Lonesome Squirrel

by Steven Fishman

3: Theta Doesn't Grow On Trees


(continued from previous section)

Peter's brotherly advice helped me out a lot. The additional one hundred dollars in salary meant that I could afford to have sex with Jaime an extra night per week, and I would also be able to use the rest to pay some of my personal bills, which were mounting steadily. I even gave Freddie a ten dollar raise for her house cleaning, because without her help, I felt that I would start to have some severe mental problems.

Helping my father get his ethics in was as simple as Peter said. Keeping the two sets of deposit tickets took an extra few minutes a day, but I knew that soon I would embark upon Ron's prepared route which would take me to heights that I never before dreamed possible.

I was still very curious about when I would start my post in life. But Peter liked the game of keeping me salivating in suspense, until I was causative enough to have more ARC and understanding on my own natural potential as a thetan.

I remember the 15th of April, 1979, because that was Income Tax Day, and to celebrate, Peter asked me to read a Hubbard Communications Office Policy Letter which had been written nearly twenty years ago on the 2nd of June, 1959, entitled "A Comment On Finance."

Ron wrote, "I answer money problems with lots of money, not with worry or sadness or impractical hope. I never count on any one source. I always plan to get the total sum of all the money I need from each one of three or four ways or sources."19

After reading, word clearing, and doing a clay table demonstration on the Policy Letter, I cognited on the fact that the shoe store income was inadequate, because I needed at least two or three different and other sources.

Peter put his worksheet down and looked at me very intently.

"I'm just wondering", he said. "Before you got into Scientology, didn't you ever feel very much a part of your own third dynamic of Jews?

"Well, yes", I guessed. "But I didn't go to synagogue that often, because I couldn't understand the Hebrew. Listening to it used to put me to sleep."

"Ahh, the curse of the misunderstood word!", Peter reiterated philosophically. "I bet the old Rabbi never knew he could have saved a few of his flock if he had some of Ron's Study Tech under his belt. Well, I suppose they don't allow people to start word clearing during the reading of the Torah, and I'm sure you could get in real big trouble for sneaking clay hidden in your skull cap."

"That might be a good idea --", I agreed, when Peter interrupted me again.

"I don't want to get off on a tangent here!", he explained. "What I'm asking you about is how deeply the Nazi holocaust bothers you as a Jew."

"Of course it disturbs me!", I reacted indignantly. "I once went out with this girl from the Jewish Defense League named Bracha Glansberg, and that's all she wanted to talk about. I had to stop dating her because she always insisted upon having a conversation about the gas chambers during dinner."

"So you couldn't confront it! Is that it?", Peter speculated.

"I guess not", I squirmed. "It was too horrible."

Peter slammed two books together near my right ear, in complete disgust.

"So you couldn't confront it!", he repeated. "What about these multi-million dollar international megabucks corporations who benefitted from the deaths of your fellow Jews during World War Two? Companies like I. G. Farben, who made the Zyklon-B cyanide for the gas chambers, for example. Hard to confront, isn't it?"

"I recall having this conversation with you three years ago, at Carol Wynn's house", I said. "We played a game with a penny, and by the time it was over, I realized I could take away their whole company for what they had done."

"Good, you remember that!", acknowledged Peter. "And do you know who the customers were of the Zyklon-B cyanide? The German psychiatrists who ran the concentration camps. So you see how much Jews and Scientologists have in common? The Jews were the victims of these psychs, and Scientologists are working to end that suppression once and for all."

"How can we do that?", I pondered.

"Wrong question!", Peter barked. "How can you do that?"

"Me?", I asked, quite surprised. "What can I do? I'm just one person."

"One very big, powerful thetan, capable of creating his own universe!", he reminded me.

Peter ordered me to go back to the Miami Org, where I met the Public Executive Secretary of Miami, an ex-Jew named Leah Abady.

Although not very pretty with her bird's nest hair that smelled of barn puke straw and an unsightly mole on her face, she looked every bit of thirty-eight years old, even though she was only in her mid- twenties. She was of average height, and although neither skinny or fat, looked as sexually appetizing as a hamster having a double miscarriage. Her outfit was the color of fertilizer potting soil, and the style was that of a 1960's flower child, after all the children and the flowers had died.

However, despite all of these possible distractions, she was a Dianetic Clear, and supposedly didn't have a reactive mind. Well, I didn't see hers, anyway.

I liked Leah very much. Behind the bags in her eyes was a vibrant, personable, and talented thetan. She was precise, eloquent, and as virtuous as being a lapsed Jewess would allow. She had one bad habit, which was sucking on her pen, but the rich in theta are never truly flawed.

Her office at the Org was more impressive than Valerie's.

Valerie, after all, had to share an office with Lydia Martinez, the Assistant Case Supervisor. Leah Abady had a grandiose sized desk, with a gargantuan, expensive adding machine, indicating to me that more "flows" seemed to pass through her check book than her Tampons.

Leah ran only one process on me, but her auditing was of a different style than I had experienced before. There was almost a weightlessness to it, since I was in a light state of concentration or trance most of the time, known as "reverie", defined as wherein the preclear is in some degree detachable from his surroundings. Dr. Geertz would call it being hypnotized, but in the Dianetics and Scientology Technical Dictionary, Ron specifically states that reverie "is not to be confused with hypnosis."20

During "Level Robin Hood", which by coincidence also has the initials "LRH", which stands for L. Ron Hubbard, Leah asked me to transfer stacks of money from one pile of mixed brownish-grayish clay labeled "SP Bad Guys" to another pile of pretty light blue clay labeled "SCN Good Guys." "SCN" is the abbreviation for Scientology. This drill was a repetitive process done for four hours, and checked on the E-Meter, which measured my agreement or disagreement with the drill itself. It was called Level Robin Hood because in the drill, you transfer representative "considerations" of money from the rich to the poor. My "Meter Reads" were excellent, indicating that my purposes were both helpful and honorable.

The final step before my eligibility to be "hatted in my post in life" was to pass a metered Security Check, which Leah also "ran" on me. The Security Check was not auditing, nor were any Scientological processes used, but rather "were aimed at transgressions against the mores of the group", according to her [21].

The questions on the Security Check came from a document known as the Johannesburg Confessional List dated 7 April 1961, revised 30 May 1975 [22]. Some of the questions were a piece of cake, because they did not apply to me.

For example, Question 25, "Have you assisted in any abortion?", was clearly a "No" answer. I used to play "doctor" when I was eight years old, but that was only to be able to see little girls from around the neighborhood when they were naked.

Question 52, "Have you ever had anything to do with a baby farm?", was another lead pipe cinch, because, between you and I, how many baby farms have you ever visited anyway?

As you can see, a lot of the questions had nothing to do with me.

Number 45, "Have you ever been a newspaper reporter?", was an easy one to answer in the negative, unless it was a crime to have been the editor of the cafeteria menu at the Sands Point Country Day School for Gifted Children, where I went to school in 1963. But it was on the same list as Question 35, "Have you ever murdered anyone?", and somehow I couldn't help wondering whether Leah Abady considered a job as a newspaper reporter as bad as being employed as a hired killer. Well, a reporter might have to kill a news story once in a while, so that's probably what the comparison was all about.

Leah asked me Question 87.

"Do you have any overts on Mary Sue?"

I said to myself, "Who the hell is Mary Sue? Was she one of my hookers that I knocked up? How did Leah know about it?"

Leah saw the puzzled look on my face.

"Mary Sue is the Commodore Staff Guardian, Mary Sue Hubbard!", she beamed.

"I never even met her!", I explained.

"I had to ask you the question anyway", Leah apologized. "It's on the list, and you wouldn't want me to leave anything out as thorough as you are, now would you?"

"Question 94", Leah continued. "Have you ever used Dianetics or Scientology to force sex upon someone?"

"No, but how can I do that?", I asked.

Speaking of sex, there were a lot of questions that made me "Rock Slam", or indicate some "hidden evil intention on the subject or question."23 This tattle-tale reading on the E-Meter is called a Rock Slam because the E-Meter needle frantically slams back and forth on the dial. Question 26, "Have you ever committed adultery?", gave a real good hard shock to the needle, while Question 31, "Have you ever consistently made a practice of sexual perversion?", almost broke the damn thing. Still, Leah did not seem to mind, as she did not have any observable reaction to my controversial indications.

On some questions I had real good "reads". Number 67, which was "How do you feel about being controlled?", was my best question.

"Why should I mind being controlled if I'm having a good time?", I asked.

In all fairness though, I did have one horrible reaction to the Security Check, and it had nothing to do with the list of 96 Questions that were on the Johannesburg Confessional List Revised.

I flunked on my E-Meter needle reaction to a picture of the Scientology Cross. It showed a lethal disagreement with the symbol, and for the life of me, I did not know why. Leah was convinced at one point that I had infiltrated the Org to do some very serious damage to Scientology. But was this bitch crazy, or what?

"I love Scientology!", I protested. "I think everyone in the world should be a Scientologist! I don't have any evil purpose against Scientology just because I don't like that ugly cross!"

Leah kept up an onslaught of questions for three hours because she was so bugged by my seemingly unusual and rare reaction. But finally, after exhausting all the possibilities, I cognited that it was the cross itself, not the fact that I was looking at a specific Scientology Cross, that I disagreed with. Further inquiry proved my point, since my responses showed no antagonism toward other Scientology emblems, drawings and trademarks, but instead, I reacted to just that one symbol. Leah ended off the Security Check satisfied that whatever was troubling me about the configuration of the Scientology Cross would be taken up in later auditing, and that it had nothing to do with any hidden, false purpose I had against Scientology. Consequently, I was approved for a further debriefing on my "post in life" by Peter Letterese at the Mission.


"What is my next step?", I asked Peter.

"You're going to be an executive!", he glowed. "Not just an ordinary executive, but a finance executive."

"But what do I know about finance?", I queried.

"Not enough", he chuckled, "But when you finish your Executive Finance Hatting, you'll be an economics wizard, a stock market genius, and a Financial Rescue Rocket Jockey."

I immediately signed up for the Executive Finance Hatting Course. It was only two hundred dollars more, which was no big deal.

"That's chicken feed to a guy with your potential!", Peter balked, since he knew that cheapness was a "button" that I inherited from my father. Dr. Geertz used to call my father's fiscal conservatism "anal retentiveness", but Peter did not want to hear the bizarre way that the "entheta antago ethics-bait psychs" butchered the English language.

The Executive Finance Hatting Course made me feel like a Wall Street Tycoon, although I kept my goals in perspective. I soon cognited on the need to create more income, in order to take full responsibility for the harmful acts, overts, and withholds that many evil, suppressive groups have committed, so that the Third Dynamic of Scientology would flourish and prosper.

Peter was very dedicated to helping me. If I had a brother, he couldn't have been closer and more patient with me than Peter. He took a nearly obsessive interest in seeing that I applied the materials in the Executive Finance Hatting Course just the way Ron wanted me to study them. Peter did all of the "Starrate Checkouts" on me himself. A "Starrate Checkout" is a "very exact action of verifying a student's knowledge of an item given on a course Checksheet, which, by word clearing and use of the clay table on a portion of the study materials, thereby tests his full understanding of the data and his ability to apply it within a format that is one hundred percent letter perfect in knowing, understanding, demonstrating, and being able to repeat back the material with no lag in communication."24

Just to show you how wonderful Peter was to me, we spent an hour and a half "starrating" the word "The." It may sound unimportant to you, but demonstrating the word "The" in clay and really word clearing its meaning very solidly so that I truly knew what the word "The" meant was one of the biggest accomplishments of my entire life, not that many people can honestly do it. Can you?

Once we got the fundamentals down to a workable level, Peter had me demonstrate "Money Goals." He told me that I was definitely going to make one million dollars in five years. But first, he wanted to know what the money would be used for, in order to assist my survival and beingness on all of the Eight Dynamics.

On the first dynamic, or self, I knew I needed money to go up the Bridge. I had come to realize long before this that I had an addictive craving to know all of the answers to the mysteries of life. I needed money for auditing, training, Scientology books and tapes, as well a decent standard of living so that I could set a good standard and earn the respect of the wog world for my achievements as a Scientologist.

On the second dynamic, which is sex and family, I needed sufficient quantities of money to sustain the lifestyle of my materialistically insatiable wife, for as long as the marriage lasted, as well as funds to take very excellent care of my daughter Arielle, and to support at least two mistresses and no less than five prostitutes.

I wanted to be a Power Booster of Scientology, which of course is operating as a thetan on the Third Dynamic, and to use money to fight our enemies, including the psychiatrists, the international criminal police of Interpol, and the FBI.

For mankind, the fourth dynamic, I wanted to allocate money toward an initiative that would prevent nuclear war and the destruction of the planet.

As an animal rights activist, I wanted money to help prevent cruelty to domestic and laboratory animals. My favorite charity has always been the National Anti-Vivisection Society. Helping other life forms, such as animals and plants, is the fifth dynamic. I once read a newspaper article that some psychologist wanted to put clothes on plants because he was insecure about his own nudity. I told Peter about it, and we decided that part of my Battle Plan was to find this aberrated person and cure him of his insanity through Scientology auditing.

I could not decide how to help the sixth dynamic with money, since the sixth dynamic is the physical universe. Did the physical universe really want me to buy it anything? I sort of crapped out on that one.

The seventh dynamic was no problem for me at all. You see, that's the spiritual universe. I wanted lots of money to research all of my past lives. I wish I still had a copy of that nice Success Story I wrote when I finished the Life Repair Rundown with Valerie. As soon as I cognited on the reality that I had lived before, Scientology did the wondrous thing of taking away all my fear that I once had of death. So now, I had a strong compulsion to find out more about who I was in other lifetimes before I was born. I told Peter that I needed to put a few hundred thousand dollars aside for that. He said I could do it for a lot less.

Now here is one most people would have a big dilemma with. The eighth dynamic is God, or the Supreme Being, or the Infinitely Big Thetan. I knew that God never needed me to buy him presents. What the hell would he need them for? But there was something that money could buy that God truly could use. God needed better positive publicity. I decided that it was time that someone did something to prevent God from having a bad name. I never looked at God as this jealous, vengeful, wrathful creature that the Bible talks about. To me, God was always love and goodness. I told Peter that God was entitled to have his image rebuilt in a public relations campaign, and that I wanted to put aside some money for that too. Peter wrote it all down and put it in my Preclear Folder, never committing himself on that one.

Although I didn't have any money right now, I wanted to help right away. Running the Money Goals made me see that there was so much I could be doing now, and I realized quickly that helping the Third Dynamic of Scientology was the fastest way to assist all of the other dynamics, since that is what other Scientologists were trying to do too.

I was enraged by the fact that psychiatric crimes were being committed all over the planet. Peter showed me how the drug problem was very good for the psychiatric industry. Pharmaceutical companies, staffed at the highest levels by moguls of the sinister World Federation of Mental Health, made a fortune in out- ethics profits at the expense of vast suffering endured by mental patients due to experimentation by merciless, bloodthirsty, barbaric psychiatric killers. I soon learned that there was a relationship between every major holocaust against humanity and the wretched treachery of the psychs. Peter sent me back to the Org to find out more about it.

At a confidential briefing of the Scientology Guardian's Office of the Miami Org, I got the shock of my life when I found out that various psychiatric groups, including the American Psychiatric Association and the infamous World Federation of Mental Health, were actively trying to suppress Scientology and shut us completely down!

Here we were, the only group on Earth today who could save the planet, and those miserable bunch of psychiatric bastards were out there trying to harm us! It was unthinkable!

By the end of the evening, I volunteered my services as a Guardian's Office Agent. I vowed that I would not rest until every mental health squirrel was either dead or disabled. They would have to all get past me to attack the only group that held out any hope for happiness on Planet Earth. L. Ron Hubbard was the best friend that mankind ever had, and I was proud to take up my rightful place as his Loyal Officer.

The representatives of the Guardian's Office to the Miami Org were Kevin Bein and Glenda Harrison. Glenda gave me the good news that it was Mary Sue Hubbard, the wife of our beloved Ron, who was the Commodore Staff Guardian of the "G. O.", which is the adoring abbreviation for the Guardian's Office. That is why the name "Mary Sue" was on the Security Check! Only a degraded psychiatrist or the international criminal police force of Interpol could have possibly had any overts against a sweet person like her.

I felt like somebody now. I finally had an identity. The idiot Dr. Geertz always used to think I was schizophrenic. All he ever had to do was make me a Loyal Officer of L. Ron Hubbard, and any apparent loss of identity would have crumbled to dust. Peter was very proud of my resolve not to be just a "dilettante." I was doing something positive to safeguard Scientology Technology. I wasn't just a parasite absorbing all of this wonderful knowingness without putting anything back. I was getting my fair exchange in. I finally was going to wear my hat as a Scientologist.

The only problem was that I didn't know what a Guardian's Office Agent did yet. Nobody told me. Oh, well, at least I was one. It didn't matter what we actually had to do anyway, as long as we did it right.


During the Executive Finance Hatting Course, in a section called "Group Sanity", Peter asked me to do a practical drill on "how a third dynamic psychosis is the perversion of finance."

The drill involved going to the Fort Lauderdale Public Library on East Sunrise Boulevard and Northeast 14th Avenue, and bringing back evidence on how some non-Scientology groups, or wog third dynamics, psychotically pervert finance.

"It's these fiendish corporations!", Peter squealed, his face grimacing. "We, as Scientologists, have to take responsibility for their overt acts by seeing that some good comes out of their misdeeds."

"What kind of evidence do you want me to bring you back?", I asked.

"These companies are controlled by criminals!", he continued, ignoring my origination. "They manufacture overt products and they deliver suppressive services. They punish upstats and reward downstats. They pollute the planet and try to keep us all at effect by squashing all hope of ability and freedom!"

"Who are you talking about?", I begged.

"The Suppressives!", he shouted. "Twenty percent of society is one great big walking anti-social personality! These are psychotic groups of wog filth, and nobody has enough confront to handle their ethics but we Scientologists! Here you are, a Guardian's Office Agent, one of Ron's Loyal Officers now, and you aren't doing a damn thing to help me stop this menace!"

"Peter! Just tell me what to do and I'll do it!", I beseeched him. "I don't care what it is! I just want to help!"

Peter turned away from me in disgust.

"For three years I have been asking for your help!", he retorted. "You ignored me in Carol Wynn's house and you are going to ignore me now! With the Life Repair Rundown and all the flow of help I have given to you, it has done no good!"

I started to feel pains in my chest, and my tissue was soaked from uncontrollable sinuses.

"I want to go to the library, Peter!", I gasped. "I really do! Please don't get upset! I never once said that I didn't want to go there!"

But Peter only looked at me cruelly, and then started shaking me violently. I would have done anything he asked of me, if only he would just calm down.

But his face turned a hue of purple that you could only find by distorting the tint knob on a color television, while the crescendo of his tantrum grew louder and louder.

"Are you that thick and full of "psych think" that you can't appreciate the urgency here?", he roared with garlic-fire breath. "Does that psychologist still have that much command value over you that you have completely lost your mind?"

I could not stop my legs from shaking, and my nose started to bleed.

"Peter, can't you show me a little comp-passion?", I stammered. "I-I-I can't t-take it wh- when I am af-f-fraid of you! I'm p-p-pouring my g-g-guts out to you!"

"Shut up!", Peter growled with the fierceness of a wild boar in an echo chamber. "You have no guts! It's two months and twelve days since you stepped inside this Mission! Not once have you asked me about handling these out-ethics suppressive corporations! I've given you clues about I. G. Farben, and about what the Nazi psychs did to your own people during the holocaust, and you never once offered me your help. Never! Now you are a G. O. Agent! Ron's Loyal Officer! I've been talking to your deaf ears about your post in life for a whole month. When the fuck are you going to wear your god damn hat as a thetan?"

"R-R-Right now, Peter!", I quipped.

The Director of Training sighed a deep howling grunt of relief.

"Sit down in that chair!", he commanded, as his intention nearly grabbed me by groin and stapled my nuts to the seat. "You're going to learn all about "Financial Rescue."

My life would never be the same again.


When a public corporation does something very wrong, they are often sued by their shareholders, and even more frequently, by various agencies of the Government. All of the bureaucratic rats come out of the woodwork. The Securities and Exchange Commission has their teeth in the cheese. The Internal Revenue Service comes dancing in, looking for their piece of the pie. The litigation attorneys demand nice fat fees. It is not a very ideal scene.

But what do you expect from the destructive twenty percent of the population that is part of the anti-social element of Suppressive Persons and Potential Trouble Sources? How do you deal with corporations that kill the fish in the oceans with toxic waste, dump nuclear garbage in the drinking water, and finance terrorism, biological warfare, and other interesting games that give death a bad reputation?

Amidst all the savagery of his ranting and raving, Peter was only trying to tell me about Ron's benevolent plan to create a new civilization.

If we could just take a little back from these degraded groups of psychotic madmen, and put that little bit forward, into the goals and purposes of true ability and causation, we could make a difference.

Peter taught me that even I could make a difference.

Just as killing Hitler or Stalin in the 1920's would have been the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics, it was a horrible Act of Omission of comparable magnitude to allow them to live and wreak havoc on the world.

Similarly, these corporations that Peter was so consumed with were wretched spoilers. For the greed of profit, they would sell the last breath of oxygen which they needed for even their own survival.

"Where is the group sanity in that?", Peter rhetorically asked.

But fortunately, many, although I am sorry to say, not all of these evil conglomerates were forced to give some of their ill-gotten gains back through a wog legal device known as the Securities Class Action Lawsuit.

Outraged shareholders banded together, and sued the company for the fraud, the deception and the terror that they endured as owners.

But as Peter was quick to point out, the shareholders didn't give a damn about the crimes of these corporations. They were just very disappointed because the prices of their stocks went down, that's all. It was merely the rape of their pocketbooks that they were incapable of confronting. They had no higher purpose than that. So their ethics went by the boards too, having no further interest in making things go right than the allure of getting part of their filthy money back.

And so, as Scientologists, we had no allies. The shareholders, in theory as well as in practice, were the aggregate group of corrupt bastards who owned the company! Who was actually left to see that some good and some decency came out of it all? Who could be depended upon to make certain that we returned to life and to livingness what had been robbed, stolen and pillaged from it?

No one but us Scientologists.

And even amongst us Scientologists, there were only a few that had the courage and the willingness to fight for Ron's dream: "A civilization without insanity, without criminals and without war, where the able can prosper, and honest beings can have rights, and where Man is free to rise to greater heights."25

Financial Rescue was the ethical and responsible act of submitting various "mocked-up" claims in order to participate in the settlements between the wicked corporations and their greedy shareholders.

The fact that we as Scientologists did not own the stock at any time did not matter. Nor did it make a bit of difference that we did not lose any money as the selfish shareholders did.

The only thing that did matter was that we were recovering a small piece of that evil-tasting settlement pie and using the proceeds to assist the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number of Dynamics.

For what could be better for all eight dynamics than going up the Bridge in Scientology, and in helping others to move up the Bridge?

Scientology is a game where everybody wins.

The sun never sets on Scientology.


It still didn't make a bit of sense.

How could I participate in a claim to recover money that I never lost?

Wasn't I going to have to prove that I lost the money? Peter said that handling the nasty overts of these corporations was much easier for a thetan than breathing. But how?

Still, it was not Peter's idea. Financial Rescue was Source Data, right from Ron himself. Can you imagine how I felt to be one of Ron's Loyal Officers, actually doing something to handle the SPs, while at the same time working and creating the flows necessary to get myself up the Bridge and also to expand Scientology?

It was too awesome to contemplate.


The last time I had been to visit the main branch of the Fort Lauderdale Public Library, I was there to find good nursery rhyme picture books to read to my daughter. But this time I had a more courageous mission: to assign Ethics Conditions to out-ethics corporations who by their mere existence threatened the life blood of Scientology.

Peter directed me to look at all of the Wall Street Journals for the last two months. Particularly, I had to find public notices indicating that there were class action lawsuits filed against any publicly held companies.

In each notice that I found, there were inevitably a few paragraphs entitled "Summary of the Litigation", which described the evil overt acts which, when discovered, caused the price of the stock to drop, which thereafter resulted in the lawsuit by the greedy shareholders.

These cases that I found in the paper had already been settled between the management and the shareholders. The notices were placed in the Wall Street Journal by an accounting firm administrating the claim in order to locate any former shareholders who may have changed their address. They were all ready to send the money out! They only wanted to make sure that they knew who to send the check to!

"Can it really be that easy to go up the Bridge?", I thought.

"Well, I am here to learn about Financial Rescue", I answered myself. "I'm not supposed to go any faster than one step at a time."

Peter wanted me to assign Ethics Conditions to these companies, and that is what I had to do.

If the charges or allegations in the "Summary of the Litigation" involved an overt act against one or more dynamics, a Condition of Doubt was assigned. But additionally, whenever the principal product or service of the company in question was "counter-survival oriented", such as chemical weapons companies or military warfare products, then Peter had given me license to assign the Condition of Enemy. In the likely event that the corporate entity in question was involved in some suppressive mental health oriented industry, like a manufacturer of electric shock machines or psychotropic pharmaceutical medication, or if the company was on the Watch List of the Guardian's Office, consisting of corporations that were antagonistic to Scientology, I had the immediate charge of assigning the Ethics Condition of Treason to them. All of the companies in the Rockerfeller Group, including the major oil companies, the drug companies, and the banking cartels that handled their dirty money, were definitely in Treason.

Proudly, I found three class action settlement notices that listed class action lawsuit settlements for corporations that were in Treason. They were the First National City Bank, Occidental Petroleum, and Air West. I photocopied the notices from the newspaper and brought the data back to Peter, who by now had resumed the "valence", or synthetic personality of his amiable, jovial self.

The first step, according to Peter, was to word clear, clay demo and starrate the legal jargon in the settlement notices, so that I would not have any misunderstood words, and therefore would fully comprehend what the purpose of the settlement notice was for. Since all three settlement notices had basically the same words in the text, the word clearing went quickly, taking only two days.

Next, Peter taught me how to write away to these companies for a "Proof of Claim Form." That was the document needed to substantiate the stock market losses, so that we could share in the settlement proceeds accordingly.

The format of the letter which Peter said had been the most effective in the past as a mock-up was one where I "blamed" my stock broker for not having sent me the Proof of Claim Form. I didn't have to say who my stock broker actually was or use any name. But to add "significance" and realism to my request, Peter suggested that I say the stock broker was a "she."

"Women", he asserted, "are usually the ones to screw up and forget to send out important forms like that anyway."

But Peter was also a humanitarian. He told me to "always keep my fair exchange in." This meant that I should always offer to pay for the forms, by saying, "If there are any fees or charges in receiving the Proof of Claim Form, then kindly advise me and I will forward a check to your office by return mail." Peter knew that the forms were free and never cost anything.

Keep in mind that we were not writing to the corporations, or even the attorneys handing the lawsuits. Peter told me that I was requesting the information from a claims processing center, which was a mammoth accounting firm that had submitted the lowest bid to handle the tens of thousands of claims for each lawsuit. He said that some two bit female know-nothing clerk who earned one hundred fifty dollars per week was the big hero in charge of sending out the Proof of Claim Forms. It was for that reason that he reminded me to keep the requests simple, direct, and to the point, because the last thing I wanted to do was "to give the dumb cluck any misunderstood words of her own."

Each settlement notice revealed the expiration date for mailing in the claim. Since the First National City Bank case had the closest expiration date, Peter and I decided that we should send off for their Proof of Claim Form first. However, two days later, Peter thought it was a good idea to send away for the claim forms of the other two lawsuits also, just in case that the First National City Bank settlement was not adequate enough, or there were any "glitches" which would exclude us from participating in that lawsuit.

"It'll take about two weeks to get the forms", Peter promised.

In the interim, as part of the Executive Finance Hatting Course, I was drilled and "starrated" on various Hubbard Communications Office Policy Letters, entitled "Solvency", "Bean Theory" and "Financial Irregularity." Peter promised that as an incentive award for bringing in a settlement check for a valid and properly filled out claim, he would allow me to keep ten percent of the proceeds for personal use as a standard commission. That ten percent could be used to pay for Jaime's favors, or any other self-indulgence that I wanted to partake of once the money arrived.

The ten percent was no different from a practice known as "FSMing." An "FSM" is a Field Staff Member, and his function is to bring new people into Scientology. Whenever a Field Staff Member recruits any new raw meat public for auditing or training, he receives a cash commission of ten percent of whatever the new member spends at the Mission or the Org. All the FSM has to do is fill out a "Selection Slip", so that the Mission or Org Treasurer knows that you "selected him", or signed him up for services. On that basis, the FSM would receive a cash award of ten percent of all "donations", which is a euphemism for all of the fees for services that are spent by the "selectee", or new member. The ten percent cash award can be spent on anything the FSM wants, although most of us would apply the commission toward our own "donations" as advanced payments for our next auditing action on the Bridge, or Route to Total Freedom.

I also wanted to learn what happens to you at the top of the Bridge. What is Total Freedom anyway? Is it the right to sit completely nude on a public bus?

No, it's actually a lot better than that. "It would be existence without barriers."26 It is the ability to operate as a thetan on all eight dynamics whether you had a physical universe body or not! For example, you could cause every man, woman and child on Earth to have an orgasm at the very same time, if you made a big enough postulate on the second dynamic, which is the urge for sex. You could turn every finger and toe of every human being into an extra penis, and multiply that sensation times twenty, for each of the fingers and toes, if you wanted to. There is no limit of what you could do with power like that. You could say, "Let there be light!", and there would be light. In effect, Total Freedom is the ability to create your own universe. That is what I realized awaited me at the top of the Bridge. There was no fucking way that anyone would prevent me from achieving that state of awareness of total knowingness and power.


Things were relatively stable at home. Jaime, who slept with her five cats, had contracted a very serious case of fleas. She refused to allow our housekeeper, Freddie, to wash out her security blanket that she covered her eyes with at night. Consequently, Jaime developed a skin infection from the flea bites that rivalled "show and tell" in any leper colony. Additionally, there was always something hard to swallow about the smell of cat urine, and unfortunately, Jaime never bothered to wash her hair. As a result, my desire to have sex with her diminished slightly, except on the nights that the Broward County Sheriff's Department did a major sweep, and all the other prostitutes in my life were carted off in the wagon, in order to impress the voting constituency at election time. Didn't those stupid county commissioners ever realize that people who have sex with prostitutes vote too? On those lonely evenings, Jaime was my only choice.

I also had a difficult task of getting our two year old daughter to go to sleep on time. I feared she wasn't getting sufficient rest. Jaime never heard her crying from across the other side of the house, because the cats purred so loudly on her head.

Denise, the Director of Success at the Mission of Fort Lauderdale, told me that there is nothing unusual about infants having problems falling asleep. After all, they just came through a horrible cycle of death of their last body, and then were overwhelmed by various psychiatric implants during the between lives area, followed by possibly several attempted abortions in the fetal sequence, so it is perfectly normal for babies to dramatize all of their mental image pictures, or "facsimiles", and have trouble getting to bed. Denise was so kind and understanding to take the time to explain it all to me. I was so relieved to find out that my daughter's anxiety had nothing to do with the environment in the home, which is the type of bizarre, far out garbage that you hear from sick, guilt ridden psychologists.


The 9th of May, 1979, was a very special day to Scientologists. It was the twenty-ninth anniversary of "Book One", which is an affectionate pet name for Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health, by L. Ron Hubbard.

I was very excited to be invited by Kevin Bein, the Deputy Guardian of Miami, to go to "Flag" and celebrate the anniversary of the book that started it all, and by so doing, launched a new era of sanity on the planet.

I told my father that I was attending the Southern Footwear Exhibitor's shoe show of the fall style line-up, since I did not want any wogs to know where I was going. Confidentiality was a measure of one's ability to be trusted in the Guardian's Office of Scientology. The shoe show had been displayed at the Tampa Marriott the week before, but no one knew that but me.

The Flag Land Base, billed as "The Friendliest Place in the World", was the old, dilapidated Fort Harrison Hotel in Clearwater, Florida; a sleepy, seaside suburb of Tampa.

I had heard about the huge project to restore the "Mecca of Technical Perfection" to her former grandeur of the 1920's, when it had been built, and at the Miami Org, many staff members who often went to Flag raved about how much had been accomplished in the four years since L. Ron Hubbard had bought the place. Of course, there had also been very horrible reports in the St. Petersburg Times that the hotel was being renovated by slave labor who were paid only twelve dollars per week, according to the article, by some draconian group called the Sea Organization. However, I had met several of their smartly dressed survey takers in Miami, and the way they were motivated, I knew that they had to earn at least several thousand dollars per week. I finally understood why news reporters were placed on an even keel with murderers on the Johannesburg Security Check. The St. Petersburg Times was probably all infiltrated with psychiatrists on their editorial staff.

Although the massive restoration on the Fort Harrison had already been started, and the lobby did look exceptionally grand, with its opulent marble and fixtures adorned in gold trim, the moment I took the elevator up to the third floor, which is where I was given a room, I thought I was in some Dickensian flophouse that reminded me of the Bowery drunk tanks on the lower east side of New York.

I mean, if they wanted a good review, why did they have to stick me in a room with chipped and cracking plaster on the ceiling? The bed had an odor of musty mold dipped in dust, and the water faucet made the sound of a rectal monsoon. Disenchanted, I felt too embarrassed to bring a whore into that place, even though in cruising through Tampa I had discovered that on Kennedy Boulevard between Mac Dill Avenue and North Boulevard, there was an ideal spot to pick up a panting tramp for the night at bargain basement prices.

Did you ever attend a birthday party for a book? Well, I did. Within the stately auditorium of the Fort Harrison Hotel, in the gracious history of an age gone by where politicians and other bigots danced the debaucherous years away, there now bloomed a mushroom cloud of theta. The auditorium, a painted vision in firehose gray until new flows of a greener dawn would arrive in truckloads by postulate, played host to Scientologists from all over the planet, who had come to Flag for perchance a momentary glimpse of what life would be like when the last psychiatrist's epitaph was long forgotten.

But here we were, exploding with joy like freeze-dried spirits, vacuum packed in a nuclear volcano, waiting with ethics-baited breath to disseminate Book One to the wog world, renewing our resolve once again to penetrate through the fiery wall of the reactive mind.

The guest speaker at the event was a none other than the Case Supervisor International David Mayo, a tiny shrimp of a man, who, next to Ron himself, was the most loved and adored thetan in Scientology. He was everybody's hero, since he was the highest authority on the Technology next to Source itself. He held us in inexplicable awe as he spoke endlessly about some of the gains, wins and successes that had been made by streamlining the Bridge, and by breakthroughs in solo auditing on the upper levels of Operating Thetan. Solo auditing, of course, is the practice of auditing oneself, being both the preclear and the auditor, holding the soup cans clipped together in your left hand while writing up the worksheets in your right, unless, of course, you are either left handed, ambidextrous, or can hold a pen with your teeth. Despite the spellbinding oratory, all I could think about was what kind of food they were going to feed us after the speech was over. After all, nobody ever starves at a birthday party!

Actually, my favorite part of the event was when we all stood up and cheered at a larger than fictional portrait of L. Ron Hubbard, our Commodore. I thought about my Hebrew School teacher whom I knew when I was thirteen, Zebulon Mayevsky, of the Jewish Center of Kew Garden Hills. He would have been pissed off at me worshipping a picture of an old "Goy", which is the Jewish word for Christian. But what the hell did he know about the eighth dynamic anyway?

Suddenly, everyone began to cheer.

"Hip Hip Hooray!"

"Hip Hip Hooray!"

"Hip Hip Hooray!", the crowd roared.

I felt so proud to be in the center of the beehive, an integral part of smashing the psychiatric drones by being there with all of the dedicated thetan workers.

The only thing that bothered me was why Ron didn't want to come to his own parties? A cute Austrian girl in the Sea Org who couldn't afford to buy make-up but didn't need any anyhow told me that Ron had also missed his sixty-eighth birthday party in March. I suppose when you're at the top of the Bridge, looking back at seventy-six trillion years of past lives, you want to forget about celebrating. I can understand that.

It turned out that nobody offered to feed us anything at all, so Kevin Bein, Glenda Harrison, and a few of the top brass from the Guardian's Office rushed to the coffee shop, pushing everybody else out of the way before all of the other seats were taken. It was there that I was introduced to an Englishman named Ken Urquhart, who claimed to have been Ron's personal valet and butler some eighteen years ago at his plush estate in East Grinstead at Sussex, England, known as Saint Hill of the United Kingdom, which used to belong to the Maharajah of Jaipur, whoever the hell that lucky rich bastard was.

Kevin wanted me to tell Ken Urquhart all about how I sent junk mail to my former psychiatrist by circling business reply cards in trade journals that could be found in the library.

When I told Ken that for just one hour's worth of work, you could circle enough numbers to send five thousand letters of advertising junk to any enemy of your choice, Ken, who was having decaffeinated tea, started to laugh when he thought of all the possibilities of handling the psychs, and spit up his tea all over Glenda Harrison. Nevertheless, his emotions fully stifled after he regained his composure, he politely asked me what I called that type of response mailing system.

"Bingo cards", I promptly replied, "because you circle your choices with a pen, like in a bingo game."

"Why haven't you sent me a Knowledge Report on this, Kevin?", chastised Ken Urquhart grimly.

"Did I do something wrong?", I asked, always cringing in insecurity.

"On the contrary!", Ken gloated. "You have come up with a method of driving those bastards very well bloody crazy!"

"I just found out about this from Peter", Kevin apologized.

"Go write it all up now, then!", he ordered, still failing to acknowledge the tea stains on Glenda's dress. "I'm going to call it into Mary Sue tonight!"

Ken asked Terry Milner, the Deputy Guardian of Intelligence World Wide at the next table for Mary Sue's telephone number for her house on Mulholland Drive in the Beverly Glen section of Los Angeles.

"Wow!", I thought to myself. "My very own idea being called in to Mary Sue Hubbard!"

I was intoxicated with euphoria for the rest of the night, just thinking about what a valuable contribution I had made to the Third Dynamic.


When I returned home from Flag, all three claim forms had arrived in the mail! I rushed over to see Peter, in order to give him the good news. He had been expecting me.

"It will always be your responsibility to determine if the lawsuit is valid for our participation", Peter instructed.

I gazed at Peter with an air of surprise.

"How can I tell?", I wondered. "Oh, I see! You want me to make sure that I don't send away any claims for lawsuits against companies that are owned by Scientology. Is that it?"

"You idiot!", Peter observed. "There will never be a class action lawsuit against Scientology, because no wogs or suppressives work in Scientology. Whenever we find an SP, we declare him one and boot him out on his ear!"

"So how can I tell whether I should put in a claim or not?", I questioned. "What am I supposed to look for?"

"You have to be certain that your claim is not going to be rejected", Peter tutored. "That is your only bit of counter-intention."

For the next seven hours, Peter gave me a lesson in economics that made the Harvard School of Business look like a Tupperware Party. We used up two bins of clay, and I wore the pages thin on the dictionary, looking up words that were heretofore both boring and meaningless.

I learned that it was up to me to select the dates when the shares of stock were "bought" and "sold" for each claim. There was a range, known as a "Class Action Claims Period" of dates allowed by the lawsuit, for having owned the stock. So what I had to do was to find the combination of "buy" and "sell" dates which would generate the highest yield of profit.

Peter gave me certain "parameters", or guidelines, for sending in a claim. He was very concerned with whether a claim period would be too "thin", meaning not very many claimants, which would be dangerous, because it would direct too much attention toward the claim by the stupid wogs working as claims processors.

"The fewer the other claimants, the more risk there would be for them to notice your claim and reject it", he explained with the thoroughness of a gynecologist examining a fashion model.

Consequently, he prohibited me from submitting any claim when the "claims period" was less than three months. He also taught me that when the actual existing record of the claimants are older, they are therefore harder to verify, because fortunately, people often move or die. So Peter ordered me to avoid all "claims periods" that were less than a year old, as they were too recent. Also, if the total dollar amount of the settlement paid to all the claimants was less than two and one half million dollars, he adjudicated that it wasn't worth bothering with, because our share would not be very much. Finally, since all of my claims were to be for ten thousand shares, I had to be sure that at least ten thousand shares traded on the day that I claimed I both bought and sold the stocks.

"Ten thousand shares is a lot of money, isn't it?", I asked.

Peter gave me a blank stare as if I were completely retarded.

"Do you want to do all the work of sending in a claim for just one hundred shares?", Peter brayed churlishly. "Don't you know it takes the same amount of effort to sell a diamond as it does to sell a piece of candy? If you bought a stock for eighty dollars and you sell it at twenty dollars, how much have you lost, Einstein?"

"Sixty dollars", I said, humiliated with such an obvious question.

"Very good!", Peter acknowledged in classic auditing style. "And if you had one hundred shares where you lost sixty dollars per share, how much would that be?"

"Six thousand dollars", I calculated with ease, adding two zeroes onto the number sixty.

"Now, Bright Eyes, what's ten thousand shares times sixty dollars?", he quizzed.

This took a few seconds longer. I had to add five zeroes at the end of sixty dollars.

"Oh, my God!", I exclaimed. "That's six hundred thousand dollars! Is that what they are going to pay us?"

"No, that's just the point!", Peter gritted. "They'll only give us, on the average, about twenty percent of the loss. Some actually have the nerve to pay out even less. But at twenty percent of six hundred thousand, you would still get one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, plus interest. They have to pay you interest on the money since the time of the settlement, you know. But the bad news is that the legal fees are deducted, and that can be a sizeable chunk."

"One hundred and twenty thousand dollars is a lot of money!", I contemplated.

"It will pay for all of your training, and a good portion of your auditing", Peter reassured me.

"And that's just one lawsuit!", I realized.

"Now you are tracking with me", Peter smiled.

"Why don't a lot of other people do this?", I asked. "It makes so much sense!"

"Because they are not Scientologists, that's why", Peter chided, unable to understand why I missed such an apparent reason.

Barbara Fawcett brought in some salami and cheese sandwiches, and Peter filled her in on all the amazing progress I had made, and the multitude of numerous cognitions that I had. Barbara was so proud of me that she gave me a big kiss on the cheek. That was the first bit of affection that anyone had showed me in over two years, including all of the prostitutes. Jaime, of course, never kissed me, even at our wedding. She had made an art form of pushing me away.

After the snack, Barbara and Peter gave me a big surprise. They gave me my own post, with my own three- department Org Board! I was now the Fields Financial Planner of Fort Lauderdale!

It felt so good to be somebody again. The purpose of the Fields Financial Planner was to go into the "field", which is the wog world, external to Scientology, and to do "financial planning" by creating new income, using the natural resources of the "field." My specific hat was that of Financial Rescue In Charge, or FRIC, which was, of course, recovering assets from the class action lawsuit settlements. Barbara cautioned me that it was only a temporary position, and would be made permanent only after I had proved myself by bringing home some solid results of paid claims.

"FFP FTL", or Fields Financial Planning of Fort Lauderdale was a little "mini- Org." There were three departments, all falling under Division One, which is called "HCO", standing for the Hubbard Communications Office.

The first department was that of the "FFP COMM FTL", or the Fields Financial Planning Communicator of Fort Lauderdale. The purpose of that post was to handle communication lines. That was Peter's hat, along with his many other functions at the Mission, including that of Director of Training. It was his responsibility to communicate to me regarding my "hatting", or how to do my job. He also was in charge of communicating my progress and effectiveness as the Fields Financial Planner to his superiors and senior officers "uplines", which meant to people at higher Orgs. Peter told me that the two "uplines terminals", or senior staff members that he had to report to regarding my "valuable final product" of paid class action claims, were the Deputy Flag Banking Officer World Wide Brian Livingston, and the L. Ron Hubbard Communicator World Wide Joyce Popham.

"Who do they report to?", I asked.

"The Fields Executive Secretary International", Peter replied.

"Who is that?", I inquired, eager to learn more about where the buck stops.

"Diana Meredith De Wolfe Hubbard Horwich", he explained.

I noticed the name Hubbard.

"Is she some relative of Ron's?", I continued.

"Ron's and Mary Sue's daughter", Peter clarified.

"Is she very pretty?", I wondered.

"She's very married!", he snapped, obviously displeased with my line of questioning.

Barbara headed up the second of my three departments, which was the Department of Inspections and Reports. Her official designation was "FFP I&R FTL", or the Fields Financial Planning Inspection & Reports Secretary of Fort Lauderdale. It was her job to inspect and to see to it that I was wearing my "hat", functioning well on post, and to thereafter report to Peter, the Fields Financial Planning Communicator, on my achievements. It was then Peter's "hat" to advise his "seniors", who were located "uplines" at Flag.

Finally, the third department was that of Validity. Denise and I would be working together to validate, on a case by case basis, the status and progress of each class action lawsuit claim which I submitted. Denise ordered me to buy a black composition school-type notebook, with lined paper, suitable for logging the claims, showing the name of the claim, the date when I requested a claim form, the date I "bought" the stock, "sold" the stock, the number of shares, the date the claim was submitted to the claims processing agency by mail, and the date the check was received. More columns were to be added later on, as necessary. But Denise, who had an excellent grasp of organizing data, was selected by Peter to be the staff member to work with me most closely. I didn't mind that at all, because Denise was so sensual and exceptionally pretty. If I were ever truly eligible to have a real woman in my life, I would have selected her. But alas, she never knew that when I was paying Jaime for my now well deserved sexual favors, I would often close my eyes, and think of her. If I had opened them while on top of Jaime, I would have been looking at the back of Cosmopolitan Magazine, and that wasn't always very helpful. They usually had nothing but advertisements for perfume on the back cover, and that always reminded me of her smell of cat pee, which about every eighth or ninth time made me lose my erection. Jaime enjoyed reading during intercourse, so she could pretend that I wasn't really there. I would help her as much as I was able to by not moving the bed too much or not breathing too hard while humping her. After all, I was not a cruel person, and I did make an honest attempt to make her happy, under the circumstances.

Denise, however, never was aware of my innermost feelings, because she had her eye on Reggie Monce, a Dianetic Auditor at the Mission who radiated self-confidence. Denise's own marriage was going sour, despite her strong desire to keep it together for the benefit of her three year old son, Ryan. It would have been a perfect opportunity, had my postulates worked better to get Denise to notice me.

"Maybe", I thought, "if the class action lawsuit settlements started rolling in, I would make an impression on her." I mistakenly thought that she could be bought, just like all other women. She liked Reggie, who was an "outdoorsy" type of guy, with a motorcycle and everything. If I were a real man, I suppose I would have wanted to be like him. Still, I bet he didn't masturbate as well as I did.

Everything was now in place for me to send in my first case. The claims processing agents were very nice, as they sent me all of the necessary papers, and gave us at least three months before the last day of the claim deadline. Peter sent me back to the library, to look through a set of books called the "Daily Stock Records." There were three sets of these volumes. The New York Stock Exchange Daily Stock Records had black covers, while the binders of the American Exchange were maroon. The Over The Counter Exchange's Daily Stock Record books were green. Following Peter's instructions, it was very easy for picking the dates that would yield the most profit for my first securities class action lawsuit, which was the First National City Bank case. All I had to do was to find the day within the claim period that the purchase price was the highest, and then look for a real bad day during a good crash, when the sales price was the lowest.

I had once heard some stock market commentator on the radio say that there was more money to be made in a weak stock market than in a strong one. At least I finally had the chance to find out what he meant by that.

What I still didn't understand was how I was going to actually prove that I owned the stocks!

Peter had the solution! He ordered me to mock up some home made confirmation slips for a purchase and a sale of ten thousand shares on the very same computer that I had brainwashed Jaime with. In 1979, not too many people had home computers like they do today, so Peter gave me his word that it would work.

At the Mission, Peter and I diagrammed a format of what a real broker's confirmation slip would look like. It was quite easy to figure out the broker's commission. All I had to do was call any broker in the yellow pages, and he would figure it all out for me! Peter was a genius! For the letterhead, Barbara looked through some old telephone books from 1970 that were laying around the Mission, and found the name of a stock brokerage firm that was now defunct and out of business. Peter decided to use their name, which was "Walston and Company." They used to have an office in Hollywood, Florida, and I copied the address and phone number on a piece of paper. After all, the "proof" we were submitting was for ownership of the stock at the time of the claim period, which was usually between three and ten years before. There was no law that said the brokerage firm still had to be in business. The check was to be sent to my house, not the Mission, since if the claim were ever rejected or investigated for any reason, it was my duty as a Scientologist to prevent "DEV-T", or developing traffic, from interfering with the Mission's primary function, which was that of getting raw meat public onto basic services and then sending them for more advanced auditing to the Miami Org.

I owned an IBM Selectric Typewriter at home, so Peter suggested that I buy some different elements or typing fonts for the machine, so I could send in the claim forms for the other two cases which I had not done yet, using alternate type styles on the other claim forms. There was no rush, of course, because the deadlines for submitting the claims of Occidental Petroleum and Air West were not due to be mailed until the end of the year.

A day later, when the claim was fully prepared and ready to be mailed, Peter asked me to bring it into the Mission for a "white glove inspection." That only meant that he wanted to check it out for accuracy before mailing it. I had no idea, however, that Peter really had his own pair of white gloves, but he did! Corwin told me that he often threw staff members into lower ethics conditions if he found dust on the E-Meters in the auditing rooms; on any of the pictures of L. Ron Hubbard, or of Ron's bust cast in bronze, which was the prized possession of Bruce, the Mission Holder, and which sat motionlessly on his desk, surveying all there was to be seen in the Fort Lauderdale chapter of the theta universe.

Having passed the white glove inspection with honors, Peter told me to go ahead and send off the claim. When I brought the envelope to Barbara for her to place in the outgoing mail basket, she refused, and angrily sent me back to Peter. He was furious! He said that I should always take responsibility for my post, and it was my own duty to put the letter in a United States Post Office mailbox, not Barbara's. If the letter fell out of the "out basket", or if it were stolen, then none of that money would ever arrive, and it would be the worst downstat imaginable for me on all dynamics. In Scientology, I was taught professionalism, ethics, and responsibility. We were at war against the SPs of the planet, and there was no way any goof or flub was going to be tolerated. Peter demanded perfection, and reminded me that I should expect no less from myself. Going up the Bridge and Clearing the planet was no negligent activity. It demanded my undivided attention, and damn it, for the first time in my life, I was going to do something right! I was going to make Ron very proud of me!


For the first two weeks of July, 1979, Jaime and I took our daughter to visit at the home of Jaime's parents, Ellis and Jeanette Tollin, in Cherry Hill, New Jersey.

My father-in-law was an arrogant, annoying, know-it-all who owned a cluster of pool rooms in Philadelphia, as well as a chain of musical instrument stores in both New Jersey and Pennsylvania known as "Music City." In his younger days, he had been a drummer in the band of the jazz musician Buddy Rich, and his one histrionic contribution to life was having been the drummer on Bobby "Boris" Pickett's single record, the "Monster Mash." Ellis spent most of his time growing bald, playing golf and "making deals." He was also a couch potato, and was about as interesting as a skunk's fart.

Jaime's older brother Robbie lived with them also, and had a great personality, despite the fact that he had the emotional maturity of a ten year old. He had the largest collection of kiddie porn that I had ever seen, and I truly looked up to him and respected him for his profound knowledge of sex. He was indeed a worldly person, even though he lived at home. Jaime and Robbie got along fairly well, inasmuch as he slept with his sister from the time she was eight years old until she fully blossomed at thirteen, at which time he got bored with her. When I found out about their intimate relationship, I felt a lot better, because at least I wasn't her first customer. However, I resented it when I found out that he only used to pay her a dollar, and in addition she never placed a time limit on him. My fee was five dollars per minute, up to a maximum of five minutes.

Just like his sister, Robbie used to sleep until two o'clock in the afternoon. Either rest and relaxation were both hereditary, or, similarly to Jaime, he did not find his "post in life" yet either. I made a notation to ask Denise all about it when I returned home.

The most vocal member of Jaime's family was her mother Jeanette. She continuously reminded me not to tell any of her friends that I was "just a shoe salesman" when they came over to visit. She really cared about what they thought of me, and I loved her for that. It was only fair that she was trying to create the illusion that I was a "professional", because she only wished the very best for her daughter, and did not want her social climbing friends to think that Jaime had married beneath her station or her dignity.

Jaime and Arielle stayed in Jaime's old room that she grew up in, while I was put up in the guest room, which used to belong to Jaime's other brother Donny, who had been studying golf lessons in Florida for the last ten years. I assumed that one day he would finally go on a professional golf tour, at such time that he was a good enough caddy.

Notwithstanding, his bed was comfortable, although I did not like foam pillows. There was something about real feathers that I liked better. Jaime made me agree that I would not bother her for sex while we were on vacation. It reminded me of our honeymoon in the Bahamas during the sixth month of her pregnancy, when she did the very same thing.

I did have my share of trouble with my mother-in-law though. At four in the morning, she pounded on my bedroom door, screaming about why I left the light on in the bathroom several hours before, and woke up the entire household.

On the following morning, she tried to make up for the outburst by making breakfast for me. She truly was an excellent cook.

"One egg, or two?", she asked.

"I'll take two", I said politely.

Two hours later, I heard her screaming to Jaime. "You'd better get to the supermarket right away! That son of a bitch husband of yours just ate up all my eggs!"

I realized at that point that the only thing that could ever save that family from the threat of developing emotional problems was to find a Dianetic Auditor, and quickly!


It was such a relief to escape from the maddening cataclysm of Jaime's aberrated family, and to return to the tranquility and sanity of more advanced training in Scientology.

Immediately upon my checking in, I was ordered by the Case Supervisor of Miami to "route onto" the "Secrets of Efficiency Course", since "one class action lawsuit mailed does not an achiever make."

In this laudatory course, I drilled on professionalism, attention on task, initiative, end phenomena, causation, confronting, and the second most famous triangle in Scientology besides ARC, which is known as KRC.

Knowledge, Responsibility and Control is best mastered while you are out of your body and completely exteriorized, if you are a non-conformist like me, and hate to be humiliated for eight hours in a drill which involved walking around the room upon command, called "Start-Change-Stop."

Fat Valerie Naiman just finished eating her baked chili, and was burping incessantly.

"I'm going to tell you to start", she began. "And when I tell you to start, you start the body moving toward the right. Do you understand that?"

"Do you mean just walk?", I asked.

"You start the body moving toward the right", she repeated, ignoring my question. "Do you understand that?"

"Sure, to the right", I agreed.

"Good!", she acknowledged. "Start!"

Just before I walked into the wall, Valerie said, "When I tell you to stop the body, you will stop. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, but you better tell me real soon --"

"Stop!", she shouted like a drill sergeant, which of course she was.

My nose was five inches from the wall.

"Now turn the body around and Start!", she ordered.

And this went on for two hours, without interruption. All that changed was whether I started the body to the right, to the left, or straight ahead.

Finally, I became angry and disgusted.

"This is not a fucking dog obedience class!", I yelled.

"Flunk!", she screamed, showing no emotion.

"Now we will go back to the very beginning! Start!", she said.

"What do you mean, from the beginning?", I demanded. "Are you saying the two hours we just did were wasted and didn't mean anything?"

"Flunk!", she bellowed even more loudly. "Now we will go back to the beginning! Start!"

And every time I objected, Valerie flunked me and we went back to the beginning again. I should have known better than to start up with someone who once had me organizing the contents of a pillow all night. But after eight hours, including a final four hour pass with no back talk from me, I had fully learned the meaning of "Knowledge, Responsibility and Control." I was either now "Efficient", or eligible to be somebody's poodle, depending upon your viewpoint.

At the end of the course, Peter rewarded me by giving me my own "stat." A stat, as you can imagine, is a statistic. Every staff member on post had to have a stat. Mine was known as "WDTCP", or Well Done Targeted Claims Paid. Peter explained that the "Purpose of the stat was to bring about the End Phenomena of paid class action lawsuit claims as early as possible, with a maximum return or profit yield, and with no problems or rejections of the claims which would result in upsets, or "ARC breaks, and, where the proceeds of each claim paid was applied as an advanced payment for either training or processing."

I was shocked to learn that most claims took between eighteen and twenty-four months to be paid out from the date the claim was submitted. Barbara explained that this was due to the inefficiency of the wog world. I felt that perhaps if we invited the claims processors to come into the Org and be walked around the room by Valerie, they would mail out the checks faster. But that was not a viable solution.

To determine whether each "WDTCP" entry was an "upstat" or a "downstat", my "Org Board", consisting of Peter, Barbara and Denise, called a "Fields Financial Planning Organizational Meeting", in order to estimate what the final settlement dates and amounts of each claim would be, so as to determine whether I made my targeted stat or fell behind. Consequently, it was always a tug of war between Peter trying to set my targets on the high side, and with me trying to keep them down.

But Scientology is the game where everybody wins, so it really did not matter that much. We were just having a grand old time, trying to Clear the planet, and establishing some solid flows for the Third Dynamic along the way.

Now that I had my "post in life" down to a science, Peter felt it was high time that I learn how to be a good auditor, and to get some more processing myself. The Life Repair Rundown, although the best thing I ever did, was only a drop in the bucket of theta that the Mission and the Org had to offer. Peter was, after all, the Director of Training, and with all of my outstanding accomplishments in getting posted and hatted, my life at home was still in a state of shambles, and although it seemed like an eternity ago, that was the original reason why I became interested in Scientology in the first place.

There was so much more that had to be done, and I felt I would be in a lower ethics condition with myself if I did not start to put some real attention on it.


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