I was the second tenant. The first tenant, Stephanie, had moved in a week before. Stephanie was cute and sexy and in her late 20s. Stephanie also belonged to a weirdo sex cult called The Family, and she was there to recruit members and colonize the house. Of course, she neglected to mention these very interesting facts when we met.
The first thing you'd want to know is the last thing they'll tell you.
Every morning, Stephanie would knock on my door. I was supposed to be out looking for a job, but there she was. Knock-knock. Bottle of whiskey in one hand, fat joint in the other. Scantily clad and smiling sweetly. Job search forgotten, she'd lure me into her bedroom. She'd play music, all my favorites. It was uncanny how, with each passing day, we'd have more of the same things in common.
She'd change her clothes right in front of me. Then she'd sit on the bed and stare deeply into my eyes. She'd talk about sex. A lot. Turned out later she was being coached by experts. Having just moved to California, all my friends and family were 3000 miles away. Cut off, alone, I was targeted as a likely recruit. Every personal detail I told her she then told The Family, who in turn advised her on what to say and do next. This was happening daily, when she disappeared each afternoon. Stephanie was being coached to pretend she was my friend, so she could better manipulate me. Coached to pretend she cared, when all I was to her was some mark. Pure evil.
The Family (having apparently never heard of Charlie Manson and company), was based on sex. Something called "do" as in doing yourself. That is, masturbating. Using some special technique, they claimed to have achieved orgasms that lasted for hours. Hours! They even sold VHS tapes; basically some failed actress, surrounded by cult members, endlessly diddling herself and moaning in Extended Play mode, faking an orgasm. Which is the one thing all whores do well.
Stephanie also freely admitted that she'd spent some time on the farm -- the balloon farm. Her mom had tossed her in there. She really hated her mom. Mom hated her right back. Her father had abandoned them both, back when she was little. But now, lo and behold, he was back to rescue her. She was released into his custody. Big mistake.
Her dad happened to be Grand Poobah of this sex cult. Thumbing her nose at mom, she sailed straight into his slimy clutches.
But Stephanie wasn't very good at being a cult member. She'd fucked up, somehow, somewhere... and now she had to redeem herself. She was on probation with The Family, and on a mission. Namely, to colonize a house and recruit new members. And her sights were set squarely on me.
As she stared into my eyes, she'd describe this "self-improvement group" she was part of and how it had enhanced her life. The Family could enhance my life, too. She showed me their web site; pictures of lost and confused young women with their tits hanging out. Lots of glazed eyes and fake smiles. She also thought she was hypnotizing me with that deep stare, but she only ended up looking cockeyed.
Like I said, The Family didn't exactly consider her employee of the month.
Granted, it was hard to disguise the various scams and schemes going on. They'd suckered Safeway into donating past-dated though still edible foods under the guise of giving it to the hungry. It all ended up in my kitchen, lining every shelf and filling the refrigerator to bursting. I'd watch as they skimmed off the steaks, the portabella mushrooms, anything halfway decent, all going straight into the stomachs of The Family, while whatever half-rotten crap leftover was shoved at the needy with great fanfare. They did this with donated shoes, clothing, whatever they could get, they got.
Early one morning, I met her dad. Scary looking bastard. Big and fat. Sweating profusely. Shaved head and creepy, menacing voice. Like some super-sized Kojak, dressed like a pimp circa '74. Carried a knife big enough to skin humans. He showed it to me. He showed me how the knife handle twisted open to reveal his stash of pot. Magic pot.
"This pot," he explained, "has voodoo properties. It's flown in special, from Haiti, smuggled inside a corpse. Don't take more than one hit. Otherwise, you'll freak out."
"Gimmie that pipe," I said, taking up the challenge. "And I'll smoke you both under the table!"
I took three, maybe four lung-bursting hits.
Then I freaked out.
Maybe it was the talk of cattle mutilations; the graphic descriptions of animal dissection by Venusians that the guy started in on soon as I took that first hit. Maybe it was the fact that he was shouting all this at full volume, waving his knife like a maniac and fixing his hoodoo eyes on me. Maybe it was the pot. Being completely, instantly terrified, all I could do was laugh. Laugh and laugh and laugh. I couldn't stop. It was so absurd, I was scared to stop.
Then Stephanie's cell phone rang. Between Daddy's raving, and my mad laughter, she couldn't hear the phone.
"Daddy!" she whined. "Why don't you take it outside. Go talk on the balcony. Both of you."
"B-but Stephanie," I managed to sputter, "it's c-c-cold out there, and I'm already f-freezing!"
That was the only way I could explain the uncontrolled trembling that now racked my body.
"Here, wear this." She helped me into her nightgown, a frilly, lacy thing. "And this." She put a woman's hat on my head.
She shooed us both out onto the tiny balcony and slammed the door.
There I was, shivering, full of fright, dressed in woman's clothing, hopelessly stoned out of my mind, and all alone with the King of Fuck himself.
It wasn't even noon yet.
On the balcony, it was suddenly quiet. Daddy Whorebucks had tuckered himself out, blown his diabolic load in one massive, verbal money shot. All he did now was wheeze and pant with the self-inflicted asthma of any fat pothead. Our conversation became conventional, even banal. We talked about the weather, dish detergent, overdue library books and whatever else I've long forgotten. Eventually, I crawled off to bed and slept it all away....
Meantime, I had this girlfriend named Sheena. She was black and beautiful, with a big booty (which I liked) and silicon boobs (which I didn't). We'd met on the set of High Crimes (2001), a lousy movie, working as background specialists, i.e. extras.
Whenever we took a stroll down Market or Haight streets, every black bum in sight wanted to shake my hand.
"What's a skinny whiteboy like you doin' with a woman like that?" some asked, eyeing Sheena's va-va-voom shape with wolf-whistle regard.
"I'm doing the same thing you'd be doing," giving them the Groucho eyebrows, "if she was your girlfriend!"
That always got me a high five.
In truth, it was a mismatch. If we'd just stuck to sex, we'd have been a perfect couple. We didn't have much in common intellectually, socially. She thought I talked like a professor; I thought I spoke to her normally, same way I spoke to everyone else. Even Stephanie picked up on this.
"I know she's not very smart," Stephanie noted one day, with perfect candor, "but she's a good woman."
The one time Stephanie had a point.
Sheena was also a functional alcoholic. She'd start early in the morning, with Irish coffees, drinking through the day to maintain a steady glow. I stupidly tried to keep up with her. One banner day I consumed 14 shots of whiskey, chased with who knows how many beers, and Sheena still left me staggering in the dust. Our favorite hangout for lethal Bloody Marys was Twin Peaks in the Castro, a dinosaur bar packed with old gay men, and us, straight, interracial, and 20 years younger, so out that we fit right in.
Never much of a tippler, after just one day of booze fueled nirvana, I was ready for anything but drink. Sheena having one already in hand, it became another point of conflict. By the time Stephanie showed up, we weren't really getting along -- a weak point the cult immediately exploited to the hilt.
They tried to drive a wedge between us, divide, hoodwink, and conquer. Stephanie -- counting on Sheena's besotted simplicity -- invited her to their meetings, an invitation I always turned down. One time she went as they loaded Safeway food onto a truck. Sheena told one member casually that she'd been fighting with her boyfriend. Within minutes the news had spread through their group mind, all 20 or so buzzing around her.
"I heard you had a fight with Danny," each one said in turn, although Sheena hadn't mentioned my name. "Just forget him. This is where the love is," they continued, enveloping her with stage smiles and choreographed hugs.
The meetings themselves were elaborate pickpocket affairs. The first one was free. But, they'd all recite, if you're really serious, you should come to our one hour session, only 50 bucks! Then, if you're really, really serious about making some amazing progress, you'll attend our 2 day seminar, a bargain at only $300! Zombies all nodding in unison, one whispering conspiratorially, I sold my car for the thousand dollar weekend retreat, and it was worth it! The idea being to suck you into their Scientology type tier system until you were swindled dry of every last cent. Eventually you'd find yourself living in a Family group home, working for free, and trying to ensnare others.
After Sheena attended two or three meetings, then detailed such bald chicanery, we both finally realized this was no question a cult, a fact The Family went to great lengths to conceal. Even after this revelation, there followed a brief tug of war, a battle for Sheena's befuddled soul.
In short, I won. Quite a blow to Stephanie. But hot on the heels of this hollow victory came a deeper realization: I saved her; so what? Now that I had her, I didn't really want her.
Dumb enough to almost join a cult?! So long, sister.
In the end, The Family just gave up. Even though a second member, Mia, moved in late summer 2001, it was finished. The final blow was when I told every other roommate in the house that they were cult members. No longer able to hide behind the shadows of euphemistic double talk, amateur hypnotism or Scientology style scammery, they stood revealed in the stark light for what they were: con artists and cunts.
By Thanksgiving, they were both gone, having failed to colonize the house. For this I gave thanks.
Final score: sex cult, zero. Danny triumphant... for the moment.
Next, Part 2: Speedfreak, Armed & Tweaked!
No comments:
Post a Comment