Read The Gospel According to Larry Online

Authors: Janet Tashjian

The Gospel According to Larry (6 page)

Who knows why some things take off? Pet Rocks, Crazy Bones, Hula-Hoops?
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
Sometimes the culture just grabs on to something and pulls. And pulls and pulls and pulls. It makes no sense; there's no reason for it. If there had been warning signs, maybe I would have noticed.
As Larry continued to post each of his possessions, word of mouth increased. He's a guy, he wears jeans, he can't be too old. Or can he be? The chat rooms overflowed with theories. Soon, a cult developed that analyzed each item, building a profile of who Larry might be. I spent as much time planning which item to post as I did on my sermons. Larry's total hits grew by more than 90 percent each day.
As the school year came to an end, graduation and prom became the only topics of conversation. Since I wasn't attending either, May should have gone along at a nice, manageable
clip. If two things—utterly beyond my control—hadn't happened.
The first cosmic tweak came from a college freshman named Billy North, at the University of Georgia. According to his Web site, Billy loved to play solitaire, fly remote-controlled airplanes, and surf the Internet. I guess he also liked to manipulate words and letters the way I used to play with the magnetic numbers on my mom's fridge. Well, he must have had a chunk of free time on his hands, because he printed out all of Larry's sermons. Then he printed out Larry's logo, got a pair of scissors, and cut four small rectangles, removing the plug, floppy disk, dove, and planet from inside the peace sign. He took this Larry “stencil” and placed it over each of the sermons. Sure enough, a pattern of words emerged: east, city, water, boy. Billy posted this series of words on Larry's bulletin board, and suddenly identifying Larry from the hidden clues became all the rage. Kids logged on to analyze the latest sermons with a fervor that hadn't been seen since people scoured the cover of
Abbey Road
for clues of Paul's death.
I tried not to laugh when I read his original message, but when I placed the peace stencil over the sermons myself, I had to admit his
theory held some water. Many of the words did point to me. I used one of my other screen names to post this message:
IF LARRY KNOWS ABOUT YOUR WHOLE SYSTEM, THEN IT'S NO GOOD ANYMORE, RIGHT? HE'LL JUST PUT WORDS IN THE WINDOWS THAT LEAD YOU AWAY FROM HIM.—24ME
Billy posted this back:
IT'S A SUBCONSCIOUS THING. LARRY WANTS TO BE FOUND OUT. HE'LL END UP GIVING HIMSELF AWAY. HE CAN'T SUBVERT MY SYSTEM.
Needless to say, I now spent much more time editing my sermons. Instead of just concentrating on the words, I had the architecture of the piece to think about.
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And Billy North was right about one thing; no matter how I tried, the words in the stencil's window very often described me—young, quirky, reader. I had to fight myself to change them. I hated to admit it but a few times I actually left them in. Maybe Billy was right and Larry would sabotage his career.
Of course, it was only a matter of time before betagold chimed in with an opinion:
LARRY, YOU CAN'T POSSIBLY THINK I NEED THIS COCKAMAMIE PRAYER WHEEL—OR THOSE PHOTOGRAPHS—TO FIND YOU. I'M GOING TO TRACK YOU DOWN THE OLD-FASHIONED WAY, WITH PURE DETERMINATION. ALL THE CRACK-POTS MIGHT BE HAVING FUN WITH WORDS, BUT REST ASSURED THIS IS NO GAME TO ME.—betagold
Between Billy and his wacked-out theory and betagold's Lt. Gerard mission, I should've quit while I was ahead. There were a dozen reasons to stop, and the rational part of me knew every one verbatim. But the part of me that loved to race down the highway in my car seat, the part whose adrenal glands surged with those fight-or-flight hormones, that part wanted to keep Larry going. Not only wanted to continue but wanted to risk it all and go for broke. As I twirled around in my hammock swing, I knew a boatload of reasons wouldn't make me stop being Larry. He was the perfect alter ego for a loner like me—outspoken and opinionated. He didn't need to bury himself in a privacy cocoon, like good old Josh.
The risk was its own reward. So I started working on pseudo ads skewering Benetton and Abercrombie & Fitch. There still was a lot to be done to fight the tsunami of consumerism, and I was sure as hell going to do my share.
You want me, betagold? Come and get me.
The next thing that happened made the whole Billy North thing seem almost normal.
One of Larry's sermons—the one about the richest nations consuming themselves into oblivion while almost half of the
six billion
people on the planet live on less than
two dollars a day
31
—had stirred up many discussions in the chat rooms. Larry wrote a follow-up about the World Bank and how it could help Third World countries by forgiving them some of their debt.
32
The sermon had been posted weeks ago with not a lot of fanfare.
Until Bono read it.
It seems that U2's lead singer was doing
research for a presentation he was giving to the U.S. Senate on his pet topic—the World Bank and Third World debt—when he turned up Larry's sermon. The sermon intrigued him; he checked out the site and loved the anticonsumer, free-the-people-from-corporate-oppression spirit. This would have been all well and good if U2 hadn't also released a new song. The subject was antimaterialism and it
rocked.
Bono had written it months before, and it had absolutely nothing to do with my sermons, but a few fervent Larry fans didn't care. They adopted the song as their own.
The new song led to a video—a wild smorgasbord with so much STUFF in it that if you weren't a believer in cutting back consumption before you watched it you sure as hell were after.
Of course, the video led to interviews and articles.
Then a tour.
And over the next several weeks, all these wonderful, amazing things led U2's millions and millions of fans to one place.
Larry's Web site.
Now, I'm not saying I wasn't flattered—OF COURSE I WAS. I had grown up on their music; my
mother had been their biggest fan.
33
But as much as I was insanely ecstatic that Bono was talking to Kurt Loder about Larry, I also knew that one of the key tenets of Larry's philosophy was against celebrity worship. I was torn. I would have cut off my right arm with a Weedwacker to meet Bono. On the other hand,
34
I knew I should lead my own life and let Bono live his. It was a confusing yet thrilling time.
“I logged onto Larry this morning,” Beth said when she dropped by for breakfast. “There were already over a million hits.”
“What?” I raced downstairs, then realized Beth was right behind me. I did a mental scan of the stuff on my desk and determined it was safe.
“A million point three,” I said watching the counter click off hits as we spoke. “I hope Larry's got enough memory.”
“That's a weird thing to worry about.” Beth looked at me with the suspicious look she usually saved for guys trying to pick her up.
I told her I just didn't want Larry's site to crash.
“I'm worried about more than that. I'm worried that Larry's message will get diluted in all this, this—”
“Commercialism.” I finished the sentence for her.
“It's good news, of course. I mean, we're talking about Bono here, Amnesty International, the whole thing. I just hope it doesn't get out of control.” She looked me over again. “You okay?”
I told her I was, and said I'd meet her at the hardware store later.
After she left, I watched the Web site's counter continue to click, a veritable McDonald's of hungry spiritual searchers. I looked up to the beamed ceiling and prayed.
“Mom?”
I tried again. “Mom? This is good, yes? Getting the message out to more people?”
The house remained silent.
“I shouldn't worry, right, Mom?”
The next sound I heard was laughter—loud, guttural guffaws coming from the kitchen where Katherine and Peter had just entered the house. It must have been one hell of a joke Peter told, because Katherine didn't stop.
“Mom, this isn't funny,” I said.
But the universe didn't care; it just continued to fill the house with enough laughter to send a pack of hyenas running for cover.
Which is what I should have done.
I decided to stop being paranoid and work with what the universe had presented me.
35
Even though it was the last week of school, the club's membership had swelled to include more than 78 percent of the senior class.
36
Beth clapped her hands and the meeting came to order.
“Okay. U2 has turned millions of people on to Larry. The question is: How do we ensure Larry's message doesn't get lost in all the brouhaha?”
That's my girl—getting to the crux of the matter immediately. Her question mirrored my own concerns, which had kept me up several nights that week. I'd even gone so far as to stay up eating handfuls of M&M's and playing Peter's mancala game. My insomnia became so
frenzied, however, that I ended up tossing a couple of glass stones into my mouth instead of M&M's, almost leading to a full-blown dental crisis.
I tried to keep a low profile at these meetings. Luckily, many other kids were involved. Sharon showed us a group of stickers she'd designed.
The first one read, NO MORE STUFF.
Good, right to the point.
Sharon flashed the next layout. STOP SELLING US CRAP.
That one met with hoots and applause.
“These are a series,” Sharon said, “to plaster on print ads, billboards, whatever.” She held them up.
THIS AD INSULTS ME.
THIS AD INSULTS KIDS.
THIS AD INSULTS WOMEN.
“And my personal favorite, WHOEVER DIES WITH THE MOST STUFF IS STILL COMPLETELY, DE FACTO DEAD.”
Barry discussed the pseudo ads he was copying onto posters. When everybody kicked in, we had enough money to print several hundred. We designated the next Saturday as “antistuff” day—a day when we would plaster the city with anticommercialist propaganda. It was my job to
post our idea on Larry's Web site in case any other groups across the country wanted in.
37
After the meeting Beth and I walked home together.
“We'll hit the mall first,” she said, “then as many superstores as we can.”
I asked her if I should borrow Peter's car.
“No, let's take our bikes. If we're going to be activists, let's go all the way.”
“Put the active back in activism,” I said.
“Why didn't you say that at the meeting? That would have made a great poster.”
She then proceeded to throw me a giant curve ball. “You're not going, are you?” she asked.
“Where? To the mall? What are you talking about?”
She swung her arms by her side. “No, to the prom next week.”
“Of course not.” We walked in silence. “Are you?”
“Someone told me Todd was going to ask me, but I would have said no. Proms are so fake,” she said.
“Gruesome,” I added. “Not that either of us would know.”
Her smile was so off-kilter, so vulnerable, that I burst out laughing. She did too.
“Two outsiders completely skeeved at the thought of being ‘in'—even for just one night.” I said it to ease the awkwardness, but deep down I knew both of us would kill to be able to walk in that world if we wanted to. Beth's entrance to that place of parties and homecomings had only happened with the guys she occasionally dated; mine, through Larry. I guess all along our truest connection came from feeling disconnected.
When I got home and checked the Web site, I realized lots of other kids must have been feeling oppressed by advertising too, because the number of pseudo ads continued to increase. Some of the concepts were unbelievably creative.
38
People from around the world were swapping ideas, making plans to plaster their towns with the various messages. U2 had not hurt Larry's site by spreading the word. The group had empowered it. It was anti-apathy at its best. I upgraded my server, with pleasure.
Unfortunately, I had left my handouts near the coffee machine on my way into the house. The horrendous noise I heard in the background was the sound of my stepfather hitting the roof.
He laid out the pseudo ads on the counter as if he were retiling it. “Where did you get these?”
I told him the Larry site.
He pointed to the vodka parody. “Do you know how many people worked on this account? Doing research, design, printing, marketing? Hundreds of people putting dinner on the table because of this ad.”
“Probably not as many people as the alcoholic population,” I said. “Now
there's
a big group.” I waited for him to mention my real father, who died of alcohol poisoning before I was born.
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Thankfully he didn't.
I tried to listen to his opinion, rein in my growing anger.
He pointed to another ad. “And this one. Easy for some kid on the Internet to complain about starving children in Africa when he's working on a high-end iMac.”
“He's not,” I said.
“Oh? And how do you know?”
“He posted a photo of his laptop,” I stammered. “It wasn't an Apple.”
“Well, maybe he should start bashing Apple now. Microsoft too. Wait until this Larry guy gets exposed for the nobody he is, then we'll see what all the fuss is about.”
“He won't get exposed.”
Peter smirked. “Katherine's been doing a lot of research on him. She says it's a matter of time.” He gathered the papers off the counter as if they were a bad hand he'd been dealt at cards. “And I don't want to see any more of this crap in my house unless it's in the trash.”
I couldn't understand why he was angry. “Why are you so threatened by this?”
It was the wrong thing to ask.
The next thing I knew, an alien must have inhabited my cool and calm stepfather, because he shoved me against the refrigerator.
“No more of this nonsense, you understand? You don't want to go to graduation, I said okay. But this? I won't stand for it!”
I made sure my voice was completely calm before I spoke. “Let go of me.”
It was almost as if Peter's spirit flew back into his body. “I … I'm sorry.” He straightened his tie. “That was completely uncalledfor.”
My face darkened with the memory of prying into his briefcase. “No, it's okay.”
“These ads … they're everywhere. We have to develop all new campaigns. We're under a lot of pressure—the printers, the execs, the salespeople. No one knows where this guy's getting his data.”
I hadn't planned on screwing Peter in this scheme; I was just trying to get the information out.
40
I looked at him blankly, wishing for something appropriate to say. He left in silence, the door reverberating behind him.
The inevitable schism between us became achingly obvious. In a few months I would be at Princeton, eventually seeing him just a few times a year.
He was probably as happy about that prospect as I was.
LARRY ITEM #41

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