toward the forgotten coast of stability.  He knew leaving The Program was a permanent commitment to spiritual vacancy.  It also meant saying goodbye. 
Forever
. 

+++

The Beyond was not a spiritual gathering, nor a magical place with pearly gates.  It implied transcending the physical plane and becoming unaware.  It was a dead zone; a place Buddhists refer to as Nirvana.  Released souls reenter the vacuum from which all light spawned.  It is man's selfless journey, back through the wormholes of time and space, to touch what does not lie before the beginning.  In the truest sense, it is peace in the absence of all. 

              Only faith could blind a man from the mysteries surrounding it.  Living forever had its own sting, but ceasing to exist sent human egos into shock.  The complexities of this conundrum were easy to understand, but difficult to emotionally navigate.  There was also a lingering moral responsibility, to the souls stuck in the underworld, to not take The Program lightly and to produce a Crystalline child.  Those who selfishly chose to remain in The Program or who had failed to produce an enlightened baby, for more than 40 lifetimes, were called Lifers.  Though love of the physical world can trap even the most brilliant of hearts, Ben wasn't ready to let go!

              His blue thoughts were then interrupted by a red rotary Batman telephone.

              “Ben.  Thanks for answering!” said Grayson.  “I wanted to give you a quick call, to tell you our website is up and running.  If you want to reach out to anyone or have an update from your side of the pond, let me know.  I'll update the group!”

              “Good timing, sir!  Can I get our purple-haired friend's number?” asked Benjamin.

              “Of course!  She's actually not too far from you.  I've got to jet, but keep me in the loop.  Remember, The Council is watching!  10-4?”

              “10-4.”

              Rehearsing mock greetings in front of his tiny bedroom mirror, Ben hung up the sweaty telephone and paced.  He twirled an old Louisville Slugger and mentally traversed the minefield lying in wait.  The overwhelming weight of their extensive history rested upon his feeble shoulders.  He couldn't afford a misstep.  A courtship with his past meant unpacking forgotten baggage and anew.  Anxious, he knew there was a very real possibility that their union had reached exhaustion, but hoped she'd reciprocate his timely advance.  Nervously looping his trembling index finger through the tight number slots, he dialed.

              “Speak to me,” snarled Zane.

              “Zane.” He paused.  “This is...” 

              “Who is this?”

              “You know, the math nerd from the Painted Desert with the Paul McCartney 'Meet the Beatles' haircut.”

              “I knew you'd be calling, darling boy.  I think it’s safe to assume you've spoken with our New York City counterpart, Grayson, and have had a wee chance to departmentalize, or at least recall, our lavish, yet irresponsible, dealings?”  She paused, steering the conversation.  “We were a couple of wild things, weren't we, Ben?”

              “We are.” he joked, hoping to generate a pulse.  “I'd like to come visit you.”

              “I'm not sure the universe will have much to do with it!”

              “I know.”

              “Nevertheless, there are a couple of great pubs in Dublin.  When were you thinking?”

              “How about 2 weeks from today?”

              “OK, it's a...” Zane caught herself.

              “Date?” Ben risked.

              “It's not a date!” she joked.

              Zane was conflicted about her nostalgic feelings.  Her admittedly imperfect family hadn't left her with the same irreconcilable abandonment issues as Ben's — just alcoholism!  She welcomed her lush years of emotionally detached sex, dating, and if her fancy was tickled, validating The Program.  She knew a clean break with Benjamin would require calculated compassion or a combat boot, on the off chance things went south.  She wasn't entirely opposed to the passing idea of making things work, but longed to spear the ocean for a new catch. 

              To avoid being hounded by the guilt of reconciling their past and faced with an unrequited nostalgic romp, Zane tapped Juno, explained the precarious hand she'd been dealt and offered to purchase her a round trip plane ticket.  She was intent to avoid the exclusivity of an awkward situation.  Juno accepted Zane’s offer.  Her maternal instincts beckoned.  There was a certain grace lodged in her swagger that suggested, 'If anyone could talk reason into this hopeless romantic, it's me!'

              “I'd love to come!  I can teach you how to dance around this,” Juno joked.  “Plus, I can tell you all about my new man-friend.  He is absolutely gorgeous.”

              “Thank you so much!  I'm not surprised, you're beautiful.  You'll be out of here in no time!”

+++

              Rand lurked, in a town not too far away.  His new lease on life brought confusion and fear to his disciplined family.  It drew contempt.  Suddenly, a solider boy who had never missed a test, bathed in the smuggest of clothes, and only delighted in the substantiated theories of historical facts, was vibrant, uncaring and throwing colors into the air.  For once, he was alive and it was killing the status quo.  His parents didn't know the scope of his impromptu Rumspringa, but knew something had dramatically changed in his staunch demeanor.  They were determined to quash his newly beating heart.

              “Are you on drugs?” asked Mr. Backer.  His stern rumble shook the cabinets and family crystal.

              “No.  I assure you, I am not.  I've been awakened.  It is too supernatural for my own comprehension.  I don't dare your understanding.  All I can say is, this facade of a life you've created — this prison,” Rand paused.  “It's all an illusion.” 

              “Your country, your academics — your
family is a magic trick?” asked Mr. Backer.

              “We live inside heaven's ever-changing kaleidoscope.  It’s an untapped universe of possibility.  Can't you see it?  We're merely mirrors of fractured glass, facing the Eye of Providence.  We observe the universe as it observes us.  Wouldn't it be prudent to give it something to delight in?” Rand asked, with a twirl.

              “I didn't send you to the U.S. to find god.  I sent you to seek university!” his father screamed.

              “Life is our teacher.  It is greater than any uppity professor — a man or woman who justifies their existence with books and degrees and teaches others the value of teaching others to pave a similar road to nowhere, all while knowing that none of this means a god-damned thing.  It’s a fraud!  Higher education is a sickness, and we all fell for it.”  A long cold stare ensued between Rand and his father.  His mother remained nervous and idle.  “A university of thought lies within each of us,” he continued.  “I seek love, friendship and to live my life!  I will no longer be bogged down by the societal expectations you've imposed upon yourself or the walls you've built around this family.” 

              “Get out of my house!  Get out!”

              “You've lived your entire life, fearing someday you'd awaken unlovable or isolated.  One day you'll be alone and forced to reflect on your chastised years!  This vicious cycle of your own creation will judge you and hold you painfully accountable.”

              “Leave, I said!”

              “When was the last time you felt alive?  When was the last time you and mom danced, gazed into the western sun and drank from the wine of truth or simply threw caution to the wind?  Life was meant to be lived.  We are meant to find love and no one in this house is doing it, or they stopped short of ever trying.”

              Mr. Backer opened the heavy front door and leered into Rand's longing eyes.  Without pause, Rand accepted his fate on the cruel streets, grabbed his fedora and bag, and crossed the Backer threshold, knowing it could be the last time.  The phone rang, stilling his father's raging heart.  The door abruptly slammed.

              “Hello?” asked Mr. Backer.

              “Hi, is Mr. Rand Backer available?” asked Grayson.

              “Are you with the university or are you one of his tripping desert friends?” barked Backer.

              “I am a friend, yes!”

              “Who is this?”

              “Please just let him know that I called, and that our website is up and running.  He'll need a password to access it,” tip-toed Grayson, sensing the man’s disapproval.  “I can give you my number if you have a pen.”

              The phone slammed!

              Rand was a lifer.  He didn't intend to disappoint the uncompromising will of his parents, but knew his purpose was far greater than blind allegiance.  The magnitude of The Program had all but eclipsed the drab and mindless moments of his past life.  Even the simplest of relationships would quench his longing appetite for seduction.  Absolution from the physical plane meant ushering in a new age of hope and peace.  It was a message he wanted to scream from the rooftops, even falling deaf.

chapter 14

Downtown

After settling into a crummy Roadway Inn, in Burbank, California, I began siphoning help wanted ads from various local musician listings in prominent newspapers like the L.A. Weekly and L.A. Times.  I also generated roommate leads from nearby telephone poles, college billboards and guitar shop bulletin boards.  Ash and I both sought employment, though, the lavish treasure she earned from her divinely inspired paintings was enough to hold us for years to come.  There was a certain allure to bathing in the illusion of struggle, knowing we'd survive.  Our bond blossomed, making Edinburgh seem like a distant memory.

              The hours I spent penning my early recordings in my Dad's basement studio had prepared me vocally and instrumentally to engage in genuine conversations with area musicians.  I was drawn to any and every aspiring Hollywood-based rock n' roll outfit who was looking for a guttural crooner.  Ash did her best to stay motivated, but quickly became more emotionally attached to our forbidden relationship than her paintings or the dictates of The Council.  She'd occasionally invite college girls over from the UCLA campus and set-up body painting expos in our quaint hotel bedroom, but was quickly fading from the lush goals she once held for her perfect life.  We agreed it would be prudent to keep our eyes peeled, focused on potential love interests, but navigating jealousy, while keeping an open dialog, under a traveler's roof, on her dime, was a laughable proposition.  Regardless, I was comfortably entrapped.

              I eventually settled on a rock group in The Jungle of the Playa del Rey.  It was located just off the beach and provided a paradise of inspiration, a view to die for and sturdy nightlife.  At dusk, heaven itself reflected off of the Pacific Ocean and poured into the windows of my soul.  It was a constant reminder that this life was not my own, though I preferred the escape of pretending it could be.  Ash came to practices and parties to make sure I wasn't getting too caught up in a world that didn't include her.  It wasn't long before her body painting hangers-on became a regular part of our bizarre practices and the masquerading performances that followed.  The unique nature of our band's live show drew large crowds.  Overnight, Ash's hobby took on a lucrative life of its own.  Everyone wanted to be body painted.  The fans longed to watch hypnotic girls dance upon black lit stages in a fleshy fetishy environment.  We were content to provide the soundtrack. 

Ash and I became unstoppable, but I was bound to find temptation — even love!

              Our days in the shoddy Roadway Inn were short, but remain an adored memory.  There was something special about the simplicity and nonchalance of living within a hotel means.  The housemaids and lobby attendants became our family, though we still stayed in touch with our baffled parents, as did our web designer, Grayson, who was busy keeping our spiritual family rooted.  After finding a new place and settling in Malibu, we made a concerted effort to keep The Program privy to our precarious exploits. 

+++

              “Hello, Love,” batted Ash, after dialing Elisa from her new land line.

              “Hi! I'm incredibly glad you called.  So, where are The Program love birds nesting these days?” asked Elisa.  “Grayson said you might still be in Los Angeles, which means you're literally roosting in my backyard!”

              “We are!  We're in the Malibu Hills.  I'm not sure if you've heard the Hollywood buzz about our body paint n' rock n' roll shows, but we've been drawing tremendous crowds and making ridiculous money.  We're considering taking this experiment on the road.  It's a far departure from the walls of class I grew up on, but we're surviving.  Even my parents seem supportive — go figure,” said Ash.

              “We'll definitely have to get a few cold drinks on Sunset!  Can I go on tour with you?” asked Elisa.

              “Of course!  But, only if you agree to be my canvas.”

              “No.  So, aside from wanting to see your darling unpainted faces, I'm curious if I should be concerned about something,” she paused.  “Ever since we left the desert, Magnus won't stop calling.  He seems rather obsessed.  I've tried to blow him off, but it's not working.”

              “Maybe it's a crush?  An unshakable crush can happen — it
does happen!  God, look at us.”

              “I thought he was a really cool guy and maybe he is, but he said he can't live without me and that we are destined to be together.  Obviously, we're not meant to be together.  We're in The Program,” Elisa concluded with exasperation.  An awkward silence sustained. “When I told him to stop calling, he seemed really upset — even
angry!  I haven't heard from him since.  What if he shows up at my apartment?  It's freaking me out.  Should it?  Am I being paranoid?”

              “It sounds like a crush.  Did you tell Grayson?” asked Ash.

              “I haven't.  I didn't want to panic, which is why I was hoping to reach you!”

              “How about those bloody drinks?” bolstered Ash, dismissing her uncomfortableness.

              Ash and Elisa tirelessly talked for hours.  I writhed on the overflowing bed, opening piles of fan mail, occasionally stumbling upon the sentimental treasures sent by my son-sick father.  His bountiful care packages forced me to stop and assess my trail of familial wreckage.  Watching Ash comfortably traverse my haphazard mindset, and glide through our beautiful new home, made me question if he'd also prayed for her delivery.  I could barely conceive how cosmically my life had changed in her presence. 

The guitar beckoned, inspired by her silhouette.  Adjusting my view, I strategically faced the room's broad bay window, clicked the record button on my struggling handheld studio and tearfully strummed my soul's grateful response.  Hours marched by, before I snapped to and decided to follow suite and connect with a fellow Programmer.  Ash was long tucked in, but the recorder stirred.

+++

              “Icarus?”

              “My man.  I'm working The Program!” he joked, elated to connect.  “Let me cut to the chase, I've been with a couple lassies.  I even liked a couple of them, too.  It's perverse, I know.  For some reason they've all risked my unprotected advances.  I'm liable to end up with a lion's share of sexually transmitted diseases, before this is over, but it's all in the name of love.  Right?”

              We laughed.

              “That's it, love!  What else is spinning?”

              “I heard Juno has a beautiful new boyfriend and is already trying to have a Crystalline baby,” he laughed, inflecting a sarcastic tone.  “That ginger oozes love.  If anyone can find it, it will be her.”

              “True!” 

              “I've tracked down just about everyone.  I haven't had much luck with Rand, and of course that motorcycling maniac's information isn't available, because he was too cool to stick around.  I digress.  So, every time I call Rand's house, his father hangs up on me.”

              “That's strange.”

              “Apparently, Grayson is hitting the same wall!  Have you tried?” asked Icarus.

              “I haven't!  Maybe I can call and tell his father I'm a professor from a prestigious Athens university.  I can leave my name and your digits.  There's no sense throwing up red flags with a U.S. phone number.”

              “That's actually brilliant.”

              “By-the-by, you're actually the first person I've even reached out to!”

              “Honored,” returned Icarus. 

              “Ash and I were living in a hotel, so we really didn't have access to a computer or dial-up, but Rand seemed pretty buttoned up when we met.  I'd imagine if he's had a change of heart, it's not going over too well.  Nobody is that rigid, unless they're raised to be or hiding something.  The problem is, if he gets himself kicked out, he'll be MIA-permanently!”

              “I've considered that myself.”

              “I have to go, but I've been meaning to tell you, you should probably avoid the sun.”

              “Very funny.”

+++

After a brief break in the action, I dialed Germany.

              “Is Rand Backer available?”

              “Who is this?” barked Mr. Backer.

              “It's Mr. Neco of the National and Kapodistrian University in Athens.  Did he receive our letter?”

              “We did not!” said Mr. Backer.  He was suspicious, digesting my tone and noticing my forced inflections.

              “If you can have him call, when he becomes available.  I will leave you my number.”

              “Thank you!  I didn't realize he'd been looking outside of Germany.” His voice calmed.

              “We may be able to offer him a partial scholarship in our faculty of history,” I furthered.

              “Thank you!  Thank you.” proclaimed Mr. Backer.

+++

              Grayson's website, and tenacity was a godsend.  The thought of becoming isolated in our journey was a real possibility.  Though his rebel heart had carried him toward the sun, my heart wept for Dez.  Trying to breathe new life into a fallen world isn't a pressure suited for a boiling mind.  This wasn’t a mission we were expected to face alone.   We were connected in life and in death.  No love interest would ever fully palate the magnitude of our calling, without assuming we were all just a little bit crazy — maybe we were. 

Ash and I continued our body paint n' rock n' roll gig for months.  She seemed lush with enthusiasm, and my rock n' roll dreams were finally being realized.  It seemed win-win, except for the part about us not living the way we were called to live.  Our show was taking us up and down the California coast.  Endless, were the sands of time.  There had been posh offers for a full-scale tour, but neither of us were ready to commit to a life on the open road, and were in no condition to do so. 

              We were content to seek fulfillment in The Golden State.  Our act got us invited to exotic parties for rich fetish seekers.  Downtown Hollywood was thirsty for smut, and built on the bones of those overdosing on these lush brands of entertainment.  The elite paid handsomely for Ash's services.  Raves brought out the club kids, strange cases and designer drugs, all vying for a chance to sink their sordid claws into our quaking relationship.  If the drugs didn't destroy us, the sex would.  We watched masters drip molten candle wax on female bondage slaves, like children watch baseball games.  I can still visualize the memory-blinding strobe lights, and the breathtaking lasers, splashing neon colors upon black rooms.  The dungeon-themed bathrooms were dimly lit with black lights and the stalls were littered with the sexual deviance only witnessed in hardcore pornography.  The Kings & Queens club, in East Hollywood, was our vice and main source of income.

              Paranoia, weight gain, depression and apathy were laundered through excess and quickly masked by the punk culture eclipsing us.  Empathetic hangers-on were still eager and willing to take the brunt of our growing delusions, but our poisoned well of sanity was running dry.  Ash's art became sloppy and my increasingly bizarre stage performances became riddled with rants and nonsensical drivel.  That is, if I bothered to show.   Our parade of lust was becoming a monkey business.