how i was spiritually raped and left for dead (part 11)

part 1 is here
part 10 is here

part 11: my confession

“keep your friends close, but your enemies closer" ~michael corleone

i was laying on the floor of a basketball court, flat on my stomach, with a domino between my right thumb and forefinger. before me were parallel rows of multicolored dominoes each standing on end, threatening to topple the next domino. the parallel rows of dominoes extended for several feet, then formed complex geometric patterns, diamonds, triangles, rectangles, before converging to a single row which led to a single, precariously-positioned domino, threatening the trigger of a mousetrap which lay the far end of the basketball court, in front of an weathered, antique, wooden wheelchair with a wicker back and steel wheels.

my wife sat in the wheel chair and in her lap was my 5 year-old daughter, roxanne. roxy was wearing a cotton sundress with fishies on it. she clutched her stuffed dog, kimberly in her left arm and held my wife's hand with her right. on her lap was a bundle of dynamite.

two wires looped out of the bundle of dynamite and extended toward the floor. they were attached to the mousetrap in such a way as to cause the mousetrap to act as a detonator. trip the mousetrap and complete the circuit, causing the bomb to explode.

i carefully placed the domino on the floor and reached up to get another. directly next to me, on my left, was a little red wagon. it was painted and polished, fire engine red, with pristine, shiny black rubber wheels that had thin whitewalls. the wagon said “radio flyer” in white uppercase letters. the little red wagon was filled with a mound of multicolored dominoes, fluorescent orange, red, yellow and lime-green.

i slowly turned my head to the side and took a much needed breath, taking care not to allow my breath to upset the dominoes.

as i reached for another domino, i was aware of the reflection of the red wagon on the highly-polished, hardwood, gymnasium floor.

my wife had jumper cable clips attached to each of her arms. the clips had thick, black wires connected to them which led to group of several car batteries. if i stopped placing dominoes, or went too slow, the batteries would deliver an electric shock to my wife and, through her, to my daughter, causing each of them to shake violently.

i turned my head, took another breath and placed the next domino on the prescribed mark which had been painted on the floor with a black magic marker.

i continued with the excruciating process—not too fast, not too slow. no margin for error.

i looked back over my shoulder. the gymnasium floor stretched on and on, a hundred yards or more. i looked back at the wagon. the white uppercase letters had become scrambled—unintelligible nonsense. i placed the next domino.

i knew that i had to place all the dominoes according to the prescribed pattern in order to disarm the bomb. i knew that if i hesitated, my wife and daughter would receive another devastating electric shock. i knew that if a single domino fell, it would start a chain reaction that would cause my family to be blown to pieces.

on my forehead, a bead of sweat surrendered to gravity and dropped, slow motion, crashing on polished hardwood floor. i wiped my brow with my forearm and carefully placed the next domino.

my eyes were fatigued from the reflection of the overhead, fluorescent lights of the hardwood floor. the task seemed endless. my arms and shoulders ached. as i looked up, reaching for another domino, i saw my wife and daughter, exhausted from relentless fear and anxiety. then, from underneath the bleachers to my left, a rat appeared, twitching, moving aimlessly, starting, stopping, sniffing, twitching. with no particular direction, the rat moved diagonally in one direction, then another, closer to the geometric patterns of the carefully placed dominoes.

i watched the rat carefully, peering at it, then back as i placed the next domino.

another rat appeared, twitching and sniffing, from underneath the bleachers. then another...and another. i turned my head to the side, took another breath, placed another domino.

i had been vaguely aware of george, who was sitting dumbly on the top row of the bleachers. i glanced up at him. he was wearing shorts, tube socks and an oversized coyotes hockey jersey, with a fat, red polka-dot, clown tie. he donned a royal blue, plastic, souvenir batter's helmet. two cans of grape soda rested in can holders which were affixed to each side of the batter's helmet. he was sucking grape soda through “silly straws” which looped from the cans of soda to his mouth.

a large fishbowl sat on the bleacher, directly to his right. the fishbowl was filled with half a dozen red and blue betas. george held a chopstick in his hand and was dipping it in the water, taunting the betas, provoking them, causing them to attack the chopstick and then each other. in the other arm, he held a red, rubber dodgeball. sucking his silly straw and taunting the goldfish, he seemed oblivious to the life and death that was happening beneath him.

i gingerly placed another domino.

there were now dozens of rats aimlessly wandering, twitching and sniffing, moving closer to the geometric patterns.

i stayed calm, focused. i had to keep placing dominoes. i had to figure out how to intervene before the rats reached the dominoes. i had to be meticulous, taking care to place each dominoes in its proper position.

i turned my head and took a breath. i placed the next domino.

i was keeping an eye on the rats. how could i scare them off? i was keeping an eye on my wife and daughter. i became aware that i should keep an eye on george, who, as a result of his mindlessness, might do something that would cause the dominoes to topple, killing my family.

i placed another domino.

i had been lying on my stomach, propped up on my elbows, placing dominoes for as long as i could remember. no matter how many dominoes i took from the wagon, the mound of dominoes never shrank. george in the bleachers. rats on the floor. the lives of my family hanging in the balance. it was all i had known.

as i reached for another domino, trying to think of a solution to the rat problem, careful not to stop placing dominoes, not to move too slow, i glanced up at george. he had grown tired of the fighting fish. he dropped the chopstick in the water, abandoning it. then he looked down at the rats. i heard a muted beeping sound. beep...beep..beep.

i placed another domino.

beep..beep...beep. the sound grew louder. the rats moved closer. george sucked his grape soda. he scratched his balls, bored. my arms and shoulders ached. red hot pain shot down the nerves of my arms and back. i turned and took a breath. sweat hit the floor. george stood up. beep...beep...beep.

i placed another domino.

just then, george lobbed the red rubber dodgeball toward the ceiling in a high, lazy arch so that it would ultimately bounce on the floor where most of the rats had congregated.

i jumped top my feet and began to run toward the ball so that i could intercept it before it could bounce and then crash into the dominoes, but i had snowshoes strapped to my feet.

as i ran, i began to slip and slide on the glossy, hardwood floor. the beeping grew louder, more ominous. beep..beep..beep.

i began to slide across the floor and past the arc of the red rubber ball, until i crashed into the wall and the ball crashed, slow-motion, into the large multicolored domino diamond, causing a chain reaction as each domino crashed into the next. beep...beep...beep.

i attempted to get to my feet but the floor was too slick.

beep...beep...beep. i opened my eyes and looked over at my beeping clock radio. i hit the snooze button, then grabbed the radio and turned off the alarm.

i had a sick feeling. i could hear my wife and daughter talking in the next room.

i jumped out of bed and headed for the kitchen to grab some coffee. “hey kiddo,” i said to my daughter who was sitting, crisscross applesauce, on the family room floor. “morning daddy,” she said. my wife was in the kitchen, reaching for a plate. how'd you sleep?” she asked. “like a baby,” i replied, as i poured my coffee.

i went out back, lit a smoke, took a sip of coffee and began to calculate.

it had been several weeks since i had returned from the santan mountains. so far, things had gone relatively well. i had managed to convince bob that i had been transformed—that i had found my 'true, sociopathic, male self.' my wife and i had shared some wonderful moments. still, i hated having to be manipulative. i hated myself for being a liar. i wanted to tell my wife everything. i wanted to end the charade.

i pushed it all out of my mind and began my daily exercise of assessing current threats and determining how i would approach those who needed to be placated.

in a couple days we would have to attend a pool party at bob's house. these situations could be tricky. bob, his wife, george and his wife would all have to be dealt with simultaneously. each represented a different threat. each had their own need for their particular brand of adoration.

bob's wife would be watching everything, setting traps. someone would offend her during the swim party and would end up facing her wrath. i needed to make sure it wasn't me.

i crushed out my cigarette and went inside. then, as i did each morning, i strapped on my rollerblades and headed out the front door and into the street.

rollerblading was my respite. i began moving through the streets of my neighborhood, picking up speed, letting my mind drift.

as i picked up speed, my stride lengthened. the arizona sun was brilliant, warming, energizing. now, as i hit top speed, the wind blew back my hair. houses and trees flashed past me. my mind was spinning free. i jumped the curb and headed southeast on a bike path that winded behind an elementary school and then to another road which led to bob's neighborhood. i skated past bob's street, around the neighborhood loop and back toward my house.

i returned home an hour later, took a shower and headed for work.

during my half-hour drive to work, i thought about my current situation. for years, i had valued honesty above everything else. i had kept nothing from bob. every thought, every feeling, transgression, my fears and dreams, all of my motives, my internal struggles, pain and joy, doubts, questions and concerns were all shared with bob.

keeping a secret from bob was tantamount to blasphemy. for years, i had believed that if i were to withhold anything, to keep any thought as my own, i would risk devastating consequences, not only for myself, but for my family and friends as well. “we're only as sick as our secrets,” we would say. we saved lives. we had answers that no one else had. young people would live or die based on our spiritual prowess--and confession was critical to maintaining spirituality. one lie could destroy everything.

of course we lied to outsiders, but we were justified in doing so. they weren't ready for the truth—couldn't handle it. it would be dangerous and irresponsible to expose someone to information they weren't equipped to handle. anyone outside the program, armed with knowledge of the program's inner workings, represented a threat.

now, the greatest threat to me and my family were those within the program, the people i'd trusted, opened myself to, the people who called themselves “family.”

shortly after i arrived at work, i got a call from bob. he was in a panic.

clayton, bob's best friend, was in the hospital. he had been throwing up blood and it was discovered that he was experiencing liver failure, cirrhosis, as a result of hepatitis-c, which he'd contracted years earlier from an infected needle.

“these fvckin' doctors don't know what they're doing,” he yelled. “they're gonna kill the mother-fvcker. he continued, “get on the phone. find a doctor that knows what the fvck he's doing,” he demanded.

i was responsible for the hospital-based operations and, since i was working directly with physicians and other medical professionals, bob wanted me to exploit those resources to ensure that his friend was getting the best possible care.

i knew i was in a no-win situation. i wanted to help clay. he was my friend too. he had treated me well. at times, he'd befriended me when know one else would even speak to me. i also knew that bob would complain about any doctor, regardless of the doctor's skills. bob demanded absolute control and, since he wasn't a doctor himself, he had no control over this situation. the almighty bob couldn't fix his friend and his inability to maintain control would be manifested in his spitting venom on anyone else who couldn't immediately produce the results bob demanded.

so, i would make some calls. i would find the best liver doctor in the area. i would try to help clayton and quell bob. i knew, however, if bob didn't like the doctor i found, if the doctor didn't immediately give bob the sense of absolute control he required, i would face bob's wrath. he would place the blame directly on me. if clayton died, i would be deemed his murderer.

a show of confidence on my part would temporarily calm bob. “i got this,” i told him. “now, let me go, so i can start making calls. i'll get back to you in an hour.”

i hung up with bob and started dialing.

in bob's organization celebrities were golden. bob desperately wanted fame. he considered himself somewhat of a celebrity. he often dropped names. he claimed to have been fabian's agent. he had hung out with rock stars and movie stars.

clayton was the son of a famous hollywood producer and stepson of a well-known actress and comedienne. clayton was also a talented artist who had worked with aaron spelling, gary fleder, david brown, farrah fawcett and morgan freeman, among others.

bob had known clayton when clayton's career and life had fallen into ruins due to his addiction to heroin. bob had loved clay, not only because of his hollywood connections, but because clay was possibly the coolest individual he'd ever met.

clayton had charisma even greater than bob's. he was physically beautiful, dressed impeccably, and demonstrated total self-confidence. to me, he was an american version of ringo starr.

ten years earlier, as the story went, clayton had shown up on bob's doorstep holding a baby boy. he wept and begged bob and his wife to help him. the baby's mother was strung out. clay was addicted to heroin. he wanted bob and his wife to help him get clean and sober and take care of the baby until he was healthy enough to care for the child himself.

determined to be a good father, clay dug in and got clean and sober. he transformed his life and eventually began the process of rebuilding relationships in hollywood and rebuilding his career. he also fell in love with linda, bob and joy's spiritual daughter. she became mother to his baby boy and the two of them had another child, a girl.

clay, grateful to bob for saving his child, remained loyal to bob. the two became best friends.

clayton went back to work in hollywood and his wife and children lived near bob and his wife, where linda could serve at their pleasure. when bob moved to arizona, linda and their children moved to arizona as well. they bought a house near bob's and clayton commuted to work in l.a. during the week, he would work long hours on movie and t.v. sets. on the weekends he would travel to arizona to be with his wife and children.

it became obvious that this routine was taking it's toll on clayton, but bob needed linda, so clayton continued the grueling routine.

with clayton, i remember the little things--a pep-talk when i was afraid, my first trip to starbucks, listening to harry nilsson in the car, my first time eating sushi as we sat together in his living room listening to frank sinatra.

one weekend, someone had planned a camping trip for all the guys on staff. clayton was in town and decided to come along. there were about 15 of us all together. as was common, we all brought our guns...and we had a lot of them. assault rifles, pistols, shotguns and semi-automatic handguns. we brought them all. everyone except clayton.

for us, owning weapons was almost a spiritual responsibility. many of us purchased unregistered guns at gun shows for fear that the federal government was on the verge of showing up at the homes of registered gun owners and taking their weapons.

bob believed that we needed to be able to defend our families against intruders. but he also believed that, in the future, we would face an even greater threat--“the niggers.”

he would sometimes tell me, “i know you love your family. i know you want to protect them. you don't have to worry; i've got you covered.” he continued, “once we get enough money together, we're gonna buy a big piece of land. then we're gonna build a big fence around the mother-fvcker to keep the niggers out.”

this was his master plan. to buy some land in the middle of nowhere, build a fence, stockpile weapons and hide out from, as he called them, “the niggers,” who were ultimately planning to head to the suburbs and take all the white women.

although clayton was loyal to bob, i don't think be bought this line. and while we were running around in the woods, bullets flying everywhere, clay was kicked back by the fire taking in nature, probably thrilled to have a few hours to relax.

when it was time to eat breakfast, everyone went to their cars and coolers to grab their food. some had cereal bars, pop tarts, or bologna. others had more elaborate breakfast items, eggs, sausage, bacon.

i pulled a couple hot dogs from my stash, reached for my lockblade and began fashioning a stick with which to cook my dogs. clay pulled his chair beside mine. he leaned toward me. “don't eat that crap,” he said. “check it out.” he opened a small cooler which contained premium bagels, cream cheese, nova smoked salmon and a variety of tropical fruits.

we toasted our bagels and sat back together, in the middle of the forest, eating like kings, laughing heartily and watching our friends, fumbling, trying to cook, dropping their food into the fire.

for that moment, i had a big brother, someone to look out for me.

clayton had been my refuge on many occasions. because of his relationship with bob, he could get away with things that the rest of us couldn't. one of those was being a friend to me when others didn't dare say a kind word to me. countless times, when i was on bob's sh1tlist, and therefore everyone else's, clayton would pull me aside. he would put his hand on my shoulder and place his face inches from mine. “don't let all this get the best of you, brother” he would say. “just take care of yourself and your girls. this is gonna pass.” then he'd take me to get a latte or a gelato. we'd listen to choice tunes and talk and laugh.

while everyone else was avoiding my evil karma, clay was ministering to my spirit. he would make me forget about the constant life and death. he would make it so that, for a few minutes or hours, i didn't feel evil. now he was dying.

every call i made, everyone i spoke to, led back to the same name, the same doctor. it was the doctor who was already treating clay. this was good news for clayton, but bad news for me. it meant that, since bob had determined that clayon's doctor was inept, he would also determine that i was inept. he would channel his anger over not being able to control the situation toward me. that's exactly what he did.

i contributed what i could, which meant that i smuggled in a pack of marlboros and a can of ozium so clayton could have a smoke.

but something else happened, something i didn't expect. liver failure is an extraordinarily painful illness and so the doctor prescribed narcotic pain meds. bob began to complain that clayton was taking the medication. “he's laying around getting high and scratching himself like a junkie,” he said. bob was enraged. he couldn't stand the thought of clayton taking opioids. my take was that he couldn't stand the thought of clayton “getting high,” while he had to stay sober.

at the pool party, there were whispers. i began to pick up on the fact that bob and his wife were beginning to turn on clayton. in time, bob would say that he thought clayton had been secretely “getting high” for years.

after a while, clay was released from the hospital. but he wasn't healed; he needed a new liver. bob and his wife forbade this. “if he gets a liver transplant, he'll never be the same, spiritually,” they said. so, clayton took some time off work and began a regimen of vitamins, rest and healthy foods. he began working with a homeopathic doctor. he didn't get better.

bob was increasingly more frustrated at his lack of control. he sneaked into clayton's house and rifled through his belongings. he found half-filled and empty pill bottles and determined that clayton was getting high on the drugs the doctor had prescribed. he didn't consider the fact that clayton had removed pills from some of the pharmacy containers and placed them in his weekly pill container. he never considered the fact that many, if not all, of the medications had no mood altering effect. he never considered the fact that clayton needed pain medication, or that any time a heroin addict suffers an illness that requires treatment with opioids, he may become dependent on the pain meds, ultimately requiring help to get off the meds once the pain passes. he didn't consider clayton at all. he only cared about the disruption clay's illness had caused in his own life.

so clayton became the pariah. bob began to say, “i wish the mother-fvcker would just die and get it over with.” he told, clay's wife, linda, that she needed to make a choice—“him or us,” he said.

here is my confession: as this man, who had been so kind to me, became more and more sick, i was relieved that i was off bob's radar screen. at least for now, i was safe. i could continue to focus on how to get my family out.

i have a lot of regrets about my past, but this is one of my greatest. i allowed clay's illness to serve as a distraction while i plotted to rescue my family. i didn't defend him. i didn't reach out to him or his wife. in fact, i played along. i acted as though bob's reaction to clay's illness was normal, though it was anything but.

in time, bob and his wife turned against linda as well. “she doesn't know how to be happy without a man; that's why she is choosing that mother-fvcker over us.” she was ostracized.

when clayton was readmitted to the hospital, this time in l.a., they tried to demand that she not allow clayton's children to see him. “what you're gonna fvck your kids up by letting them see their dying father laying in a fvcking hospital bed just so he can feel better. that selfish mother-fvcker. if he cared about his kids, he wouldn't want them anywhere near him.”

bob, the man with all the answers, couldn't fix this problem. in the chaos and controversy, created by bob and his wife, clayton missed the opportunity for a liver transplant.

so clayton died in a los angeles hospital, desperate and in pain, as his best friend, to whom he'd always remained loyal, sat in his lazy-boy, eating gummy worms and talking shit about him. and i, having done nothing to stop the travesty, barred the doors and windows, forsaking clayton and everyone else (save my wife and my daughter), plotting, assessing the threat, determining my next move. i placed another domino.


would you know my name
if i saw you in heaven
would you feel the same
if i saw you in heaven

i must be strong and carry on
'cause i know i don't belong
here in heaven ~eric clapton, will jennings

to be continued