The Gospel According to Larry (8 page)

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Authors: Janet Tashjian

BOOK: The Gospel According to Larry

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I stood in front of the Larryfest banner, too shocked to move. Larry's logo greeted the hundreds of thousands of visitorsâlots of teenagers, but to my amazement toddlers with middle-aged parents and senior citizens too. I had assumed most of the people attracted to Larry's message were kids in high school and college, but here were people from all age groups settling in for a weekend of music and fun.

People crowded around the entrance gate, but no one seemed impatient or annoyed. Several participants had crossed off the logos on their shirts and jackets, or opted instead for simple handmade T-shirts with “I am not your billboard” stenciled on them. A fifteen-year-old girl asked me if I knew which way to the main stage. Beth had already memorized the map on the drive up and gave her directions.

“This is unbelievable,” Beth said for the millionth time. “Larry must be overwhelmed.”

I told her that was a pretty safe bet.

Beth's sister and her friends set up camp near the arts and crafts booths. Beth and I carried our tents and sleeping bags down to the body-painting area.

For the first hour, I barely spoke, just stumbled around snapping pictures. My mind reeled from the immensity of the event. Music, colors, foodâeverything seemed surreal, a Technicolor explosion. Instead of taking credit for Larryfest, patting myself on the back for being the guy who made it all happen, I realized a force much larger than myself at work. The universe was now behind the wheel, and I was all too happy to hand over the driving.

Every few moments, something new caught my eye. Angel wings, tie-dyed togas, horns, fishnets, soccer uniforms, American flags, Dr. Seuss hats, camouflage, Larry tattoos. The food vendors sold the enchiladas, salads, and noodles at cost. Poland Spring gave away thousands of bottles of water. Local bands shared the stage with international stars. The lines at the charity and volunteer-back-home booths rivaled those for the Porta-Johns. People signed petitions, made pledges, sat around campfires,
and exchanged ideas. Never in my wildest, most insane dreams could I have come up with something so interesting, so spontaneous, so POSITIVE. Larry had taken on a life of his own.

Beth and I danced for most of the afternoon. When U2 took the stage to close the show Saturday night, the crowd exploded.

Halfway through the set, Bono quieted the masses. “There's been lots of talk about finding out who this Larry really is. Well, I'll tell you, friendsâI don't want to know!”

The audience cheered.

“Larry, this one's for you.”

The opening chords to what the fans now called “Larry's Theme” filled the night sky.
⁴⁵The crowd shouted and sang along. It was, bar none, the greatest moment of my seventeen-year-old life. In the span of an eight-minute song, years of teenage doubts about ever being able to make a difference evaporated. I basked in being a tiny catalyst in the scheme of the universal plan. By the time Beth and I got back to our tents, we collapsed into sleep.

The next day, we sat in on a presentation by the Salt Lake City Larry Organization discussing the way they banned billboards and superstores in their town. The Boulder, Colorado, group coached others on how to fight the gun companies in their state. Billy North had a tent where he discussed his Larry word placement theory.
⁴⁶Beth and I joined a group doing yoga in a cathedral of pines. On our way back to camp, we visited several other booths, spending time with two guys from Oakland who were making a video collage about the festival. (I made sure to stay away from the camera.)

Beth wandered ahead for a few minutes, then returned with her hands behind her back. “Ta-da!” She held out a large purple wizard's hat with gold stars and moons. She placed it on my head. “I now pronounce you Josh Swensen, Wizard Extraordinaire.”

While part of me figured out which possession I'd have to jettison back home, most of me laughed at the absurdity of her thoughtful gift. Good old Merlin himself couldn't have foreseen a day like this one.

“Do you like it?” Beth asked.

I hugged her close and told her it was fabulous.

We explored the rest of the booths on our way back to the tents.

Wedged in the end of the last row was a cafeteria table with a banner that stopped me in my tracks. SIGN A PETITION FOR LARRY TO FESS UP! I casually approached the table. A clipboard held a large stack of lined paper, most without signatures. A sign on the table explained the petition.

I LIKE WHAT LARRY HAS TO SAY, BUT DOES IT BOTHER ANYONE ELSE THAT HE/SHE IS AFRAID TO SIGN HIS/HER NAME TO HIS/HER SERMONS?

“These people who can't just enjoy things have to find something to bitch about,” Beth complained.

SIGN THIS PETITION IF YOU ALSO THINK WE DESERVE TO KNOW WHO THE PERSON IS WHO INVADES OUR HOMES AND MINDS EVERY DAY. SIGN IF YOU BELIEVE THAT THE PHILOSOPHY OF LARRY SHOULDN'T BE ABOUT KEEPING SECRETS.

I didn't need to see who sponsored the petition, but the answer stared back from the page anyway. E-MAIL ME IF YOU WANT TO TALK MORE ABOUT IT.âbetagold.

Most of the lines of the petition were filled with things like “Get a life, betagold,” or “Who cares? It's working.” A few dozen people had signed the petition in support of betagold.

“I wonder if Larry's seen this?” Beth asked. “I wonder what he thinks about it.”

“He probably hopes betagold will just go away.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

She entwined her hand in mine. I didn't want to put words to it, afraid to break the spell, but in the dreamlike world of Larryfest, Beth and I had suddenly become a couple. Each time my mind turned toward what would happen when we got back home, I pictured a giant red stop sign. I didn't want to ruin the present worrying about the future.

“Let's go back to camp,” she said.

My love for Beth hadn't wavered since sixth grade. Now here we were lying in our sleeping bags gazing at the stars, my arm around her in a casual (for her) yet meaningful (for me) way.

The success of the festival had sprung a geyser of giddiness inside me. “So you think Larry's here?” I played with one of her braids while I spoke.

“He's definitely here. And I bet he's
loving
this.”

“Oh he is,” I said. “Guaranteed.”

She propped herself up on her elbow. “What do you think he's like as a person? Some brainwave or just a regular guy?”

“Just another guy in a wizard hat, I'm sure.”

She took a long look at me, then punched me in the arm. I pulled her closer to me. To use my Larry-ness as a way of having my way with Beth would be so not-Larry.
⁴⁷

If I
were
going to tell Beth about my secret identity, this would be the perfect time. I looked at her cuddled in her sleeping bag and weighed the choices in my mind. YES, NO, YES, NO. YES. NO. YES! Our relationship could reach another level,
I'd
reach another level in the honesty department. And just like that, I decided to tell her.

“Beth?”

“Wait a minute, look.” Three girls from Chicago approached us, handing out lyrics to a song they had written for everyone to sing the next morning.

After they left, Beth turned to me. “Yes?”

But the moment had passed. She gave me a squeeze, then lay back to watch the fireworks. She said good night an hour later with a chaste kiss on my cheek. I watched her sleep through the canopy netting.

Did I blow it? Should I have been more assertive, told her how I felt? I was a guy who diagrammed Rubik's Cubes for fun but couldn't dig deep down to that emotional place inside and tell my best friend how I felt about her. I always could do that with Mom, but a person shouldn't be emotionally honest with only one person his whole life, should he? Shouldn't the courtesy extend to everyone? My intentions were good, my feelings were real, but I just couldn't put two and two together. Why don't they make those colorful magnetic numbers for the heart? That's where I
really
needed the help.

Or maybe I was just practicing restraint? Maybe making love to Beth under a sky of fireworksâof all thingsâwould have been gaudy and anticlimactic.
⁴⁸Maybe I had done the right thing after all.

I barely slept all night. Some wizard I wasâmore like Mickey Mouse trying to hold back the flood with buckets. Loser.

I watched the sun rise over the fields of people, then made my way to one of the water stations. A grandmotherly woman dropped her toothbrush in the mud; she seemed ready to cry.

“It's much more crowded than I thought it would be,” she said.

I handed her my toothbrush, still in the box. “Here. My friend brought tons of them; she's always overprepared.”

The woman grabbed my hand and thanked me profusely. She wore the same hand lotion my mother had always worn. I held my own hand up to my face and inhaled the familiar scent. Mom, I thought, could you ever in a million years have imagined it? The world is shifting, the consciousness is changing, we're evolving in the right direction.

Talk to me, Mom. Tell me what you think. Please.

And then I waited.

The woman in front of me took her place at the makeshift sink. She held up the toothbrush like a flag. “Your mother would be so proud of you.”

This woman brushing her teeth would never know how she'd just made my day.

SERMON #272

Critics said it was impossible, but we did it!

We did it without corporate sponsorship.

We did it without product endorsement.

We did it without burning down tents.

We did it without anger and fights.

We did it without violating women.

We did it without people being afraid.

We did it without cynicism and apathy.

We did it with idealism.

We did it with enthusiasm.

We did it with grassroots efforts.

We did it with hope.

We did it with music.

We did it even though no one thought we could.

Change the world?

Did.

Are.

Can.

My feet still hadn't touched the ground when I accessed Larry's messages.

DID YOU HAVE FUN AT LARRYFEST?

DID YOU SEE MY BOOTH?

I ENDED UP GETTING 4,589 SIGNATURES,

LARRY. IT'S A REAL MOVEMENT.

I scrolled down; even betagold couldn't scare me today. Or so I thought.

LARRY, IT WOULD BE DIFFICULT, BUT SOMEONE WITH THE RIGHT EQUIPMENT COULD BLOW UP THAT PHOTO, REARRANGE THE PIXELS, AND TRY TO IDENTIFY THE PEOPLE IN IT. I'M NOT GOING TO DO THAT, DON'T NEED TO.

DID YOU GET A NEW MODEM LINE, LARRY? OR JUST A NEW CELL PHONE WITH A DIFFERENT NUMBER? WHAT'S YOUR PLANâTO DO THAT
EVERY DAY UNTIL I FIND YOU? NEWS FLASHâI'M FLYING INTO BOSTON NEXT WEEK TO TRACK YOU DOWN. YOUR PAL, betagold.

THUD! That would be the sound of my feet hitting the ground.

On my way to the coffee shop, I wondered who betagold really was. In my increasing paranoia, I thought it might be the new waitress. I felt her eyes on me, but she may have just been waiting for me to leave so she could wipe down the table. Betagold had to live in another part of the country if he or she was flying here, and whoever it was obviously had enough money to devote this much time and effort to a game of cybercat and mouse.

For the next few days at the hardware store, I did 360-degree spins down the aisles, checking out every angle as I walked. Was it the man with the flip-up sunglasses buying stakes for his tomato plants? Was it the girl taking her time with the plungers? The breeze coming in the open doors didn't lessen my copious sweating.

Screw betagold. (Well, not really. I would still change my modem line even though it was only three days old.)

No more thinking about quitting.

In hindsight, I should have quit, of course. Closed down the Web site after Larryfest, its greatest success.

But I didn't. I committed myself even further.

I asked myself the eternal question. Fight or flight?

It wasn't a decision.