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Authors: Janet Tashjian

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BOOK: Larry and the Meaning of Life
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“Today we're studying another leader in the nonviolence movement, a man who read Thoreau's ‘Civil Disobedience,' put its principles into practice, and changed the course of history.” Gus spent the next hour talking about Mahatma Gandhi and the nonviolent revolution that led to India freeing itself from British rule. He talked about Gandhi's Salt March—a 248-mile walk to harvest salt from the sea.
47
“The locals were forced to buy cloth from the British, so Gandhi decided they should make their own. His wife taught him how to use her spinning wheel—he spun his own cotton until the day he died. He considered the spinning wheel an outward symbol of truth and nonviolence.”
I wondered if Gus would pull a mini spinning wheel from his pack and teach us how to use it. What he pulled from his bag was even worse.
“We're not going to spin,” he said. “We're going to paint.” He took out several boxes of the paint-by-numbers kits I'd used as
a kid.
48
“I want you to practice the same focus and care with these as Gandhi did spinning cotton.”
“Spinning cotton served a purpose,” I said. “The locals could make their own clothes.” I held up a paint kit of a cheetah in the forest. “How is painting this useful? Who am I defying?”
49
“Gandhi said, ‘One hour spent in spinning should be an hour of self-development for the spinner.'
That's
why you're doing it.”
A flicker of movement in the brush caught my eye. When I went to check it out, I found a man with a videocamera. He stammered something about trying to find the cabin site; I told him it was farther up the hill. He seemed embarrassed and hurried by us.
“We need to focus through distractions,” Gus said. “Let's go.”
We passed the paint kits around, each of us more perplexed than the next. The illustrations of the finished products seemed old-fashioned and kitschy, hardly worth hours of our time. Yet Gus beamed like a parent on Christmas morning watching his children open their presents. He told us to get cracking.
“This sucks,” Katie said under her breath. “I really feel like sitting here on a sunny day and painting a stupid clown.”
Mike motioned toward me. “Larry is paying for the privilege.”
50
I told him to shut up and opened my box. Inside were seven tiny pots of paint and a canvas divided into sections of numerical
and alphabetical space. I made mental formulas with the numbers as I wiped the thin brush on my sweatshirt and broke open the first color. When Gus finally told us to put our paints away, I was shocked to discover an hour had gone by. The enormous concentration I'd used to paint the geese formation kept my usual barrage of thoughts at bay.
Gus stood behind me and admired my work. “Like meditation, right? Only with your hands.”
I had to agree.
“Wait till you see what we're going to do with these. I expect your very best work.”
I didn't need Gus's encouragement. As soon as I got home, I set up the canvas on the kitchen table. I knew better than to take Beth's phone call, knew better still not to tell her about my new project, but I did both anyway.
“A paint-by-numbers epiphany? Talk about mindless conformity. What's next, how to achieve nirvana by hooking up a DVD player?”
I told her not to knock it until she'd tried it.
“And why waste your time surveying the pond? I'm sure you can find the same maps at the town hall.”
“The Concord Library, actually. But I'd hardly call emulating Thoreau and Gandhi a waste of time.”
“No offense, but it's like talking to your mom at Bloomingdale's. Kind of random, don't you think?”
“Life
is
random—that's the point!” I answered.
“Is embracing the randomness the point? If that's it, maybe you're done.”
“I've got to go. You're distracting me.”
“Remember the private investigator from Denver I used to track you down?
51
Why don't you give her a call and ask her to check out Gus?”
I told Beth I'd committed to following Gus's path and wasn't interested in any tawdry tidbits some P.I. might dig up.
“But what if innocent kids are getting screwed out of their life savings?”
I intentionally forgot to tell Beth I was apparently the only student who'd paid tuition.
“Can I just give you her name?” she asked. “Please?”
I wrote down the investigator's information as a way of finally getting off the phone. But after I finished painting the last goose, I found myself staring at the piece of paper on the counter. What if Gus
was
running some kind of cult? What if Janine was wrong and some of the students
were
runaways? I decided a simple phone call couldn't do any harm.
The investigator remembered Beth. “She was determined to find you. I had a lot of fun tracking you down at UC.”
I took my incognito-ness
52
as a compliment, then asked about doing a basic background check on someone. I also told her I didn't have a dime to my name.
“Don't worry about money yet,” she said. “If this new guy is half as much fun to check out as you were, I'd do it for the sport.”
53
I gave her Gus's basic information; she said she was going on vacation and would give me a call when she returned. She seemed nice enough, but I couldn't fight back the creepy feelings inside. Was I being cautious or betraying my new teacher? Should I judge Gus on his present actions or past? Suppose the guy's background was sparkling clean—would I feel relieved or untrustworthy for going behind his back? I chose to work through the ethical dilemma by breaking open another tub of paint.
Gandhi and his spinning wheel
I couldn't decide which activity I liked more—taking meticulous notes as I studied the land or dipping the thin brush into the acrylic paint. Say what you will about Gus, but both activities calmed my overactive mind even better than the basement swing. I loved the silent focus and amassed stacks of survey maps and paintings. At our afternoon meeting, Gus motioned for one of the canvases. I handed him the clipper ships.
He held the small canvas in the center of our circle. “Very good work here. Nice attention to detail.”
I was glad Gus appreciated my efforts. Then he took a Zippo lighter from the pocket of his overalls. I watched in alarm as he lit the corner of the painting on fire.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Practicing impermanence and nonattachment. You're learning a valuable lesson.”
“I worked hard on that one.
54
And what about Gandhi? He believed in impermanence, but his work served a purpose.”
“Didn't this painting perform a service? Didn't it focus your mind?”
I muttered yes but told him it still seemed wasteful.
“What's wasteful is to hold on to things after their usefulness is gone.” He turned to the group. “Like your MP3 players and your phones. You let them go. Now you're free.”
He dropped the remains of the canvas onto the sand and told me I was one step closer to enlightenment. “Even though you'll all be saying goodbye to the finished product, I want you to take enormous care, understand?”
We agreed.
Gus popped a raw garlic clove into his mouth then pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of his overalls. “Moving on. The donor organization I contacted ran through our blood tests and found two of us matched the criteria for someone on their list.”
“I still think it's crazy to give a cell of my body to a murderer,”
55
Mike said.
“Let's not get into that ethical can of worms again,” Janine added.
“You won't have to,” Gus said. “The person on their list is hardly a criminal—she volunteers in a homeless shelter, teaches Sunday school, and builds houses with Habitat for Humanity. She's been waiting for a kidney for over a year, and two people are a match—Janine and Larry.”
Katie and the others looked visibly relieved. Janine buried her face into Brady while I wondered why I'd ever gotten off the couch.
“You're both eighteen, you don't need parental approval,”
Gus said. “But you should discuss it with them anyway. The recipient's insurance pays all medical costs.” He popped another garlic clove. “I'm not attached to this idea—if anyone can think of a better way to do something besides talk about making the world a better place, I'm all for it.”
As the others packed up for the day, I stared at the charred remains of my painting. When people talked about letting go, were they referring to artwork and body parts? Would helping a worthy individual with a serious medical problem be the jump start I needed to stop overfocusing on my own life and plug into a greater purpose? Changing the world had been my mantra since I could talk. Helping another person live would be a tangible step on that path. Did I have the courage to do it?
It wasn't Peter who went bananas; it was Beth.
“Are you out of your mind? My uncle donated a kidney to one of his buddies from Desert Storm and he's been in and out of the hospital ever since! And for a stranger? I can't believe you're even thinking about it.”
“Don't get your thong in a twist—thinking is all I'm doing.”
“After all we've been through together, you expect me to believe you've only been thinking? No, Josh, you've already visited every Web site dealing with organ donation, haven't you?”
“No comment.” I reached into the pockets of my Salvation Army pea coat and took out the two bags of microwave popcorn I'd brought to accompany our midnight viewing of
Monty Python's Life of Brian.
56
“Young, healthy people like me go on to lead totally normal lives.”
“Well, that would be a first.” She unscrewed a brown lipstick from the bag of samples from Marlene.
Please try it on. Please.
“If you think giving away one of your organs is some shortcut to solving your existential crisis, you're wrong.”
“Have I ever told you that I
hate
how well you know me?”
“Would you rather I just agree with your latest idea, no matter how off the wall?”
“Basically, yes.” Why did I pick the most obstinate, rational person on the planet as my best friend?
She stood next to the microwave listening for the corn to pop. “What did Peter say?”
“He was against it until I brought up my mother. An organ donation wouldn't have helped with the cancer, but suppose she had a different disease? Imagine if she could've lived because someone donated an organ. Wouldn't you want someone to donate an organ then?”
Beth dumped the popcorn into the striped plastic bowl we'd been using since sixth grade. “I hadn't thought about it that way.” She handed me the bowl and asked what Janine was going to do.
“She was pretty woozy after the blood sample. I can't imagine her making it through the necessary tests. But she told Gus she wanted to move forward. I'm not sure if she's doing it to help the recipient or get on Gus's good side.”
Beth's cell vibrated across the table.
“Your phone hasn't stopped all night,” I said. “Is that your new Brown boyfriend?” I shoved a handful of popcorn into my mouth to downplay the question.
She buried her cell into the sofa cushion. “I'm in four different study groups at school. The pressure is ridiculous.”
“Then how come you're home so much this semester?”
57
“My dad needs help at the store. A certain friend of mine bagged him, remember?”
“I'd help you tomorrow, but Gus wants Janine and me to meet with the donor organization.”
“Oh, if it's Gus's idea, you should definitely do it.”
Beth's voice wasn't dripping with sarcasm; it was flooded with it. But she had a point. Was I thinking about getting cut open to generously help another or as some kind of desperate exorcism? Was I unnecessarily risking my life to avoid feeling so dead? These were the questions that worried me more than life with only one kidney.
On the way to Walden the next morning, I stopped by the local woods to hang out in my hole. Peter had heard several acres had been sold to developers, and sure enough, a backhoe and port-o-john now graced the large tract of land. Soon there would be new holes, much larger than mine, lined with concrete and transformed into family rec rooms. I imagined the large rectangular spaces filled with Ping-Pong tables and exercise equipment. My own den—half a mile in—seemed tiny in comparison. I sat inside for several hours trying to analyze the pros and cons of donating an organ to someone in need. Gus was right about one thing—for someone interested in personal growth, being forced to make such a choice was the ultimate talking the talk.
When I finally got to Walden, I chained my bike to the rack.
As I approached the replica of Thoreau's cabin,
58
I heard giggling. Gus and Janine sat inside the tiny building on the reproduction of Thoreau's cot. He had his arm around her. Janine jumped up when she saw me, but Gus remained seated.
“Looks like you expelled a lot of toxins on your ride.” Gus motioned toward my sweaty shirt. “Perfect day for it.”
Janine kept herself busy by picking at the mattress. I asked if we could talk.
“If it's about the organ donation, your ex here beat you to it,” Gus said.
“You already said yes?” I asked Janine.
She nodded, but a touch of anxiety infiltrated her peaceful smile.
I pulled her away from the cabin. “Are you doing it because of him?”
“Who?”
“Him!”
“Gus? Of course not. Can't you give me more credit than that?”
Gus took out his whittling gear, ignoring the group of tourists trying to photograph the cabin. With his wild hair and worn overalls, he looked like he could've been part of an old Yankee re-enactment.
I led Janine away from the group. “What was that about back there?”
“What was what?”
“That!
” I motioned toward Gus.
“We were just talking. What's your problem?”
I turned to face her. “Is he hitting on you?”
When she told me not to be ridiculous, I told her Gus wouldn't be the first guru to ignore his own celibacy rules to enjoy the company of a female disciple.
“Why are you still studying with him if you think he's a creep?” Janine asked. “You're a hypocrite, and that's worse.”
“At least admit he was flirting with you. I'm not an idiot. You're donating your kidney to a stranger to get in good with Gus.”
“You're jealous that I'm not your little student anymore, that someone else might be teaching me about the world.” She ducked into the women's restroom before I could respond.
As I watched the door close behind her, I wondered about this latest piece of information about our “leader.” Was he enlightened or just a dirty old man trying to meet trusting young women? Heading into the men's restroom, I caught a glimpse of Gus across the parking lot. He'd pulled out a chair from the cabin and was leaning back in the sun. For the first time, his eyes and smile seemed impenetrable.
Replica of Thoreau's cabin at Walden Pond
I tried not to obsess about Gus and Janine but found my mind involuntarily going down that sordid track. I'd exercised great control in following Gus's rules of conduct, and it drove me crazy to think Gus might not adhere to the same principles. Of course, there was no evidence to corroborate my new theory; all the betrayal and hypocrisy existed solely in my overactive imagination. Or so I hoped.
Janine asked me to watch Brady while she and Gus ironed out the details of her organ donation downtown. I willed myself to be mature, but Janine saw through the act.
“There's nothing going on with Gus and me. Can you just get over it?”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Probably a few hours. I'm trying to get as many tests done in one day as possible.”
I told her I was still ready to take her place as donor.
“Well, if I flunk any of the medical screenings, I'll remind you you said that.”
59
She bent down to Brady, but he turned away from her. “I'm worried about him—he hasn't eaten in a
few days. I'm taking him to the vet tomorrow. Just let him tag along with you, okay?”
I led Brady down to the water for a swim, but it was difficult to concentrate on throwing sticks when all I could hear was Janine and Gus's laughter echoing from across the street. After a few minutes, I couldn't take it anymore and guided Brady up the hill toward the cabin site.
I sat on the ground inside the ten-by-fifteen space. I realized I'd unconsciously dug my own hole to similar specifications. With thousands of acres of forest all around him, Henry David hadn't needed larger living quarters. I felt the same way. I leaned back against the chains that marked off the sacred site and rubbed Brady's belly. I barely looked up when someone approached.
“This is a landmark and a state reservation,” the voice said. “No dogs allowed—there's a fifty-dollar fine.”
“I know,” I said. “I tell my friend all the time.”
“You know it's not allowed, yet you're doing it anyway?”
“He isn't mine.” I stood up and extended my hand to the ranger. “My name's Josh Swensen. I'm here with—”
“You're here with a dog,” the ranger interrupted. “Remove the animal from the park now.”
I tried to remember who the ranger reminded me of when it dawned on me: Todd, a stupid jock from high school Beth used to date. This ranger seemed even more obtuse than Todd, if that were possible.
“I'm on my bike so I can't take him now. How about if I sit in the parking lot with him till my friend comes back?”
The ranger took the walkie-talkie from his belt. “I've got a belligerent tourist at the cabin site,” he said.
“I'm not belligerent, and I'm not a tourist. I'm here every day.”
“Requesting local backup.”
“Are you kidding?” The last thing I wanted to do was get into a feud with this Neanderthal, but his overreaction to the situation made me dig in my heels. “The only way you'd need backup is if Brady here licked you to death.”
“Visitor is threatening bodily harm,” the ranger said into the walkie-talkie. “Request immediate assistance.”
“Are you smoking crack? That was a joke!” Forget donating a kidney; this guy needed a funny bone transplant pronto. My own sense of humor failed to kick in, however, when two local cops slid their way down the hill.
“This is your final warning,” the ranger said. “Remove the dog from this site immediately.”
Brady's sense of humor was obviously intact, because he chose that exact moment to lift his leg and pee on the stone marker commemorating Thoreau's hearth. Letting out a raucous laugh was probably not the best reaction on my part. The two new officers grabbed my arms and led me up the hill.
“There's no reason to manhandle me,” I said. “I'm happy to take the dog out of the park.”
“Little late for that.” The ranger tried to grab Brady's collar, but the dog wasn't cooperating. He bared his teeth and barked at the ranger. “I don't suppose you have a leash for this monster.”
“He's a collie, and he doesn't feel well. You're aggravating
him.” I told the cop on my right that I'd be happy to grab Brady if he'd remove me from his ironclad grip. When he looked straight ahead without answering, I told him he was being very un–Thoreau-like.
“You, on the other hand, will be very Thoreau-like,” he answered. “Spending the night in jail when you didn't have to.”
“
What?
That's ridiculous. You're blowing this out of proportion.” The first ranger grabbed Brady so hard he yelped. “Knock it off before I start screaming police brutality,” I said.
The cop twisted my arm even further as he threw me into the squad car.
“This is Walden Pond! What is your problem?”
60
The ranger shoved Brady into the back of his van.
“Since the jail where Thoreau spent the night is gone,” I suggested, “why don't you just let us off at the top of the road?”
“Lucky for you,” the ranger said, “the current police station has a few modern cells for your enjoyment.”
I was furious with the overzealous officers but just as angry with Janine for purposefully disregarding the posted laws. I'd call Peter to bail me out of these trumped-up charges, then track down Janine in the city with Gus.
BOOK: Larry and the Meaning of Life
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