The Gospel According to Larry (3 page)

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Authors: Janet Tashjian

BOOK: The Gospel According to Larry
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Peter's girlfriend Katherine had a Humpty Dumpty fetish. She collected anything poor Mr. Dumpty had affixed himself to—salt and pepper shakers, cookie jars, puzzles, mailboxes, light switches, vases, bookends—you get the idea. Last Christmas, she gave Peter a Humpty Dumpty tie with clumsy Humpty tumbling down the front of it.
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Katherine was forty pounds overweight, always smiling like the poster woman for Fat, Dumb, and Happy jeans.
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She laughed nervously after everything we said and was putting in so much effort to being liked that once in a while I actually found myself rooting for her.
“Ah, lasagna. My favorite.” Peter dug into the casserole dish like it was the first meal he'd had in months.
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“Very nice,” I said. I'd told her fifty times I don't eat meat, but somehow that never seemed important enough to register on her radar screen. I filled my plate with lots of garlic bread and tomato sauce.
I'm not sure if Peter was really interested in the zany anecdote Katherine filled our airspace with—something about mixed-up files at work and her crazy boss—or if he just pretended she was a client. I don't know how she did it, but the conversation ended up where it always did—at eBay, and all the wonderful Humpty bargains Katherine was bidding on. I excused myself as soon as possible, saying I had lots of homework to do.
As I walked into the cold night air, I banged my hand against the side of my head to empty out the cascade of Katherine's gibberish. By Porter Street, I could almost hear my own thoughts again.
It's not like I was trying to walk by
Beth's; my feet somehow ended up there. Just in time to catch her running up her driveway.
“I thought you were dusting Todd's collection of medals tonight.”
“Give it a rest, Josh.”
I decided to lay off the topic until she felt like talking. We sat on her front steps and watched the flickering Christmas lights the Petersons should have taken down months ago.
“I hate to admit you may be right,” she began. “Todd definitely doesn't appreciate me.”
“That's a giant duh.”
She shivered. “I'll die if I end up being one of those women on talk shows complaining about their lives.”
“I'll start a fight from the audience so the ratings will be high,” I added.
“I could never have a normal conversation like this with Todd,” she said. “I don't know why.”
Let's see … because he's a moron, because he thinks memorizing football plays is more important to the planet than physics or kindness? I kept my mouth shut and stared straight ahead at the Petersons' lights.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” I opened my pack and took out the gift bag from Bloomingdale's.
“You visited your mom today? I wondered where you were fifth period.”
Her long fingers removed the items from the tissue paper. “Ooh, I like this.” She rubbed some moisturizer on her hand.
A war erupted inside me—
please
try on the lipstick,
don't
try on the lipstick—on the one hand, I wanted any excuse to stare at those lips of hers; on the other, I needed to sleep tonight.
She wanted to torture me, of course. On went the lipstick.
“Is it too dark?” she asked.
I could feel her breath as well as see it. Her lips looked like ripe juicy plums hanging on a tree. I shrugged and told her it looked okay.
“I'm not sure about this,” she said. “Larry's latest sermon really got to me—about wasting money on stuff we don't need.”
“Well, it was free, if that makes you feel any better.”
“As a matter of fact, it does,” she said. “Want to go log on?”
I followed her down to the basement, which was strewn with clothes and CDs.
“Why don't you see if Todd will reciprocate? His basement couldn't have been any worse than this.”
“Yeah, right. He's on his way over now.”
Luckily there was no chance in hell of Todd actually doing anything resembling manual labor, so I had Beth to myself for a few hours.
She clicked on her Favorite Places and pulled up Larry's sermon. While she read the latest installment, I picked up her Magic 8 Ball and asked a question—Would Beth like Larry's new sermon? Would it resonate with her? I shook the ball, then turned it over. “My Sources Say No.” I may not have magic powers, but I bet you're wrong this time, Mr. 8 Ball.
“Josh, you've got to see this.”
I put down the not-so-magic Magic 8 Ball and joined her at the desk.
“Didn't I tell you? It's like he writes things just for you, no matter what you're thinking. Look.”
I dragged over a chair and read the latest from Larry.
SERMON #97
I've written a lot about the crap we fill our lives with—possessions that tie us down, that only distract us from who we are trying to become. But what
about the people we surround ourselves with? Are they people who ignite our passions, who spur us to greater self-mastery? Are your relationships full of meaning, or are you just going through the motions? Don't you want to dig a little deeper, reach another level? Or are we all just looking for the easy, the convenient? The people we choose to spend our lives with are the people who share our journey—are you surrounded by crewmates or pirates who hijack your time?
“It's spooky,” she said. “So me and Todd.”
“Yeah, I'm sure Larry was thinking of you two when he wrote it,” I answered.
“I'm serious. There's no ‘there' there. It's over.”
I shrugged in agreement, but my brain bounced between anticipation and fantasy.
“Besides, he eats meat! I can smell it on his breath. It's disgusting.” She jumped up and put her hands on her hips, determined. “Back to more important things. Let's get going on the Larry club.”
“Hey, I wasn't the one ironing letterman jackets all night.” I took out the folder of notes I had made the night before.
We worked until her father nicely asked me to leave.
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She gave me her usual you're-my-best-friend-so-it's-so-harmless-to-be-close-to-you hug. I just hugged her back in that I'm-perfectly-content-to-only-be-friends way and headed home.
As I walked down Kimball Street, I thought of all the things I forgot to tell Beth tonight. About the links we could set up from Larry's home page. About how spring was only a few weeks away. About my conversation with Flip-Off Phillips that morning.
And oh yeah, Beth, one more thing.
Did I forget to mention I was Larry?
(I'm not much of a detail person.)
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“He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it.”
 
St. Matthew 10:39
The Web site started out as most of my projects do—as a way not to be bored, a way to create something interesting out of nothing. Also, it was that holiday juggernaut that starts with Halloween, gains steam over Thanksgiving, and comes to a roaring crescendo with Christmas and New Year. The commercialism had reached an all-time high last year, and I felt a desperate need to rebel. Especially with Mom not here, creating the site was a way to distract myself during that torturous and overwhelming time.
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I designed the graphics, set up the Web site using my cell phone as the modem so the line couldn't be traced.
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I could have done the whole webcam hey-look-at-me thing, but even online my privacy was crucial.
This all came at a time when I was designing a series of biblical action figures—for no other reason than my own entertainment, of course.
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So I called the site The Gospel According to Larry—Larry being the most unbiblical name I could think of.
At first it was funny—just two or three hits a day—lonely Internet nomads with nothing better to do than read the rantings of another spiritual pilgrim. The comments were mostly positive, and some of the arguments were stimulating, so I began to stay up later and later to put more time into my sermons. Someone even posted an article from a local newspaper about the site. Reading that was a hundred times more gratifying than my early acceptance letter to Princeton, believe me.
People started e-mailing Larry, asking who he or she was. One day I had the idea of photographing my possessions,
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scanning them, and posting them to the Web site. Would it be possible to track down an anonymous person ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD by the things he or she
owned? The question intrigued me. I made a bet with myself that I could photograph each item in such a way that no one could track me down.
It was a Catch-22. I was happy that what I did was interesting to others, but because Larry's identity was unknown, I couldn't take any credit for the phenomenon, couldn't use it on my resume, or more importantly, brag about it to someone like Beth. I could, I suppose, but there's something pretty slimy about a philosopher seeking attention for personal gain.
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So I found myself in the awkward position of starting my own fan club. It was a routine almost worthy of the Python troupe, or maybe just the Three Stooges. The irony and just plain weirdness of it invigorated me, and I spent the next hour sorting through the photographs of my possessions, deciding which one to post the next day.
LARRY ITEM #11
I learned many things living with an advertising executive for five years: One of them was that for a company to succeed it needed a marketing niche. It wasn't enough to start up a Web site. I needed a message, a product, something.
Well, a product was out, pretty much because I'm the most unmaterialistic person I know. In fact, I only own seventy-five possessions.
Counting all clothes, underwear, school supplies, recreational equipment, software, key to the family house—seventy-five. It's my little secret; even Beth doesn't know about it.
Most people probably have more than seventy-five things in their top desk drawer, let alone entire life.
My list of guidelines:
If I got a new CD, I either traded for it or had to sell an old one. Same with books and
videos (thank God for libraries). I rented skis when I went to the mountains, borrowed basketballs, downloaded free software and music online.
A notebook counts as one, even though it has seventy sheets of paper. A pair of socks counts as one, as do shoes.
I don't keep things like stamps around, don't want to feel tied down by them; I take letters to the post office so the stamps don't even come into my possession.
I've been like this since eighth grade, when I read about some Native Americans not wanting to leave too many “footprints” on the earth when they left. I took it literally. Every single thing I bought was a major, MAJOR decision. I asked myself if I could live up to the responsibility of owning it, maintaining it, housing it. In other words, DO I HAVE TO OWN THIS NEW ITEM SO BADLY THAT IT'S WORTH REMOVING SOMETHING ELSE WITH MEANING FROM MY LIST OF SEVENTY-FIVE SACRED POSSESSIONS?
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People always talk about writing what you know. So I got the idea into my head that Larry
should discuss something he (I) knows about. And anticonsumerism was certainly one of those things. Plus, the topic was just beginning to grab a foothold in the culture; there were all these books coming out about simplifying your life. Kids were crossing out logos on T-shirts. Maybe they were only a few freedom fighters, but I thought it could really be a trend in the making. I liked being at the forefront of a movement. And, with Peter being head of a giant advertising agency, it gave me the feeling of sleeping with the enemy, a
Spy vs. Spy
vibe that excited me.
So it was decided—Larry's mission statement would be to take on waste and overspending and cultural brainwashing.
Unless I felt like writing about something else, of course.
I'm not saying I came up with this elaborate plan to impress Beth during her extended Thoreau phase.
Let's just say it didn't hurt.

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