The Answer To Everything Part 11

Eldrich

Words, words, words, words, words, words, words. Behind words: meaning. Beyond meaning: truth. Mathematical, molecular truth.

Touch is truth.

We are made of each other. We are made of the cosmos. Carbon, nitrogen, oxygen. All of us, atoms. All of us, atomically connected. We came from the universe and we will return to the universe. We will not cease to be.

Our bodies die, but our atoms, which came from stars, are eternal. They will go on to become parts of other matter and other humans. Shakespeare's atoms are in me. Gandhi's atoms are in you. Someday you will be in me, and I will be in you.

Reincarnation. Re-embodiment.

Life everlasting.

We can never die. We are infinitely and mysteriously transforming.

Changing.

John

What a genius freak our boy Eldrich was. He figured out a way-all in the name of enlightenment, of course-to work less, earn more and get his hungry hands on Coco without getting daddy's back up (initially, anyway). Bravo! A triumph! A guru tour de force!

Want to know how he did it? By shutting his trap.

I first heard about it from Amy but didn't pay any attention. I'd begged off attending most meetings and seminars and was focused on building MAMA. My preliminary construction plan hadn't been working to my satisfaction, so I decided to embark on a far more ambitious interpretation than what I'd imagined in the beginning. Inspired by Ron Mueck's sixteen-foot newborn in the National Gallery, I chose to construct a hyper-real MAMA from fibregla.s.s and silicone. I knew basically how to do it. Years ago, I had a fling with an artist who created prosthetics for film and TV. I helped her make dozens of aliens when she was scrambling to meet a deadline. It was very cool and fun. Expensive as h.e.l.l, but since money was coming in on a regular basis, I figured I could swing it with MAMA. I decided to buy a new womb too. I'd ditched my first attempt at constructing one-a kind of over-sized, cashew-shaped doggy bed that I'd stuffed with memory foam and lined with soft fleece dyed pink. It looked OK and felt nice, but it was just too flaccid. Too flat. It didn't surround properly. I sc.r.a.pped it when I stumbled upon the idea of stereo chair as uterus. They were big in the 1960s. Egg-shaped. Very mod. Also comfy and encompa.s.sing. Plus they had built-in speakers. You could find retro ones for sale on eBay. But here's the best part: there was a company in Fairfield, New Jersey, selling glossy new ones with high-quality sound systems that could hook up to your iPad/iPod. Perfect. I could lay one on its side and secure it, and it would have just the right heft and structure for my crawl-in womb. Cozy too. All of this is a long way of saying that as soon as my cardinal-red, deluxe modPod egg chair arrived at Elderbrook, I became entirely engrossed in MAMA and stopped attending meetings altogether. That is, until Amy forced me to check out Eldrich's new act (You can't just hide in your bubble all the time!).

Here's how it worked: he showed up and did f.u.c.k all. Nada. Bupkis. He'd sit his a.s.s down on stage and look at people. That's it. That's what the throngs were lining up to sh.e.l.l out for. That's what everyone was so excited about. Eldrich just sitting there. Looking. When half an hour had elapsed or when whomever he was staring at started to blubber or lapse into some theatrical grand maltype seizure, he'd amble over and swathe them in his gangly, giant self, pet and coddle for a while-hug, kiss, stroke, coc.o.o.n-until they were all spent and calm and grateful, positively glowing with wors.h.i.+p. And that was that.

I'm not kidding.

And the people were loving it, slurping it up with great big hungry spoons.

The day I attended, Eldrich decided to fix his sights on young Coco (surprise, surprise), who was making her second visit with daddy-o. Our boy stared and stared (managing somehow to keep his gaze from drifting down from her rapt, wide-set eyes to her rapt, wide-set b.r.e.a.s.t.s, charmingly discernible through a faux-distressed, LA-designer T-s.h.i.+rt), and as soon as the girl's baby blues grew the tiniest bit moist (it could have been allergies), he went for her, pouncing, enfolding, fondling, nosing ... It continued on for a disturbingly long time. He was even licking her head at one point, mere feet from Raine, who looked on smilingly, approvingly. A real proud papa.

Go figure.

Unfortunately, Eldrich's shut-up-and-grope routine proved a bit too inspiring for the ma.s.ses. The serene, blissed-out devotion of Seekers-a state I was accustomed to and comfortable with-began to morph into a kind of rapturous hysteria. More and more fervent types were showing up, eager to get to Eldrich and his ostensibly curative orbs. Rumour was his "G.o.d Gaze" could heal everything from PTSD to v.a.g.i.n.al warts (I thought: Call me when he can cook up some Superfries with them peepers).

Mushroom Steve went from being faithful sidekick to awestruck humble servant. He began to shadow Eldrich constantly, and grew creepily protective of his master-personally doing all his laundry by hand, preparing special meals and carrying them to the bedroom, where Eldrich had taken to hiding out for long stretches of time. He also enlisted Tyson and Wayne to act as sentries, guarding the door to keep Seekers at bay. Even I was denied access when I wanted a word one morning. An unnerving turn of events. Steve poked his head out the door and whispered that Eldrich was meditating, but if I had something "essential" to discuss, I could try again after lunch. Then he asked if he could speak to me about something.

He led me down the hall and, all smiles and munificence, said he wanted to "commission" me to do a bust of Eldrich. In bronze. I laughed in his face, thinking he was having me on. Nope. His alarmingly dilated pupils were br.i.m.m.i.n.g with sincerity (like one of those big-eyed velvet-painting tykes).

"Does Eldrich know about this?" I asked.

"No. No way, man! Eldrich is, like, the most humble dude in the world! You know that. He's like, crazy humble. But that doesn't mean we can't honour him, right?"

Wrong. I disrespectfully declined-told him I'd love to help out but was too busy working on my bust of Kim Jong-un. He was not amused.

Amy, who was well aware of the rising Eldrich frenzy, had done nothing to quell the swell of screaming meemies. On the contrary (without consulting me), she went ahead and plastered the website with zealous testimonials, superimposed over a full-screen close-up of Eldrich staring intensely out at the viewer. "You have to experience it! His force emanates across the room and fills you with luminous self-knowledge." / "I felt potent waves of spiritual influence penetrating my soul." / "He preaches silently, but you hear it louder than any voice!" / "It was like he was channelling the Lord's grace through his gaze, I felt years of pain being replaced with blissful effulgence." Um ... OK. I had to look up "effulgence," which sounds like something that spews from the sewer but in fact means radiant splendour.

Radiant splendour, Amy decided, doesn't come cheap. She doubled the price of weekend meetings to eighty bucks a pop for first-timers, and forty for repeat visitors.

Ordinarily this wouldn't have bothered me. If it were all knitting-store proprietors and doc.u.mentary filmmakers with digs in the Annex sh.e.l.ling out for illumination, tantric-y Os or huggy-wugs, I would have been delighted. But when I saw someone I recognized-a dude who lived on a sewer grate at Simcoe and Dundas, and carved bars of soap into figurines to sell for spare change-when I saw that dude limp in with scabby, frostbitten fists full of rolled-up coins, looking to have his multiple sclerosis healed, I figured things were getting out of control. And later that day when I spied a young woman snailing frailly up Elderbrook Avenue, wheeling her oxygen tank along the icy sidewalk, I knew I had to act.

I went in search of Amy and was told she was by the snack bar in the bas.e.m.e.nt (or what used to be the snack bar-Amy, Drew and Anne-Marie's son, Richard, had recently transformed the area into a makes.h.i.+ft gift shop). I found her and Drew seated at a table, chiselling chunks of purple stone into tiny fragments.

"What's up?" I said, perplexed by the geological activity.

"Hey. We're just getting these ready for Eldrich," said Amy.

"To bless," said Drew, reading my confusion.

Turns out these two had concocted a scheme to purchase Auralite crystals in bulk from a mine in Aurora, then unload them (at a 500 percent markup) after Eldrich had "blessed" them, i.e., ramped up their already stupendous healing powers by snoozing with them under his pillow, or carrying them around in his enchanted pockets.

"What a magical idea," I said, causing Drew's pimply cheeks to flush with pride. "Mind if I borrow the boss lady for a bit?"

"Be my guest," said Drew, perfectly happy to tap away alone, like a little elf with his wee hammer.

I dragged Amy to the bubble, where I grilled her about all the commotion and cash grabs of late. She instantly went on the offensive (as usual), accusing me of being totally out of touch with what was going on at the Inst.i.tute, of grossly misinterpreting her actions and egregiously misunderstanding her intentions. She wasn't being avaricious. Not at all. She just felt bad for Phil because so many new Seekers were suddenly flocking to his property. She was just trying to get us into a new headquarters and out of Phil's hair as quickly as possible. And given the current real estate market, that, unfortunately, required a whack of dough.

Plausible (as usual), maddeningly so. Amy a.s.sured me she wasn't being greedy, she was being thoughtful. And how could I not know that? How insulting. Furthermore, I had zero right to criticize how she was running the Inst.i.tute, since I was forever disappearing into my bubble to work on MAMA. She recommended I step up and get more involved if I had a problem with how things were going. Or, conversely, if I was uncomfortable with how things were going and didn't want to get involved to change those things, I was certainly free to get the h.e.l.l out.

Am-scray. Vamoose.

I ended up apologizing (as usual). Then we had hot makeup s.e.x (also, as usual). It was confusing. Afterward, we lay in the early evening darkness and listened to freezing rain ping off the bubble roof. Amy whispered that the Inst.i.tute would never turn away a Seeker in need, whether that person had money or not. Never ever. But she felt it was important to keep prices high for those who could afford it-for Phil's sake. I didn't argue.

The following morning, Amy handed me an Inst.i.tute cheque to cover the cost of my modPod egg chair. She said it made sense for the Inst.i.tute to contribute, since Seekers would undoubtedly want to experience MAMA once she was done. She called it a legitimate "supply."

I took the cheque, wondering why, if she was so desperate to acc.u.mulate cash "for Phil's sake," this was suddenly a priority. But I didn't say anything. I just folded it into my wallet.

Later, I left the compound to try to clear my head. I went downtown and wandered through Kensington Market (you know you're living with weirdos when the denizens of that district seem normal by comparison). I bought a few Christmas gifts for Amy, then hit the AGO to check out the Frida and Diego exhibit. It was great. And just great to be out, looking at art. Back in the day, everyone thought Rivera was the thing. He got far more attention than his unibrowed gal-pal. But Frida was clearly the superior artist. It was so obvious now. I lingered long, then grabbed some takeout from Asian Legend and cabbed up to Hawton Boulevard to chow down and hang in the old digs. I figured I'd have lunch and then maybe a nap or a w.a.n.k.

Consider my surprise when I entered the living room and discovered a spanking-new sectional sofa, groovy s.h.a.g rug and sixty-inch wall-mounted HDTV. Amy's thirty-two incher had been relegated to her bedroom. In her closet: a bunch of duds I'd never seen before, including a half-dozen cashmere cardigans in a rainbow of pastel shades, a b.u.t.tery leather jacket and a row of designer shoes, most of them still bearing their ludicrously high price tags.

Who knew she had even been coming here?

Had she used her salary to purchase these items? Possibly. She was certainly paying herself enough. Or were those five pair of Fiorentini and Baker boots also Inst.i.tute "supplies"?

Could I even ask her that question? Certainly not without inciting another mammoth fight. And probably not at all, not anymore, since I had already deposited my twenty-three-hundred-dollar modPod egg chair cheque.

Hmm.

I reclined on the chaise lounge portion of the sofa (so comfy), switched on the giant TV (such wonderful brightness and contrast) and tucked into my Asian Legend (d.a.m.ned delicious). But in truth, I was feeling distracted. Dyspeptic. I couldn't stop thinking about sewer-grate man and oxygen girl, and wondering if my Adam was on his way to becoming a fallen angel.

Amy

If I knew then what I know now about John's background, I might not have been so offended by his suspicious mind. But since he never opened up to me, I had no idea why he was always so mistrustful and accusatory. I couldn't understand why he kept pointing the finger at what he imagined to be my bad and dodgy behaviour.

It seemed very unfair.

There I was, working my a.s.s off, basically running the Inst.i.tute on my own so that John was free to be the artist I believed him to be. I was trying to help emotionally and physically fragile Seekers find solace and inspiration with Eldrich, and doing my best to help Phil get his home and health back, but all I got from John was distrust, skepticism and repeated unwarranted attacks on my character.

It was more than unfair. It was hurtful.

John seemed determined to push me away, when all I ever wanted was to connect and get close.

ATTENTION SEEKERS.

Due to overwhelming demand, Eldrich will no longer be holding open Blends in the pool. If you would like to join in, please use the sheet below to sign up for tomorrow's Blend, which will take place at 9 a.m. sharp. Please note: this will be a silent Blend and Eldrich cannot answer any direct questions. If you wish to commune verbally with Eldrich, please see me to book a session. (Note: We are already booking well into the New Year.) Thank you for your understanding, cooperation and trueness.

Peace and warm puppies,

Steve

GROUP 1 GROUP 2 GROUP 3.

1. Steve 1. Perry 1. Joyanne 2. Drew 2. Moina 2. Randall 3. Catelyn 3. Heather 3. Marina 4. Wayne 4. Sanjeev 4. Richard 5. Tyson 5. Danny 5. Jeff 6. Anne-Marie 6. Jane 6. Holly 7. Robyn 7. Masako 7. Sue B.

8. Mindy 8. Christine 8. Conan 9. Alexa 9. Phil 9. Jason

John

Human Jenga on the family-room floor. Olive-oil Twister in the kitchen. Twice daily "Blends," i.e., synchronized group gropes in the swimming pool ... Touch was the new Talk at the Inst.i.tute.

I saw it everywhere around the compound, Seekers glued to each other in small or large cl.u.s.ters, coiled on couches, bobbing in the hot tub, mouthing one another, rubbing.

Did I partake? No, I did not. Even though there were at least half a dozen objectively appetizing females gamboling about Phil's pretty much all the time and especially on weekends, I had nearly zero inclination to handle them. When the ubiquitous canoodling and so-called "therapeutic touch" sessions naturally (inevitably) morphed into Inst.i.tute-sanctioned f.u.c.k fests, I still kept mine in my pants. Why? Because these people were crackers. Banana-fruity-flavours. Seriously, sadly, irreparably damaged goods. Likely crawling with STDs to boot. I had no intention of swapping fluids with them.

Besides, I had Amy, my loving and devoted partner.

Amy

I am not a prude. Unlike some. If consenting adult Seekers wanted to engage in therapeutic touch or remedial s.e.xual activities, whether in pairs or larger groups, I wasn't going to judge them. In fact, I found the physical/nonverbal conduct a lot easier to live with than all the Alternaverse weirdness that had been going on through the summer and fall.

Touch is medicinal. People need it. We really do require contact. This is not my opinion. This is a fact. Think of Harlow and his famous experiment with rhesus monkeys. I learned about it in first-year psych. What happened was infant monkeys were taken from their mothers a couple of hours after birth. They were given two surrogate mothers instead. The first was a wire mother, cold and unyielding, which provided what was then considered all-important: food. The second was a terrycloth mother, soft and comfortable, which gave no food at all. Guess which one the babies gravitated to and spent almost all of their time with? The cloth mothers. Touch was even more important than nursing/sustenance. Touch was sustenance.

Touch became a major part of Eldrich's philosophy of spiritual connection and healing. Seekers were benefiting from it. I saw it with my own eyes. People were happier. Calmer. More hopeful and content. A lot of bad energy was being smoothed away. It worked, so it lasted, unlike the Alternaverse madness, which had largely faded into the background.

So you tell me, was it so horribly wrong to respond when someone reached out and asked me to partic.i.p.ate in a Blend? Am I a wicked, evil person who needs to be endlessly disparaged because I decided to try what everyone else seemed to be learning and gaining from? Should I be condemned and punished because I shared an innocent and affectionate embrace on one occasion with someone I felt an immediate kins.h.i.+p with?

I don't think so. But that's just me.

John

I heard them long before I saw them.