by Steven Fishman
3: Theta Doesn't Grow On Trees
During the Life Upset Intensive, Kathy was so fascinated by the way I manipulated Jaime into the marriage through the computer program that we spent a great deal of time on it. She wanted to know how I actually made the computer deliver the messages to Jaime. It was so easy, you know. There was a wait command, or time delay, and I tricked Jaime into believing that her grandfather was "thinking" of an answer while the internal time clock of the computer was running. The program was already stored in the memory by me earlier, but the illusion of time made it appear as if Pop Pop Abe was communicating to Jaime. I always varied the time delay sequences, so that Jaime would never suspect that all of Abe's answers were in the memory before she started asking the questions. There were other illusions that I used, such as something in data processing jargon known as string variable commands. If Jaime asked a question about marriage, and put the actual word 'marriage' into the computer, the memory would find an answer already in storage which contained the word 'marriage' in the file. I explained to Kathy that Jaime believed this 'magic', because there was no way that Pop Pop Abe could have known what words she would ask in the questions! Of course, there was a data base of lots of key words which corresponded to storage files to fool her with. I told Kathy everything, including how Dr. Geertz thought it was so brilliant an idea that he had me tell his Abnormal Psychology Class of graduate students at Florida Atlantic University about it, which I proceeded to do in great detail until she stopped me short.
"A psych!", Kathy screamed. "I knew that a psych was behind it!"
"A what?", I asked. "Do you mean my psychologist?"
"Psychologist, psychiatrist, psychotherapist, they are all the same. They are all psychs!", Kathy shouted. "Come, we have got to tell Peter about it right away!"
She grabbed my hand, and pulled me down the hall, ushering me into Peter's office. I never saw Kathy again.
Peter motioned toward the chair, releasing an unspoken command to sit in it. He glanced at the worksheets from the auditing session. A mammoth grin came over his face.
"Well, we did it!", he roared with the satisfaction of complete accomplishment.
"Did what?", I questioned.
"We found your ruin!"
"My ruin?", I asked. "Do I look like an archaeologist or something? What ruin?"
"No, Steve!", Peter challenged with the glare of squinty inquisitiveness. "We found what ruined your life! That is your ruin!"
"There was never any doubt in my mind", I said to Peter. "My wife Jaime is ruining my life. That's why I am here, or have you forgotten already?"
Peter grabbed my sleeve, shaking it until a snot rag fell out of my shirt pocket onto the floor.
"You don't know, do you?", he gasped.
"What are you talking about?", I replied, quite exasperated.
"You are PTS to a psych! That is all there is to it! That is your ruin!"
We spent the next twenty minutes word clearing what "PTS" meant. PTS stands for Potential Trouble Source. Peter explained that the word PTS is a noun, but in Scientology, many nouns are also used as adjectives and verbs. "PTSness" means being connected to a Suppressive Person, and in turn that makes you a Potential Trouble Source. Suppressive Persons are "those who are destructively antisocial." Psychs are all Suppressive Persons, because psychiatry, psychology, psychotherapy and hypnosis are all authoritarian practices that tell the patient what is wrong with him, thereby introducing new lies into the reactive mind of the person, causing a negative effect and in doing so, suppresses him. Peter explained that in Scientology therapy, which is known as "processing", the auditor finds out what is wrong with the person from the person, not from some dangerous psychiatrist.
Peter Letterese made me realize that it was not my fault, even though I was willing to take full responsibility for brainwashing my wife! I was a victim in this as much as she was! It was Dr. Uwe Walter Geertz, my psychologist, who was to blame! He was the hidden influence! What a cognition this was! Here I was, just poor me, entrusting myself to the care of a mental health professional since 1968, and instead of stopping me from harming Jaime by demanding that I discontinue brainwashing her on the computer, this monster paraded me in front of his entire Abnormal Psychology Class of graduate students at Florida Atlantic University, to show off how great my evil purpose was! Yes! I was a victim! Jaime's negative attitude toward me was all Dr. Geertz's fault, not mine! He turned her into the raving, mad bitch she was!
You don't know how thankful I was for Peter. I felt like kneeling at his feet! He permitted everything to make sense to me! I imagined myself to really be a human being again! He found my ruin! What a bastard my psychologist turned out to be, exploiting me like that! He was no better than Dr. Shulman, who used to blow pipe smoke in my face while my parents were getting divorced. Peter was right! They are all a pack of evil suppressives! How could I not have known about Scientology before? I must have had my head buried in the ground! Where have I been all of my life?
I had a craving to find out more about psychs, Suppressive Persons, and PTSness. This was too exciting to simply let go. Peter completely agreed with me. I signed up for the Ups And Downs In Life Course, which was only seventy-five dollars more, and I was so excited about it, I did not even want to leave the Mission to eat dinner. I started the course right away, that very night.
My entire outlook toward life drastically improved. Even though I went to the Mission each night to take my Ups And Downs In Life Course, and I was there from 7:45 P.M. until the course room closed at 11:00 P.M., I still got all my housework done, and I didn't even feel tired! I cleaned up after Jaime faster, and with a revived fervor that I did not know still lived within me. Yet I did not skimp on the quality of thoroughness as my very own maid. I darted through all the rooms, singing, "Mr. Clean gets rid of dirt and grime and grease in just a minute; Mr. Clean will clean your whole house, and everything that's in it!"
I sang the song faster and faster, and I worked with the speed of scrubbing bubbles. Unfortunately, my singing became louder and louder, and I often woke up the baby. Jaime would come out of her cocoon just to watch me work, because now that I had true Scientology Power behind me, I was quite a spectacle. I wasn't just another henpecked husband, picking up after his wife. I was Mr. Clean! I started buying presents for the house, like new blue detergent pellets for the toilet bowls, and two cinnamon air fresheners for Jaime's laundry basket. I felt so very much alive! Even my bowel movements were clean and crisp, and it was all due to Scientology, the science of knowing how to know. I never realized how all of this new data could affect every area of my life, even making me a better housekeeper!
Of course, I could not tell Jaime where I was going every night. She did threaten to leave me that time, after all. But most often, she didn't even notice that I was gone, now that Jaime started taking her naps in between her rest and her beauty sleep.
You are not going to believe this, but on the Ups And Downs In Life Course, I actually got to work with clay! The clay table is part of L. Ron Hubbard's study technology. Whenever there was a word or a concept that I did not understand, I was told to demonstrate its use by making clay figures, so that the course room supervisor could just look at my clay demo, and fully understand what I was trying to communicate without ever saying anything. Using clay truly allows you to understand words, ideas and concepts. I realized how antiquated and barbaric the educational system in public schools had always been, for not training students of all ages to work the clay table. Besides which, playing with clay is fun. My favorite colors were yellow and green. Out of gratitude, I volunteered for "clay clean up" after the course room hours were over. It was the least I could do to repay the Mission for allowing me to have such a good time.
Just being in the course room of the Mission of Fort Lauderdale was more joy than any wog, or non- Scientologist could imagine. Every course has a Checksheet, which is a list of items to be done on the course. Not only was there reading, answering essay questions, and the clay table, but there were tape plays, where you could listen to L. Ron Hubbard on these big reel-to-reel tape recorders. You have no idea what an unbelievable sense of humor Ron has! (I forgot to tell you that everyone calls him Ron). Just listening to Ron was a major win in my life, because I always had a cognition, or came to realize something that I had never thought of before. I mean, Ron's tapes were on every subject imaginable! He spoke about philosophy, the mind, economics, past lives, radiation, marriage, history, education, children, and even explained exactly what happens to you when you die! I soon forgot what life was like before I found Scientology. It was as if I didn't even exist way back then.
During the Ups And Downs Course, I was assigned a "twin", which was actually another student taking the same course as I was. There were drills on the course, where we helped one another through the practical sections. For the first time in my life, I started to make friends with people that weren't polluted with the craziness of the outside world! They were just dedicated Scientologists, trying to figure out the hornet's nest of life, very much the same as I was.
The course room itself was quite large, with heavy metal tables and more hard chairs, except they no longer seemed uncomfortable to me now. Each table had three different dictionaries. There was the maroon Dianetics and Scientology Technical Dictionary, the green Modern Management Technology Defined administrative dictionary, and a Webster's International Dictionary for looking up misunderstood words which were not related to Scientology terminology. Beside each set of dictionaries was either a basket or a large tin can called a demo kit, which consisted of various small objects such as corks, caps, paper clips, pen tops, batteries, which together was called "kludge", which means any junk, odds and ends, or miscellaneous non-valuables . The far table contained the clay itself, and under the clay table were the assorted barrels that were arranged by color.
At the head of the course room was the desk of the course room supervisor, whose name was Reissa. Despite her scraggly pigtails, her flabby underarms, and her K-Mart $1.99 eyeglasses, Reissa was a flawless administrator. The attendance record which she kept for all students on course was as precise as a rabbit's sperm. Whenever a student failed to grasp a concept, wrote an unacceptable essay, or missed an important theory or drill on course, Reissa would hand out a pink sheet, which was used to correct the inadequacy. If you came late to course, you were sent to the Ethics Officer. Reissa ran the course room with a clenched fist, resounding with the voice of an iron lung, but all of us loved her. She was there to help us all win in Scientology.
There were posters on the walls which were there to catch the eye. One advertised a beautiful religious retreat in Clearwater, Florida called The Flag Land Base, or simply "Flag." Under the photograph of this grand old structure were the words which read: "The Mecca of Technical Perfection." Someone said that is where L. Ron Hubbard could be found. A second poster was a picture of an impressive Scientology boat known as the Apollo, which used to be in operation as a seaworthy vessel until 1973. There was also a remarkable picture of Chateau Elysee, which was Ron's seven story castle in Hollywood, California, known as the Celebrity Center World Wide, with a bold inscription tastefully calligraphed at the bottom which said: "The Chateau Elysee: A Place Assigned To Virtuous People, Of Ideal Bliss, Complete Happiness, And Paradise."
But there was one poster which just did not make sense at all. It was a drawing of a squirrel, complete with a long, fluffy, bushy tail, holding a nut in both paws, looking indeed quite contented and serene. However, surrounding the squirrel was a red circle with a diagonal line running through it, like the "No Parking" signs have. As odd as this was, there was a caption under the drawing in "old west" type lettering, like a nineteenth century "wanted" poster, which read: "All Squirrels Will Be Shot On Sight!"
I thought that was so horrible! I loved squirrels. My Uncle Irving was a print shop salesman in Manhattan who used to call his customers from 8:30 A.M. to 9:00 A.M. each morning to make his sales, and for the rest of the work day, he used to go to Central Park and feed the squirrels all kinds of bread, fruit and nuts. When I was a young child, some of the best days of my life were spent going to work with Uncle Irving. And here someone wants to kill these pretty little creatures? That would be insufferable.
Reissa caught my apparent shock and disagreement with the poster, and immediately dragged me by the heels into a hard chair, and then had me look up the word squirrel in the Dianetics and Scientology Technical Dictionary by L. Ron Hubbard. She had me read the definition out loud, which was off- policy for the course room, because everyone else was busy studying, and I was interrupting them.
It turned out that a squirrel is someone who engages in actions altering Scientology, and who also engages in offbeat practices. A squirrel is doing something completely different. He doesn't understand any of the principles of Scientology, so he makes up a bunch of them to fulfill his ignorance, foists them off on other people, and gets no place . A squirrel is a perverter of Ron's technology, which is endearingly known as the "Tech."
"But why a squirrel?", I asked Reissa.
She started to laugh.
"It's because squirrels associate with nuts!"
Whenever I passed an examination for a course in high school or college, I received my grade, and that was that. You can imagine my surprise when, upon the completion of the Ups And Downs In Life Course, including all of the drills, essays, and final test, Reissa "body routed" me into a room to see some "terminal" called the Director of Success. Staff members were not referred to as persons or people, they were called "terminals." And customers, while they were on course, were known as students; but while they were being audited, they were called preclears. But right now I was being "body routed" from one room to another, so I was no longer a student or a terminal at the moment, I was a "particle." It was pretty neat to have all of these new identities, especially since Dr. Geertz always said I was so happy about being schizophrenic.
But let me tell you about the Director of Success. She was the most beautiful girl that I had seen at the Mission thus far. Notwithstanding that all the rest I had seen were quite hideous, this girl, whose name was Denise, was very outstanding. She was twenty- four or twenty-five years old, with very clean, below-the-shoulder hair, much like you find on the tail of a show horse. Her face was complemented with a stunning design, comprised of high cheekbones and very big eyes that could truly see right through you. She smelled more like a woman than a Scientologist, and she even dressed well. It was no wonder why she was the Director of Success, because she absolutely looked the part. I was curious what kind of job she had before working at the Mission. She told me she used to be a barmaid, but that was when life was running her, whereas now she was running life.
I could not understand her post. Oh yes, I forgot to tell you, staff members do not have jobs, they have posts. Their posts, or what they are called, like "Denise is the Director of Success", were listed on a command chart known as an "Org Board", which was hanging in a prominent place on the wall, where anyone who wanted to could look at it. But the name of the post still did not tell you what the staff member actually did for a living. The duties of the post are called one's "hat", because on any job, you wear a specific hat, like a fireman's hat, a policeman's hat, or a Sea Captain's hat. The designation of the hat is, of course, the post. The act of working, was simply referred to as "wearing your hat." But above all, each hat has a specialty, lots of duties, and most importantly, a product.
Keeping this in mind, I asked Denise if her purpose as the Director of Success was to look successful and be important, because if that is what she did to support herself, I would like a job like that part time, because at the shoe store, I felt useless and insignificant.
But Denise quickly said that her hat was to see to it that I had success, since a successful preclear was her valuable final product. So in order to accomplish that end, Denise asked me to write a Success Story about the benefits and abilities that I gained on the Ups And Downs In Life Course, because "true success comes not when the course room supervisor sees you doing well on a course, but when you recognize it yourself."
So I wrote a Success Story. Nobody told me that it did not have to be eleven pages long. I just kept writing and writing. I truly enjoyed the Ups And Downs In Life Course, and I recalled everything about it that made me happy.
When Denise saw what I wrote, she looked astonished, saying, "Wow! You wrote a post-graduate thesis here!"
"You wanted me to write a Success Story", I reminded her. "How can it be a Success Story if it isn't one hundred percent complete and accurate?"
"I know!", Denise exclaimed, carefully looking at my data. "But I think you just crashed through the Highest Ever Stat for the Guinness Book of World Records for Scientology Success Story writing!"
"Stat?", I asked.
"Yeah, you know. Statistic. We call all of our statistics "stats", because when they are good, they are "upstats." When they are not so good, they are "downstats." It's just a lot easier to say", she clarified. "Steve, you really have quite a talent here. I could put you to work immediately writing stuff like this. Do you have any idea how many knowledge reports we turn in every day, and how so few staff members can write as well as this? Steve, do you want a job?"
"Ah -- well, I can't really leave the shoe store to write your reports, now can I?", I challenged.
"We'll see about that!", Denise quipped with an air of smugness and certainty.
Needless to say, my Success Story was very well received. But we were not done yet! Denise took me by the hand, reminding me of when my kindergarten teacher in Public School 35 in the Bronx used to walk me down the hall to go to the little boys' room. Of course it felt good to hold her hand, as if I were on my first date or something. Denise had my voluminous success story in her other hand, and we shortly arrived at another tiny compartment to see a geek by the name of Corwin, who Denise introduced as the Mission of Fort Lauderdale's Examiner In Charge, whereupon she promptly left to handle her next "particle." Somehow, this whole experience of "body routing" reminded me of my favorite whore house in San Juan, Puerto Rico, where I was shuffled from one cubicle to another to have a good time.
What was the Mission of Fort Lauderdale's Examiner in Charge? I cringed at the thought of being given a rectal exam. I lived in mortal terror of those.
Corwin was missing a chin, but it wasn't that he might have lost it. He just never had one. If he were a cartoon, Corwin would have been a double for Bucky Beaver, wearing a plaid tie with frilly, split ends, which clashed with his blue and green checkered shirt. His ears were longer than life, but they served the purpose of holding both a pencil and a pen, since his fashionable outfit had no pockets. The St. Vincent De Paul Outlet Store was rumored to sell the clothing of the recently departed, and there was no doubt in my mind that Corwin shopped there on dollar days. His breath reminded me of bits of charred burger bits that I saw him eat several days before in the Mission's kitchen.
The examination room looked like the auditing room that Kathy used, except there was this odd looking rectangular machine in front of me, with several dials and switches staring at me in the face. I then realized that I had sat down in Corwin's chair, and that he was supposed to be using this device on me.
I didn't know what a Hubbard Mark Five E-Meter was. How was I supposed to figure out that this contraption worked very much like a lie detector, except that it actually measures emotional reaction by tiny electrical impulses generated by thought. The E-Meter registers these impulses before the preclear becomes conscious of the question or the data within it .
One of the first realizations that hit me in Scientology is that the mind is not the brain. You can cut up as many brains as you want to, but you will not find the mind. No, the mind, I discovered, is the soul. They are the exact same thing, although few people in the wog world understand that.
In effect, the E-Meter is the lie detector of the soul, not the body.
The E-Meter is attached by wire to two soup cans, and when you hold these soup cans, it registers the thought impulses.
I asked Corwin whether the brand of the soup cans makes any difference. I mean, would Campbell's cans give you a better indication of the soul's reactions than Progresso's?
Corwin quickly disabused me of that assumption when he revealed that the cans already come pre- packed with each E-Meter that is for sale. You don't have to throw out the soup and bring your own cans into the Mission to get processed.
The examination actually registered my level of agreement or disagreement with the materials in the course, and Corwin noted a very positive reaction when it came to asking me the key question of whether I felt others could benefit from the abilities gained in the Ups And Downs In Life Course, to which I enthusiastically answered, "Most definitely!"
I wanted to learn more about operating the Hubbard Mark Five E-Meter. Corwin assured me that there were other courses that I could take which would teach me how to use it, and that once I was trained on its use at the Academy in Miami, I would actually be allowed to buy one! Well, now I knew what I wanted for my next birthday present.
What happened next was most remarkable. Corwin escorted me back to the course room, motioning along the way for every staff member that he could muster up to follow him, as if he were the Pied Piper of Hamlin. When we all entered the now packed room, he blew a whistle, and proclaimed, "Fellow Scientologists, students, and staff, I am proud to announce that Steve Fishman has just completed his Ups And Downs In Life Course!"
For three solid minutes, there was wild applause, as if I had done some major heroic act that overwhelmed them all. I felt like I was really somebody, not an ordinary shmucky shoe salesman. I was a course completion statistic, and I was indeed proud of myself.
Students and staff alike dropped what they were doing, and shook my hands to congratulate me. But then, Corwin blew his whistle again, and everyone forgot about me, going back to what they were doing before.
Like some wild orgasm, I had my three minutes of glory.
Peter then came and got me, and together we decided that my next step was to take the Introduction To Scientology Ethics Course, because I had been surrounded by the suppressive psychologist, who by now I was less cordially referring to as the "SP psych", since "SP" is the proper abbreviation for a Suppressive Person in Scientologese, which was turning out to be a real easy second language.
Barbara Fawcett collected my one hundred dollar fee for the course, and put me on the identical schedule that I had for the Ups And Downs In Life.
On Monday and Friday nights, at 7:00 P.M., Bruce the Mission Holder would give introductory lectures for the general public, and usually Peter Letterese would generally be the principal speaker. Even though the lectures would last only forty-five minutes, as they had to end when the course room was opened at 7:45 P.M., the time went by like living lightning, as I was both spellbound and fully absorbed by these lectures.
Especially exciting was Peter's rendition about theta. Theta is thought, life force, the spirit, the soul, or any other of the numerous definitions it has had for some thousands of years . Theta is neither matter, energy, space nor time. "Yet", Peter said, "theta is not a nothingness. It just happens to be an exterior thing to this universe, so you couldn't talk about it in this universe's terms."
Now a thetan is the being comprised of theta, who handles and lives in a body. It is an awareness of awareness unit, capable of making postulates, and of creating matter, energy, space and time.
Peter peered at us in the audience, and said, "The thetan is the person himself, not his body or his name. The thetan is most familiar to one and all as you!"
Do you understand what a cognition that was for me? I finally realized that I don't have a soul. I am a soul! I'm a soul called a thetan! This body that I am in doesn't even belong to me! I am just operating it for this particular lifetime, much the same way as I operate my car or my computer!
As I listened to Peter, I saw myself push out from behind my body. A surge of power came over me as I exteriorized, or went outside the body. I was watching Peter talk with the body's eyes and at the same time I was three feet in back of my own head! With the data that I had learned that night, I knew I was able to create my very own universe, and I sure as hell wasn't going to invite Jaime to live in it! I never did any drugs of any kind in my life, but I actually started to dissolve the walls in the room, and see right through them! I just never knew how before, that's all. The only thing I could think of was how wonderful it will be to be able to see through women's underwear. While those thoughts crossed my mind, I heard a student named Claudia ask Peter what a thetan is actually made of. Peter already had explained that a thetan is not made up of matter, energy, space or time, so she truly raised a good question.
"Ever heard of ARC?", Peter called out like a carnival barker. "Affinity, Reality, and Communication. ARC equals understanding, or knowingness, and that is what you are made of."
I rushed home to just soak up and digest all of the wisdom I had been fortunate enough to gaze upon that night. I walked into the turmoil of Jaime's schnauzer Rainbow delivering puppies. She had six, complete with the afterbirth gook and blood stains all over our living room carpet. In honor of Scientology, I named the eldest male dog "Theta."
Jaime did not help me wipe up the mess. She was having a grand old time showing our daughter Arielle the baby puppies, even though the amniotic doggie fluid had not been fully cleaned off the newborns yet by the mother dog.
"Wouldn't it be great to have some cute little bunnies in the house?", she said to Arielle tenderly. "Let's not ask Daddy about it. Let's just go out tomorrow and buy some fat, pregnant ones!"
"That's all right, Jaime", I snapped. "There is nothing that you can say or do to upset me tonight. I just learned that I am not a body, but a thetan!"
Jaime picked up Arielle, and took two of the puppies in her other hand to put in our daughter's crib.
"Did you hear what your nasty, naughty Daddy just told us?", Jaime whispered to Arielle in a nursery rhyme voice. "Daddy said he's not just a nobody, he's Satan!"
The data that was in the Introduction To Scientology Ethics Course knocked me flat on my ass.
Did you know that twenty percent of the entire world has anti- social tendencies? How about the fact that two and one-half percent of everyone on this planet, including every man, woman and child, are totally and completely dangerous?
Well, don't worry. They are not too hard to find, because after you isolate all of the wretched psychiatrists, psychologists, psychotherapists, hypnotists, other mental health professionals, government leaders that allow these degraded beings to function, as well as the dramatizing psychotics such as FBI Agents, the press, non-Scientology attorneys, and everyone else with an evil purpose, you are left with a good eighty percent of the world which is actually nice and decent! Well, I was relieved to know that at least I was one of the good guys!
But in order to keep oneself ethical, and avoid becoming "PTS" to these dangerous suppressive elements, there is a Table of Ethics Conditions, whereby every Scientologist assigns oneself or is assigned by the group a particular Condition, going from very good to very bad.
The Ethics Conditions are Power, Affluence, Normal, Emergency, Danger, Non-Existence, Liability, Doubt, Enemy, Treason, and Confusion.
The purpose of the course was to show me what I had to do to get to the highest Condition of Power, and then stay there. There are formulas to follow for each Condition, and they are very specific. But the best news was the ability I gained in spotting Suppressive Persons and Potential Trouble Sources. They were all over the place, and I mean everywhere. I'm not just being a paranoid psychotic either.
They were real!
Scientology Ethics Codes made so much more sense than wog law, or the legal system outside the ultimate truth of Scientology, because wog law was nothing more than a complete abyss of arbitrary chaos. Did I ever tell you that I went to law school for one year at the University of Miami? It was complete and utter gibberish! Only a lunatic would want to make a career out of something as illogical as that! But finally there were Ethics Codes that I could really and honestly live with, because they were associated with the conditions of my own beingness!
Soon, I learned all about errors, misdemeanors, crimes, high crimes, and suppressive acts. An error is an unintentional goof or mistake, like forgetting to take out the garbage. A misdemeanor is something a lot more serious, like failing to disclose that you have been a patient in a mental hospital. An example of a crime is murder, mayhem, or overworking an executive by ignoring one's own duties. A high crime, however, would be something like publicly departing Scientology or committing some suppressive act like suing the Church or writing a book about Scientology without their permission. You would have to be completely insane to do anything that horrible and stupid.
Peter Letterese took a personal interest in getting me through this course, considering the outrageous background I had with Dr. Geertz and the rest of the psychs. We spent a lot of time going over "Acts of Omission." Peter drilled me for three hours on what I would have done to Adolf Hitler if I had the chance to kill him. Even though murder is a crime in Scientology, it would have been far worse to allow Hitler to live, because he was responsible for the deaths of twenty million people, according to Peter.
Therefore, I soon came to understand that the principle of "The Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics" is the overriding factor of Scientology ethics.
So what's a dynamic?
A dynamic is any urge, drive, or impulse in life . There are eight dynamics, which are "the urges, drives, or impulses in life toward (1) self, (2) sex and/or the family, (3) groups, (4) mankind, (5) life forms such as plants and animals, (6) the physical universe, (7) the theta or spiritual universe, and (8) the Supreme Being, Infinity, or God."
Peter really made certain I truly understood the principle of "The Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics."
"Take a mad skunk like the Shah of Iran and his Savak Police Force of Persian SPs", Peter stated, accidentally spitting all over me. "No matter who replaces him in power couldn't possibly be as evil and rotten for the Iranian people and for mankind as a whole than the Shah is. You take a guy like that, or Fidel Castro, or Fraudulent Marcos of the Philippines, or your friendly neighborhood electric- shocking, drug- pushing psychiatrist, and you just stand around and wait for someone else to silence him, and you have committed the biggest "overt", the worst Act of Omission, and the Greatest Harm for the Greatest Number of Dynamics."
"You can't just go around killing all these people, can you?", I inquired.
"If you have enough "confront", which is a polite word for enough guts, you damn sure could!", Peter ranted, poking me in the ribs with his extended index finger.
"Well, I just don't have that killer instinct", I sighed, not wanting to admit to being such a failure at gutsmanship, confront, or whatever the hell it's called.
Peter jumped up, grabbing my chin with his fingers, slowly twisting my face around as he pinched me, so that I would be fixated upon him.
"You could be a behind the scenes type of hero that could really drive home a way to handle these SPs!", he suggested quietly.
"What?", I laughed. "A flunkie shoe salesman? I can't even sell a pair of shoes right, and you want me to save the whole world already."
Peter took a white unbreakable plastic ashtray and threw it against the wall, making a big noise.
"I never want to hear you disparage yourself or minimize your own strength and power ever again!", he raved. "It's a violation of point four of the Code of Honor!  You're a Scientologist now. That means you're one of us. You're "in" for the duration of the universe, on the same terms as the rest of us. You'll win or die in the attempt. Ron said "We'd rather have you dead than incapable."  You are never again going to belittle yourself in front of me, because you are a member of the Third Dynamic!"
"It sounded a lot like the Third Reich," I thought to myself, far too inhibited at this point to dare make Peter angry.
"What do you think the sick, degraded and aberrated wog world will think of us when they hear you call yourself a "flunkie shoe salesman" and they also find out that you are a Scientologist?", he continued. Either you become the best shoe salesman that you know how to be, or you damn well better get a post and a hat that you are the very best at, but in either case, you are never going to minimize your abilities in front of me again! Have you thoroughly got that, Steven?"
"I absolutely do!", I answered, already feeling the confidence rocketing through my veins like a fresh supply of new virgin's blood. "What can I do to help?"
"Well I'm glad you asked!", Peter replied, as he quieted down, partially smiling. "I see the kind of Success Story you can write. And don't think I forgot that you were the one who attacked your psychiatrist with the junk mail! I may have not recalled your face when you walked into the Mission two weeks ago, but I have never overlooked your accomplishments or your potential. Three years ago, when I met you for the first time, I knew you were one of us. You had the look of one of Ron's Loyal Officers. I always know when I see one. I had some idea that it might not be that very day back then, or that week, or even that month, or that year, but there would come a time that you would walk into the Mission and find your post in life."
"My post in life?", I asked, unclear on what that meant.
"That's right!", Peter snapped, with the wild gleam of an ejaculating wasp in his eye. "Your career for this lifetime, and depending upon how much reality you have on Scientology now, for many lifetimes to come. And I know just what your post in life is. I knew it the moment I took a good look at you. But, then again, you know it too."
"Of course you do!", Peter exploded. "That's the real reason why you are here! Oh, sure, you think you came in to save this marriage of yours. Well, that's part of it. You needed some data on SPs, and I see you're getting plenty of that. But you don't know the power of being at cause over life yet. Admit it! You haven't been given a chance to shine; to glow in this lifetime, now have you?"
I thought about that for a moment.
"Well, I've had some very good sex with a lot of girls whose names I never knew, before I met my wife --"
"Forget that!", Peter interrupted, putting his hand in front of my face. "That's all such an insignificant game. You can always have intercourse. Thetans can always get their bodies to play with other bodies. But you have what it takes to handle the twenty percent of the population that collectively make up the "anti-social personality of Earth", and to knock the living shit out of that two and one-half percent of big time SPs that are trying to cave in all the rest of us! Don't you see? While helping Scientology win, you'll be winning for yourself on the first dynamic."
"How is that?", I asked.
"Does a million dollars in income every five years sound like it would be enough for you?", Peter remarked, his hands folded as if in prayer. "Because if a million isn't enough, you can have more!"
I laughed out loud, because what Peter was saying sounded too preposterous for words.
Peter shrugged his shoulders.
"I can tell you're still not ready for your post in life", he concluded. "Those psychs have really screwed around with your wheels."
"What does that have to do with --"
"It's written all over you, Steven!", he screamed. "We can't even begin to talk about your post in life until you at least have done a Life Repair. You need a Life Repair, and that's it!"
"What's a Life Repair? I already did the Life Upset Intensive, and it was three hundred dollars. What's the difference between that and a Life Repair?"
"That three hundred dollars really bugs you, doesn't it?", Peter said scurrilously. "It makes a lot of sense to worry about three hundred dollars, when there is an auditing action that is standing in the way between you and a couple of million dollars! Well, let me tell you, the Life Repair is no three hundred dollars. It happens to be two thousand dollars! The Life Repair isn't just a five hour intensive, it's a whole full blown Rundown! It's done on the E-Meter, and it's real auditing! A Life Repair repairs your life! But all you are worried about is the money. You are living at home with an SP wife, after spending eleven years at the office of your SP psycho-dog shrink, and you are working in a shoe store at a job which you obviously hate and detest, and you are worrying about the measly two thousand dollars it costs to repair your life? Are you for real?"
Peter knew the best way to handle me was to get me to pay for the Life Repair Rundown right away. The only obstacle to that was the fact that I did not have two thousand dollars in my pocket. Do you walk around with two thousand dollars in your pocket? Maybe it's just me here with the problem. Therefore, Peter rightfully concluded that the next best thing was to get a "flow" going. By a flow, Peter meant a cash flow, or a deposit. Of course, the Life Repair Rundown had to be fully paid for before I started it. You don't "pay as you go" in Scientology, because there would be something called "the lack of fair exchange" if you did that. You would never know how far you could go for the amount you've paid.
Peter asked me how much I had in my pocket. I had fifty dollars. So he decided to play a new game with me. It was called "Reach and Withdraw." He told me to take out the fifty dollars and put it on the table, count to five, and then put it back in my pocket. I did that. I could do that without any trouble. Peter then asked me to do it again. I did. After ten times, it was very easy to do. The sequence was almost done without thinking, like my body was automated on some circuit. When Peter saw that I could take the money out, put in on the table, and then put it back in my pocket without any hesitation whatsoever, that part of the drill was complete.
He then told me to take the fifty dollars out of my pocket again, put it into his hand, count to five, take it out of his hand, and put it back in my pocket as it was originally. The first time I did it, I was uneasy, because I did not think Peter was going to give the fifty dollar bill back. But he did. Peter was a man of his word. After all, he was a Scientologist. After seventeen times at the drill of putting the money into his hand, that also was done without hesitation, or "flattened", which is a term that comes from observing the pattern of the needle on the E-Meter.
The third drill was to take the fifty out of my pocket as before, put it into Peter's hand, and tell Peter to put the money into his own pocket, then count to five, immediately telling Peter to take the money out of his pocket and put it back into his hand, and finally have Peter put it back into my hand, whereby thereafter I restored the bill to my own pocket. Similarly, after only fourteen times, this drill was done proficiently.
The last step was in allowing Peter to keep the fifty dollars for one full day, and if at any time I wanted to call Peter and tell him to take the money out of his pocket and save it for me, I could call Peter on the phone and do so. I never called him, and on the following day, Peter validated me on a good game of Reach and Withdraw, with the "end phenomenon" of the drill achieved with "good indicators", meaning that I was in complete agreement with what had happened. Immediately thereafter, Peter routed me back to Denise, the Director of Success, so that I could write up a flowery Success Story on how great it was to play Reach and Withdraw with Peter, and this Success Story became a permanent part of my Preclear Folder, or the file which charted my progress in Scientology.
After writing it, the Success Story was read and validated by Corwin the Examiner, who looked at the E-Meter while I was holding the soup cans, and told me that I had a "nice floating needle." Nobody ever had paid me a compliment like that before, and I felt very proud of myself. Peter then decided that it was time for me to come up with a "Battle Plan" on how to put the rest of the "flows" there to create the one thousand nine hundred and fifty dollar balance due on my account.
Peter was so much on target with me! He really knew how to shoot right to the heart of my problem. I was going to get that Life Repair done no matter what I had to do! But the news was not so bleak. I had three thousand four hundred dollars in the savings and loan association, but I couldn't take the money out for the Life Repair without Jaime finding out about it and divorcing me. Peter sent me to the bank to get about four cash advances on my Master Charge and Visa cards, and this was because Jaime's insatiable spending habits allowed very little available credit on each card. But it worked out just fine, because Peter said I could repay the charges slowly with the money I had on reserve in the bank. Getting the two thousand dollars was a piece of cake using the four different credit cards. Peter promised me that after I did the Life Repair, I would be able to make millions, so who gave a shit about two thousand dollars anyway?
There was a slight delay in starting, because Peter wanted to find me the right staff member to audit me on the Life Repair. There was a Class I Auditor at the Mission named Hillary Katz, but Peter wanted me to be audited by at least a Class IV, and for that, he had to make arrangements to select someone from the Miami Org, for which they received the lion's share of the fees.
I didn't think there was anything wrong with Hillary. She was very hyper and full of enthusiasm, and although she was not as attractive as Denise, I know I would have slept with her if she had given me the chance. Peter told her to show me some films on auditing, so I would know what to expect during the Life Repair Rundown. The Mission had a huge new video machine that played unusual size tape that was three quarters of an inch thick, rather than the half-inch VCR size. Hillary told me that L. Ron Hubbard had his own film studio in Hemet, California, and many prominent film actors got their first big break while performing in Scientology movies.
Although the auditing films were all "G" rated, Hillary brought me in some popcorn from the Mission's kitchen to compensate for that, and then took a seat across from me, next to the video machine, observing all of my reactions to the film. That was fine, because she did not bother to cross her legs, and I could see right up her dress. I was slightly disappointed that Peter was assigning me to a different auditor, because Hillary's knees smelled like peppermint, and I really became aroused by all of that.
One section of the film involved the creation of "mock-ups." A mock-up is "a mental image picture that the thetan creates for the thetan's own use, enjoyment, or imagination, and does not consist of any photograph of the physical universe."
Barbara Fawcett came into the viewing room after the video was over, and both she and Hillary ran a drill on me whereby I "mocked- up" bodies in the room by creating mental image pictures of them. The fun part started when Hillary commanded me to mock up bodies of beautiful women, and animate them within the complete mental image picture by making them walk and talk like dolls. Of course, by that time, I had taken off all of their clothes, and I had already mocked myself up on top of the one with the nicest breasts. By asking me to mock-up beautiful women, it was clear that Hillary found one of my "buttons", or that subject or area that caused me to have the greatest reaction. Barbara perceived that I was getting too absorbed in the mock-up, so she ordered me to mock up the bodies of other staff members. Hillary coaxed me to change the speed of the drill, rapidly moving all of the mocked-up bodies from various points of the room to other points. She then commanded all these bodies of staff members and beautiful women to mock my body up in different parts of the room, and both of us continuously changed the speed and direction of my mocked-up body as I walked about. After doing the drill for over two and one-half hours, I finally saw my own body floating around while I was looking down at it, and I realized that I had again experienced the awesome euphoria of being outside the body, which is known in Scientology as the state of exteriorization. The mock-ups which I created were more solid and far more real than the room we were all standing in, and the power of being able to create these mock-ups by command and by postulate was more intriguing than the time I was twelve years old that I had my appendix taken out, when the anesthesia gave me the grand euphoria of losing consciousness with dignity and style.
Do you have any idea how much of a magnet the Mission was? I enjoyed going down there whether I was being audited or not. There was always something to do. For five dollars, I could listen to any tape of L. Ron Hubbard that was in the inventory of the Mission Library. The five dollars was fair exchange for using the tape, and that seemed very well worth it. But not everything cost money. The promotional videos were free to look at, although once in a while I brought popcorn in, since everyone got the munchies while watching the films. Sometimes I would help the staff members during the "Mailout Marathon Nights", when there was a Dianetics advertising campaign, and the Mission needed help stuffing envelopes to send newsletters out to all of the names in Central Files, in order to remind the "stray wogs" to come back in for a course, an auditing service, or at least to buy a book or a tape.
After five years of Dianetics: The Modern Science Of Mental Health sitting in size place on my shelf at home, I finally read it, and I kicked myself in the foot for not having done so earlier.
Finally, on the 3rd of April, 1979, Peter found me a suitable Class IV Auditor at the Miami Org, and sent me down there to meet her. I had been all keyed out and excited about seeing the Org, and I was thrilled about being invited to go.
Nestled on Giralda Avenue, not less than a block from Miracle Mile in Coral Gables was the Church of Scientology Miami Org. Its dazzling white contemporary building seemed to set the Spanish facade of the balance of the neighboring architectural style quite flat on its butt from insignificance. Surrounded by quaint, adoring restaurants and boutiques for the yuppies-in-attendance, the grandeur of theta for South Florida was no less than a breath of fresh air in an otherwise decadent shopping district of self- indulgence.
Inside the Org itself, I was instantly taken with the electric feeling that the planet could be Cleared right here and now, with staff members charging about the building with a surge of determination that I had not witnessed since I sprayed graffiti on the last beehive. The Org was one big Success Story to the testimonial of the power of "Source", which is a very affectionate euphemism for Ron and his Tech, as he is the originator, the creator, and the cause of all this joy called Scientology.
Ron even had an office at the Miami Org on the second floor, which was roped off, and never entered by any Org staff member except the cleaning lady, and even she had to take her shoes off. There had been no need for Ron to have an office at the Fort Lauderdale Mission, because, after all, the Mission was only a franchise, and was part of the semi-autonomous network known as Mission Owners World Wide. The only strange part about Ron's office in the Miami Org was that Ron had never seen it yet, because he had never chosen to go there. But it was waiting for him, in the event he wanted to get on the Greyhound Bus from California and check out the place.
Walking down the halls of the Org, I passed the Academy, where the "hoots" and the "hoorays" of students attesting to their courses, and preclears attaining the next state on the level of awareness chart known as the "Bridge", were being validated by everyone else who wished them well. There were no sour grapes here. Everybody at the Org was there to push everyone else up the Bridge. It was a major personal flaw, if not a suppressive act, to be "reasonable" about the progress of preclears, because being "reasonable" meant you were not pushing hard enough to Clear the planet. And if you weren't pushing hard enough, you might wind up in the Ethics Office, a dreaded place where you were placed in lower Ethics Conditions, where weird things might happen to you, and where you might be shunned by the rest of the group, belovedly known to all of us as the "Third Dynamic."
You have no idea how fantastic I felt to finally be at the Miami Org! So much happened to me just in the first half hour! A very odd German fellow dressed in a uniform that made him look like he was from the Navy of some other universe, complete with a light blue lanyard wrapped around his jacket that seemed to grow out of his shoulder pads, came over to me and asked me if I wanted to sign a billion year employment contract with an elite Scientology group known as the Sea Org. I told him I was merely trying to find the bathroom. I had a big time case of diarrhea from all of the anticipation, and I found out quite suddenly that the stall I was in had no toilet paper. So I opened up the door, and asked some guy who had just finished popping a pimple on his neck if he knew where the toilet paper was. Suddenly, a voice came screaming from the men's room door, which I found out belonged to an official called the Master At Arms, although he wasn't carrying a gun or anything.
"How dare you talk to him!", the Master At Arms said to me. "Can't you see the dirty gray rag in his back pocket? Don't you know that you're not allowed to talk to anyone in Liability?"
"Am I in the Twilight Zone or something?", I replied. "How can he be in Liability when I'm the one with an ass full of damp shit?"
After explaining my predicament for about twenty minutes, the person whom nobody was allowed to talk to was ordered by three other staff people who had subsequently come into the bathroom to go find me some toilet paper, snapping their fingers in this poor wretch's ears. By the time I finally got some supplies, my behind had all hardened, and I had to sit inside the bowl with the seat raised so that the water could soften the stool sufficiently to allow me to clean myself up again.
With that out of the way, and with my hands washed as best as they could be under the circumstances, I went looking for my auditor. It seemed too inconvenient and embarrassing at the moment to ask anyone else what also might have happened to the soap.
Two rooms to the left of a place called the "Cramming Office" was the Assistant Case Supervisor's Office. That was where the Receptionist told me to go. Inside, there was a fat butterball of a woman hollering at a pathetic Vietnamese man, who was slouched over, and could not stop trembling as she screamed at him.
"Look, Nguyen", the fat lady yelled, "I told you three times already that if you don't get at least six hours sleep, I'm not going to audit you! You don't eat right, you don't get enough rest, and I have no intention of starting our session at eleven o'clock at night and run "Book and Bottle" on you 'til four in the morning."
Suddenly, she noticed me staring at this wild scene.
"Who the hell are you, coming in here without a routing form?", she screeched at me.
"Are you the Assistant Case Supervisor?", I queried meekly.
"Do I look like Lydia? Don't you see I have a preclear in here?", she scolded.
"Who is Lydia?", I asked, slightly overwhelmed. "I'm looking for --"
"Nguyen!", she shouted at the Vietnamese fellow. "Don't fall asleep in this office! You have a bed at home, so don't try to flop out here!"
"But you didn't finish flattening the process on me!", he pleaded, his eyes tearful and desperate for auditing.
"Take it up with Qual!", she wailed. "It's an Auditor's Code Break to run anything on you but a god damn nightmare. Now get the hell out of my office!"
Nguyen picked his weary body up and disappeared down the hall. I had witnessed my first auditing junkie.
The obese bigmouth started up with me again.
"Who in a ton of crap are you, coming in here without a routing form? I don't need any of this DEV- T!"
"What on earth does DEV-T mean?", I asked.
"Oh, great!", she exclaimed, throwing up her hands in a fit of grief. "I have to do word clearing at this hour of the night. That's all I need is to spend the next four hours clearing misunderstood words to a raw meat wog without a fucking routing form."
"Well, I didn't mean to bother you", I said. "I'll just leave and --"
"Sit down in this chair!", she commanded me with the authority of a five star general. "Here is the Admin Dictionary. Look up and tell me what DEV-T means!"
I fumbled through the book, finding the word between "Devaluation" and "DEV-T-itis."
"Here it is!", I stated proudly. "DEV-T means Developing Traffic. Additionally needless, inhibitive actions, indicating that when any time traffic has developed, somebody has flubbed."
"Right!", she acknowledged. "So here you are, Mr. Developing Traffic himself, with your unknown thetan puss walking in here, without the proper routing form. You know you wouldn't be a lump of DEV-T if you physically had a routing form, now would you? So now that you have been dumped in my lap by some evil-purposed enturbulator, why don't you take the marbles out of your mouth, start confronting me as if you weren't trying to act like some psychotic faggot, and tell me exactly who the fuck you are, and who the devil was the off-policy asshole that sent you in here?"
"I'm Steve Fishman, and Peter Letterese from the --"
"You're Steve Fishman?", she gasped, her expression completely changing from a demonic ogre to my long lost friend. "Come let me give you a nice big fat hug! Why didn't you say so in the first place?"
I really didn't appreciate her wrapping her bearish shoulders around me, because her armpits smelled like spoiled raw fish.
"Can I ask who you are?", I groveled suspiciously.
"I'm Valerie Naiman, your auditor!", she shouted triumphantly. "Well, at least you know I'm tough", she added with all the sincerest of apologies. "I'm the crudest dirtbag you'll ever meet in this Org, but I get results! My preclears win, and I'm damn good at running a Life Repair, as you'll soon find out!"
Modesty, apparently, was obviously her best suit.
Valerie gave me a guided tour of the Org this time, in order to ward off the "special purpose registrars" who all wanted me to complete a survey or questionnaire and start a completely unrelated two hour "cycle" of getting me to commit some "flows" to one project or another that happened to be their "stat" at the moment. It goes without saying that they were like vultures in the wings. At one point, when Valerie went into the Org's kitchen for a doughnut which her seam-splitting physique must have craved for incessantly, two more animated shadows pounced all over me with their survey pads. One sullen looking creature wanted to spark my interest in something known as "The Research and Development Compilation Tapes to Books Project", while an even more urgent and determined female thetan wanted me to sign up for fifty thousand dollars worth of auditing at a place called the "American Saint Hill Organization." I was in the process of telling the girl that I was already signed up for Ant Hill so I had no time to go to Saint Hill when Valerie came back and shooed them both away, with droppings of powdered sugar crumbling from between her teeth and out of the side of her mouth.
"How many hours a day do you work?", I inquired of her.
"Do you mean how long am I on post?", she asked, correcting my usage. "Well, let's see. At 8:30 in the morning we get our Orders of the Day; we go on study at nine; then by 11:30 we get our own auditing repairs and cramming done, and write our Success Stories; and then we have a half-hour lunch break at noon. At 12:30 we prepare our Battle Plan for the Day; then there's Afternoon Staff Muster at 12:30, and then after that the fun begins, because I audit on post from one until 4:45, when we write up our Knowledge Reports and Completed Staff Works. At 5:30 we have family time for those of us that have families, and the rest of us like myself work on special projects, like arranging Psychbusts to bash the local shrinks. Then from seven to 7:30 we send out for pizza, Chinese food or some Spanish rice. There's a great Cuban place on Coral Way that's real cheap. At 7:45 we have Evening Staff Muster, and then from eight to eleven I am on post auditing again, which is my favorite time of the day. I get full of piss and vinegar in the evening, like you heard when I had to handle Nguyen. If a preclear doesn't get enough sleep, he's "out of session." I run my shop with one hundred percent Standard Tech and no bullshit. Okay; so then at eleven, we have a Staff Meeting, and do our Org Goals Assessment, and by 11:30, we write up our VFPs for the day; well, you don't know what that is, do you? It means our Valuable Final Products, and then by midnight, we're off post and we can take care of whatever personal business we have to handle.
"When do you have time for sex?", I asked.
"You've spent too much time around those sick psychologists, that's you're problem!", she bellowed.
I thought it was a valid question.
After hearing Valerie's schedule, which was a testimonial to her love affair with time consumption, I quickly disabused myself of any remote notion of asking her to travel to Fort Lauderdale to audit me at the Mission, even though it would have been far more convenient for me as the paying spiritual consumer. The extra two hours per day travelling time bothered me, because I wanted to spend whatever free time I had with my daughter. Due to the fact that cleaning the house got in the way of my "hat" as a father, I decided that for the first time, I would apply Scientology technology, and I hired a housekeeper to work three days a week, which was the solution, proving to be the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics after all.
Freddie Ann Hinrichs was a pillar of society. Abandoned by her Southern Baptist aristocratic Kentucky family, her favorite diversion was hanging around the Thunderbird Swap Shop Flea Market and Drive- In Theatre, where she occasionally worked as a ticket taker until her lust for a bottle of Jack Daniels rendered her slightly unemployable. Her daughter Jackie was engaged in a torrid love affair with an adventurer named Salvatore, who happened to be one of Fort Lauderdale's most notorious pimps; and then there was always the risk of Freddie's granddaughter's stuffed teddy bear collection being busted, because unknown to four year old Jocelyn Nicole Lawrence, the soft animals were filled to the gills with the finest Colombian marijuana that wogs could buy. Of course, that was an ostensibly harmless hobby of Freddie's other daughter Debbie, who was the mother of the little girl.
But Freddie herself was a fine housekeeper, trained by my Aunt Jeanne, who worked her domestics to death, apathy, or catatonia until they caught on. Aunt Jeanne did not like her hired help raiding the refrigerator either. Her favorite behavior modification technique was in conditioning her maids not to sample anything, because "Christians are never able to digest delicious Jewish food." To prove it, she ordered Freddie to put a large tablespoon of kosher white horseradish in her mouth and swallow it fast; and after spending an hour at the emergency room at Florida Medical Center because her esophagus was on fire, she never snagged any snacks on the sly again.
So Freddie was easily housebroken to my way of doing things after Aunt Jeanne broke her in properly. I trained her to organize everything by height and alphabetically, and especially how I liked my socks ironed with heavy spray starch. She was so good, that she knew about five disinfectants that I never even heard of, which were highly effective at getting the smell of puppy throw-up off the rug. My daughter Arielle liked Freddie, because she would bring her four year old granddaughter Jocelyn Nicole to play with her, without the benefit of the stuffed teddy bears of course. Jaime just ignored her, and got on a very systematic schedule herself, which was getting out of bed once a day to watch General Hospital. The only problem I had with Freddie was that she would periodically switch the contents of the Chivas Regal bottles with Seneca Apple Juice, because they were both the same exact color. That did not disturb me as much as when I came home that night and found Freddie completely passed out and had wet the bed. Jaime never even noticed, since it was my bed that she soaked, and the lady of the house never went into that room. The police had to take Freddie home.
But the good news was that I could spend more time getting the Life Repair done, now that I had the housework completely under control.
In the Life Repair Rundown, Valerie handled the upsets in my current lifetime. For example, the sight of milk being poured made me violently sick. Valerie had me look at the most recent picture of that disturbance, which in Dianetics is known as a "lock." I did this by confronting the last time milk had made me ill, which happened to be a Dairy Board commercial. I ran the "somatics" of milk, which were the pain and the ache sensation of looking at the mental image pictures of it, as well as the "misemotion", or unpleasant feelings of having to confront large quantities of milk. I mean, Valerie had me look at gobs of the stuff. I saw paint pails full of it, walls sprayed with milk through fire hoses, and lots of cruddy, lumpy spoiled milk. After calling for someone in Liability to clean up the vomit all over the auditing room floor, occasioned by my reacting to these pictures, Valerie had me look at earlier but yet similar incidents of disagreement with milk. After six hours of hunting through what appeared to be the milky way, I found pictures in the reactive "bank" where these images are stored, of myself throwing baby bottles against the wall of my nursery when I was seven months old. I don't know why they don't make baby bottles out of glass anymore, because today, nothing happens to a plastic bottle, and they stick the milk right back in the kid's mouth after it hits the floor. At least in 1950, after I saw the picture of myself breaking the ninth glass bottle, my mother had the good sense to give up in despair, and start feeding me apple juice.
About a week later, Valerie used some of the prepared lists of questions for the Life Repair Rundown to handle my eyesight, because she noticed that I wore glasses all of the time.
But before I ran the process, Valerie wanted me to learn the truth about how we really see.
In L. Ron Hubbard's Professional Auditor's Bulletin Number 111, dated 1 May 1957, Ron states: "It is interesting to know that a thetan doesn't look through his eyeballs. He has two little gold discs, one in front of each eye lens. They are not the lenses of the eyes, but, as you might say, mocked-up energy. They are little gold discs that are super-imposed over the eye, and he looks through these. The eyeballs merely serve to locate these discs."
Once I understood that wearing the eyeglasses on my body had nothing whatsoever to do with my ability to see, I was ready to run the repetitive process, whereby Valerie asked me the same question over and over again, with my hands holding the soup cans of the E-Meter, until I had a "win" and a major cognition.
"What have you done that cannot be seen?", Valerie repeated over and over.
I told her that I did not want to be seen while I was clipping my toenails, trimming the hair out of my nose, or washing my balls in the shower. The E-Meter needle was "floating" as I gave up all of those responses or "withholds." But suddenly, Valerie noticed that I had a "High Tone Arm", or adverse reaction, when I told her about how much I enjoyed driving through the streets of Miami on the way home from the Org with my pants down. That was definitely "something I have done that cannot be seen", although it was a very direct approach for attracting hookers on Biscayne Boulevard.
But no sooner than I cognited that exposing myself in the car was the hidden "overt" that I had done that cannot be seen, my vision improved! Valerie pulled out an eye chart from the storage closet, and tested me, and I really could see better! Giving up that "withhold" to the auditor about the overt act truly improved my sight! Areas of my life that I didn't even know were in a decline were being repaired! I was in a complete state of awe and astonishment!
"This shit really works!", I said, talking to myself as I walked down the hall, on the way to write a Success Story.
In the course of establishing rudiments for the auditing session, I told Valerie that one of my biggest present time problems was that I was too well organized for the rest of the world, since the outside environment seemed to be very chaotic to me.
Just to show you how dedicated Valerie was in helping me; not like these cockamamie psychiatrists; she brought a queen-sized pillow from her own house, and slashed it with a big butcher knife in the middle of the auditing room.
"Okay, Mr. Perfect!", she squalked. "What I want you to do is put every feather that fell on the floor in size place. I don't care how long it takes you to do it, but I'm not going to handle your case until you have it all done!"
"What the hell did you do that for?", I cried.
"If you've got a present time problem, and you think you're better that anybody else in the whole world at putting things in order, then you're not sessionable, because your rudiments are out. So now show me either that you can organize these feathers, or admit to me, to the Org, and to the whole fourth dynamic of mankind that you're a braggy failure and then you'll be fully qualified to shove the whole pillowcase up your ass and keep your nattery mouth shut!"
How can I make heads or tails out of this?", I asked. "They're all flying all over the place!"
"I'm going to give you one clue!", she muttered staunchly. "Pick up one feather. That's your "stable datum." Every other feather will either be bigger or smaller. Now start!"
It was tedious, taking nine hours. I put a stopper in the door because the slightest wind or gust of air would upset the works and stir the feathers up. The drill started at eight in the evening, and I didn't finish until five in the morning. My eyes were bloodshot. I was frustrated, because I wasn't going to be able to cruise by any of the prostitutes on the way home. I was too tired, and I had to open up the shoe store in just four hours! There had been at least two hundred feathers that looked the same size, but when you pressed on them with your fingers, you could see the difference. It was so hard changing their positions, because when you touched just one, the rest would move. Finally I had the idea of laying on the table and bending over the sides onto the floor. When the last feather was put in place, I found Valerie, asleep on the cot in the Hubbard Communications Office, but soon eager to inspect my project when I gently whispered that I was finished. Despite the fact that it was against Policy to leave me alone in the building and she actually had to stay with me, I couldn't help but admire her dedication for standing by, even if she was just dreaming about it the whole time. She was such a devoted auditor, and it would have been unfair to deprive her of her rest when it was I that had to complete the drill on my own.
Valerie peeked into the auditing room.
"Don't move!", I warned. "You're going to disturb something!"
"Pass!", she bellowed.
"No, you can't go in there!", I begged.
"I just said you passed!", she crowed. "'Pass' was your grade on the Rudiments Drill, not an order to move aside."
Valerie looked at me with a glimmer of doubt.
"Are you tired or something?", she asked, with half of a raised eyebrow aimed at me, as she noticed me leaning against the wall, as if I were trying to hold it up with my weak back.
"Well, it's five fifteen in the morning, but I'm okay --"
"Good!", she clamored, snapping to attention. "If you said you were tired, I would have sent you home. But since you're "okay", then I want you to write your Success Story."
"No, no! I'm really tired", I admitted. "I have to get some sleep. I don't even know how I'll be able to drive home, because Valerie, I, can't see straight!"
"Forget it! You're ethics are out", she said stormily. "I asked you if you were tired. You didn't say, "Yes, not only am I tired, I am shit faced!" No -- you said you were okay. Well, saying you are okay when you are not okay is just not okay! Go write your success story, before I have to write up an Ethics Chit on you."
"But you're not being reasonable!", I pleaded.
"That's right! I'm not being reasonable. And do you know why, Steve? Because "reasonableness" is not a virtue. Reasonableness is standing by while psychiatrists put cattle prods and ice picks in the brains of their electric shock victims. Reasonableness is doing nothing about hippies getting strung out on hash, grass, coke and LSD. Reasonableness is hearing you tell me that you are the most organized thetan on this planet, and then not making you prove it. In Scientology, we don't want to hear "boasts" and "brags." If your goal in life is to be the neatest, most orderly person on Planet Earth, then my job as an auditor is to make certain that your goal becomes a reality, even if I have to make you categorize every grain of sand on Miami Beach. But it's not enough to be the best at anything without Ethics. When I ask you if you are tired, you'd better be honest with me and not start your lying, "withholdy" bullshit."
"But I was just making conversation!", I argued. "I was just being polite! How could you not know I am tired beyond belief after fiddling around with these frigging feathers all night?"
Valerie grabbed me by the collar and threw me against the wall, crushing me with all of her two hundred and eighty pounds.
"I bet you're not feeling so tired now, are you, boy? Do you feel your adrenaline start pumping? Did you get that second wind yet?"
She slowly placed me down in a chair two feet away.
"Now you pay attention to me!", she growled. "I don't want idle conversation. I don't want you to be polite. That horse shit is fine for the wog world. We're operating on a higher standard here. Scientology is all about ARC. Affinity, reality, and communication. You're ethics are out when you give me lies and unreality. Got that? That frosts my buns and throws out my affinity. And when my affinity is out, I have to go through this wasted communication with you. So how are we going to handle this little ARC break? By my very healthy unreasonable act of putting this cute little pen in your tired, exhausted hand, and watch you write the best Success Story you have ever written in your whole life. I don't want to only hear about feathers. I want to hear all about Ethics too!"
Driving from the Org to the shoe store at 7:30 A.M., I realized that I didn't feel tired anymore. The sun was coming up over the Miami skyline, and it was going to be a beautiful day. My Success Story was the finest in the history of the Miami Org. Maybe one day Ron would get to read it. All I could think about was how fortunate I was to have an auditor like Valerie, and what a great privilege it was to be her preclear! Exteriorizing all the way home, I cognited that thetans never get tired. Only bodies do. It was about time to see Peter and find out more about my post in life. I was ready.
Peter Letterese had heard rave reviews about me from Valerie in getting through my Life Repair. Lydia Martinez, the Assistant Case Supervisor of Miami, sent copies of all my Success Stories to Peter at the Mission. Barbara Fawcett, who by now I learned was Peter's girlfriend, was so impressed by what I had written, that she made photocopies of the Success Stories and hung them up on the walls of the kitchen for everyone to read. I was quite the returning hero, as Peter handed me my Award Certificate for fully completing my first successful major auditing action.
The first order of business was to formulate a Battle Plan on how I could go up the Bridge.
"There are stellar states of awareness waiting along the fully mapped out Route to Total Freedom that will completely rehabilitate you as an Operating Thetan", Peter pointed out. "It takes a lot of hard work, as well as confronting a lot of suppression and "counter- intention"", he added.
The first thing that Peter did was to carefully go over the format for writing up "O/Ws", which are Overt/Withhold Reports, or summaries of all harmful acts that I committed against myself, my spouse, my mother, my father, my friends, as well as all of the eight dynamics. Writing the report took three days, and I never realized how rotten and miserable I was until I finished putting everything that I did down on paper. But amazingly enough, after I completed writing the "O/Ws", I felt better! A huge chunk of "charge" or guilt was relieved by confessing to all of my sins. Peter then had me write a long, prolific Success Story on how wonderful it felt to write up all of the O/Ws, and Corwin gave me an examination on it, which showed extremely good indicators, a cluster of outstanding cognitions, and made me feel like a happier, healthier, guilt-free human being.
Barbara Fawcett, who was the Public Executive Secretary of the Mission, brought in a bottle of freshly squeezed pineapple juice, because she knew that it was my favorite, and served the tropical refreshment to Peter and I on a silver tray, adorned with pistachio nuts.
"I know you are feeling like a brand new thetan after doing those O/Ws", Peter commented as he picked a piece of nut shell out of his teeth.
"Peter, I had no idea what a relief it is to confront the less flattering side of my life", I said.
"You know, it's not only yourself that you have to confront. You have been suppressed by lots of people out there."
"The psychologist, Dr. Geertz --" I began.
"Yes", Peter interrupted. "But sometimes you have to look a lot closer than that. Take your father, for instance."
"My father?", I repeated, very surprised.
"This is just a wild guess, now", he stammered, "but somehow I never thought you were the type of guy who would be happy working in a shoe store for eight years. You don't like selling, and, by the way, when is the last time you had a raise in salary?"
I didn't know what to say.
"I haven't needed one", I blurted out.
"What? Married to a Jewish American Princess who charges everything, including you? And with a new baby? Your father owes you a fortune in back pay!"
"Maybe I should ask him for another one hundred dollars a week", I figured.
"A hundred dollars a week?", Peter yelped. "More like another thousand dollars a week! I bet your father had you under his thumb his whole life. He probably told you what kind of girl you could go out with and everything."
"Not only my father, but his three sisters", I agreed. "Aunt Jeanne, Aunt Min, and Aunt Bess! None of them ever let me go out with a girl unless she was highly recommended and Jewish!"
"Is that fair?", Peter asked, trying to steam me up.
"No!", I screamed. "There was once this beautiful, kind, good natured Cuban girl who I wanted to marry. Her name was Lourdes Amaryllis Santos Rodriguez, and my whole family broke it up. Aunt Jeanne kept saying that her skin was full of grease because she was Spanish. Aunt Min reminded me that Cuban girls breed venereal disease and it gets in all their cooking. Aunt Bess kept telling me that I would have little dark worms for children who would drool on everything and stink up the place. Not only that, none of them would even meet poor Lourdes! I once had to hide her under the bed when my father accidentally walked into the house."
"That sounds like he and his whole family committed some pretty suppressive acts!", Peter continued, his head bobbing up and down like a yoyo. "What about when you were growing up?"
"Oh, you don't know the half of it, Peter", I admitted, trying hard not to think about it. "He forced me to go away to a sleep-away camp in Maine called Camp Wigwam, where I had to go to all of these regimented athletic activities that I hated. I was teased by all of these bratty kids because I hated to play ball, and I was bitten up by mosquitoes and had terrible allergies, sneazing miserably all the time. Finally it got to a point where I had to throw mothballs into the fireplace and set the whole auditorium on fire before my father gave in and pulled me out of there!"
Peter had me mock up that incident and recall it about eight times.
"What else did he do to you?", Peter asked.
"We lived in this big cluster of apartments in Queens, New York, and he forced me to go outside in this large court yard and play with the other kids!", I cried. "All I wanted to do was ride the subway trains. That was the only thing that ever made me happy. For fifteen cents I could go from the North Bronx to Far Rockaway. But no! He wanted me to play baseball in the playground with these mean delinquents! They were cruel bullies that used to make fun of me because I had my own collection of S&H Green Stamps. But do you think my father would give me the sympathy that I deserved? No! Instead, he took all my change away so I couldn't escape to the trains. He insisted that I participate in sports with all of these rough punks who hated my guts!"
"He sounds like a real fucking SP!", Peter asserted, laden with compassion.
"Well, what the hell can I do about it anyway?", I answered in utter despair.
"You have been crushed under the shoes of a lot of "two and a half percenters", and it's about time that you started fighting back!", he said, madly pointing his finger at the ceiling. "You are going to take sixteen hundred dollars a week out of that store, starting this week. I am not going to allow an old Jewish fanatic to inhibit you from going up the Bridge!"
"But the store will go broke!", I reasoned.
"Just relax!", Peter said assuringly. "The store isn't going to go broke. Your father probably has ten grand or so stuffed in the mattress like they all do. Anyway, it's just a loan. You're going to be rich enough to buy the old man ten shoe stores. But you can't do diddly-squat for him with your reactive mind standing in the way, now can you?
"I can't just take sixteen hundred dollars a week out of the shoe store", I argued. "He'll find out!"
"Steve, listen to me! Just listen to me!", he stated. "You already get three hundred dollars a week. Tell him you need four hundred dollars in salary. The store is open six days a week, right?"
"Yeah, we're closed on Sundays."
"I can't believe this! The Jews are supposed to be such good businessmen. You should have been Italian!", he laughed. "I don't know why you want to pay such high taxes. Do you have any idea what the U. S. Government did to us in 1963? Any vague thought on how we were attacked by the SPs in Washington that run our so called psychiatric-backed "Government?""
"Are you sitting down?", Peter screeched, seeing me well glued in my chair. "In 1963, President John F. Kennedy, who the psychotic wog world out there thinks is such a big hero because he got shot or something went ahead and ordered the FBI to raid our Founding Church in Washington, D. C., and then they confiscated seven hundred and fifty E-Meters! You thought we live in a sane society, didn't you? I've got news for you. It's run by the Reactive Bank of psychs and squirrels! That's who you pay your taxes to!"
"Kennedy did that?", I uttered in disbelief.
"Yeah, and then they spent ten million dollars to try to find out who killed him", Peter revealed. "Everybody knows it was Aristotle Onassis who was behind the murder, because he wanted to sleep with Kennedy's wife! That's the Power of Simplicity of Scientology. You start learning how to observe the obvious. We call that the art of "obnosis."
"I had no idea --"
"Look, what I've got to tell you is more important!", Peter said, getting back on track. "There are six days a week that your shoe store is open. I want you to take two hundred dollars in cash right off the gross sales receipts each day of the week, and bring it to me. That will get the flows going to start you up the Bridge. In no time, you will have all your "Objectives" paid for."
"What are "Objectives?", I asked, slightly numb from Peter's order.
"It's the first step on the Bridge", he snapped. "Never you mind. It's what you need. Do you think I would have you do anything that wasn't one hundred percent good for you?"
"No, Peter, of course not", I reassured him. "But how can I prevent my father from finding out? And, isn't it wrong to have such a withhold from him about his very own business?"
Peter slammed his fist on the desk.
"Don't you understand that you are helping your father get his own ethics in by doing this? Look at all of these years he has paid you three hundred dollars a week when you were worth every penny of a thousand. And when he destroyed that relationship with your Cuban girlfriend who could have truly made you happy. In the theta universe, by taking the money which is rightfully due you, you are making things go right. You are actually helping him by evening up the slate. How long do you think the scales could be tipped in his favor without you becoming completely caved in? Getting you up the Bridge is the most important action of your immediate lifetime! It's the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics. You'd also be helping the Mission become a Celebrity Center. Remember, you're a part of the Third Dynamic too. We're your Mission every much as it is Bruce's and mine, and Barbara's, and everyone else's in here. But think of your poor father. Here he is, committing all of these suppressive overt acts against you, with no way for him to straighten out his own ethics on his own. He needs you do to this for him every bit as much as you need to do it for yourself! Watch, you will see. If you help him in this way by handling his overts, he will one day ask you about Scientology, and come down to the Mission, and you will be at cause over straightening his life out, and one day you can really start to be proud of him!"
"Do you think he will really appreciate it?", I wondered out loud.
"You would be creating a miracle in the theta universe", he promised. "That's the greatness of Scientology. The moment you take responsibility for another thetan, even if in the physical universe it may be hard for that person to understand, you become cause, and you start that special being on the Road to Total Freedom."
"Is it really possible that I might be able to get my father in here for auditing if I straighten out his ethics?", I asked.
"He'll be down on his hands and knees thanking you!", Peter told me. "Don't expect it to happen until you get yourself up the Bridge though, because it will be your untapped power to make postulates that will get him handled, and the most important thing is to get you up to a point where you can confront any barrier in the physical universe that gets in your way."
"So what do I do about my father in the meantime?", I beseeched him.
"Very easy. I want you to make out two sets of deposit tickets for the shoe store's daily bank deposits. There will be one set prepared for your father's benefit, and then the real set which will show two hundred dollars a day less in cash, and that's the one you will deposit. All you have to do is hide the actual deposit tickets for two hundred dollars less per day in a shoe box, and then about a month later, enter them in your ledger book. Your father will never know. Don't forget, you're taking an extra hundred dollars a week in salary, so you have to earn it by doing a little extra work, right?"
"Isn't that a little like stealing?", I said bluntly.
"No, I'll be holding the money for you here at the Mission", Peter answered.
"But isn't what I'm doing just the same as stealing from the shoe store?", I repeated.
"How can you call making the store extra money "stealing"?", he asked. "The store is going to show less profits, and you'll have little or no taxes to pay to the Government at all. The Government is a group of sick SPs. All they want to do is keep supporting psychiatry. You certainly shouldn't give a damn about them! At the end of the year the store will come out way ahead, and your father can buy himself a new Cadillac with the difference. Besides, it's only a loan. You're only borrowing the money toward your Bridge until the returns from your "post in life" come rolling in. And don't forget, you are going to be making a million dollars every five years, and handling all of the SPs of the planet at the very same time. Does your father smoke cigars?"
"No. He has emphysema."
"Well, it's a shame he doesn't smoke, because your father will be able to light his cigars with thousand dollar bills when you get fully hatted on making money", Peter remarked smugly.
"You don't understand", I said. "He has a lung condition."
(Continued next section)
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