Cult Next Door

Summer to Fall 1987

Lisa and Pauline's schedule now includes lunch hours with George. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday they grab a taxi at noon, bringing sandwiches to share with him. Including round trip travel, they desert their offices for nearly two hours. This arrangement infuriates me. If their bosses realize they are stealing extra time, they could miss a promotion or even get fired! They are already seeing George two hours after work on those same three days, as well as Thursday night and all day Saturday. This behavior is obsessive and costs too much. They can't save for their futures, and they have no money for anything now. Nonetheless, George praises them and I feel rejected Lisa and Pauline have replaced me as his model students. When George senses my distress, he scolds, "You people are all competing with each other instead of focusing on yourselves. The Girls are willing to invest in their futures. Why won't you do the same?"

Soon George is ministering to groups of three to ten people during the hours which used to be devoted to private sessions. Whether one has the rare fortune to be alone with him, or shares him with several others, the charge is the same $40 per hour. He reassures us frequently, "The more time you devote, the more you'll progress. Don't worry about the money. The Energy will bring it back to you."
Finally Lisa, egged on by George, breaks the barrier of separation forever. She spends her entire vacation week at his office, arriving with him at 10:00 A.M., and leaving with him at 7:30 P.M. At noon she runs out to buy them lunch at the deli around the corner, and they share it in his tiny office so she won't miss a single moment. George reports to the rest with glee, "Lisa is my new wife; she's spending every day with me; she is really committed to her life!"

That week Lisa spends more than forty hours ($1,600 plus). Soon, despite the outrageous cost, others follow suit. We remind ourselves that letting go of money breaks our ties to The Program. We convince ourselves that this catharsis is healthy.
Pauline, ever the competitive sibling, monkeys her roommate by spending her next vacation week with George. But she has no money beyond her $25,000 legal secretary's salary, and is soon forced into debt. When her paychecks run out, she takes cash advances on credit cards.
Beatrice has nothing but free time. She spends three full days a week, every week, with George. Her husband's budget of $2,400 per month does little to cover her bill. To make up the deficit, Beatrice secretly sells antiques which she and her spouse have collected from thirty years of world travel. George brags that her proceeds exceed $30,000, money she'll use to invest in her growth.
Laura, the nurse, gives all of her salary that is not spent on a tiny studio apartment and minimal groceries. She frequently protests, "Why don't I just sign over my paycheck to you?"

George ignores her, changing the subject, and Laura keeps paying. Barriers of professional privacy dissolve and sessions, six days per week, alternating between George's New York office and New Jersey den, become open house.
The presence of a diverse assembly soon prevents the former nakedness from continuing. One day Laura joins a Friday evening meeting with Lisa, Pauline, and me a session which, for the past few years, has consistently been the scene of intense erotic activity. This day, we all remain clothed. The following week Laura returns. The arrangement becomes permanent, and encounters between George, me, and The Girls end forever. George seems content to move on, as if he has outgrown a former hobby. But I feel dumped. The intense intimacy, as one-sided as it was physically, filled me emotionally. Our shared experiences reinforced that I was special to George. As separation anxiety grips me, I realize that to George we were only lab rats manipulated for his personal research. My outrage at George's betrayal reminds me of his indifference toward Joe's death. I battle these excruciating feelings privately, and they take more than several months to subside.
Money pours into George's bank account in truckloads, and not one of his patients (except me) takes the necessary thirty seconds to do third-grade math. . . . George's annual salary now exceeds a quarter of a million dollars. Having eliminated private sessions, yet charging the same per head for groups of up to ten people, instead of earning $40 per hour, he can now earn $400. From barely being able to maintain a VW Beetle, George now possesses a healthy stock portfolio. Yet, like a collectively denied dirty family secret, discussing George's finances is strictly forbidden. Several people, including Laura, Bess, and Pauline, have difficulty buying groceries, despite annual salaries of close to $50,000. Nonetheless, George ignores the severity of our circumstances by continuing to insist that money is meaningless. "What do you mean?" Bess asks one day, "We need it for rent and food."

"No; people only believe this lie because they buy into the illusion created by the universal mind," George explains. "It is possible to become hidden from the system and live for free, but first you must break your attachments to money. A few nights ago, Chris and I had some fun. While Doris was out, we burned cash in the fireplace. I began with a fifty dollar bill, lighting one corner and sitting through my reactions, watching the flames engulf it. At first it was hard, but we kept going until the resistance broke. After about two hours of burning all kinds of bills, one by one, Chris and I were having a ball, rolling around on the floor, laughing our guts out. And there was a big reward for our work because the next day I discovered something brand new."

George points to his kitchen screen door. "See that? I got it for free a gift from the store," he states proudly.
"What? How?" we respond in unison, intensely curious.

He laughs knowingly, "I just carried it out the main entrance of Home Depot, right past the registers. In fact the stupid manager was in such a fog that he held the door open for me and smiled."

Bess looks distressed. "I really don't understand."

George continues, shaking his fist, gaining momentum. "Just think about the system, governed by stupidity and greed. People are trained, like good children, to give up their money to big business and the federal bureaucracy. But how do they end up? Screwed! Because those institutions waste and steal most of what comes in. It is time we stop cowering in the corner and take back what is rightfully ours. Money shouldn't exist anyway; if it weren't for the stupid Program, we would all just share. Someone has to write some new rules and have the courage to make a stand. I know I have the Truth, and I'll live it out, even if thirty million Frenchmen think I'm wrong."

As George reaches his climax, we rise emboldened troops summoned to battle. We don't really understand, but his passion proclaims the validity of his assertions. George, having captured us, quickly switches to his mentor mode and explains the ropes. "People get caught stealing because The Program decrees they are doing something wrong. They hide the items and look around furtively to make sure no one's watching, and their body language rouses the suspicions of store employees. Here is the right way to do it: Suspend your thoughts and go beyond your training to the Truth that everything belongs to us already, we are just too afraid to claim it. With total confidence in this Truth, you can exit the store invisible."

Soon, like it or not, we follow suit. Christopher, now a high school senior, is the superstar. His store of choice is also Home Depot, in Spring Valley, N.Y. There he obtains a microwave oven, dishes, paint, and power tools stuff he hides from his mother in the basement, essentials he'll need when someday he has his own place. But I am hesitant, so one Saturday George sends me to train with his son. Upon entering the store, I immediately sense that Christopher has put himself into a state of deep calm. I ask, "Aren't you nervous?" and he hisses, as if I'm an irritating third-grader. "Why should I be? Didn't you listen to my father? We have the right to anything we want."

Christopher is a chip off the old block. He selects several items, making sure there are no magnetic inventory tags attached. After about twenty minutes, we head toward the exit with a shopping cart full of unpaid merchandise worth more than $300. I follow on Chris's heels, focusing inward, desperately trying to calm my fluttering chest and shaking knees, praying no one will notice. To my great relief and awe, we are not stopped.

These days we enter George's den with avid reports about "shopping for free." George beams with pride when Mike walks out of the Paramus Pier One Imports with a five foot in diameter "papasan" chair. Pauline brags about how she draped a sweater over her arm at Annie Sez, convinced herself that she had taken it from her closet that morning, and strolled past the register, throwing a friendly smile to the salesgirl en route to the door. Laura exits a local deli, around the corner from her nursing job at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, without paying for her coffee. The most popular exercise is to obtain free meals from restaurants, particularly diners where the waitresses don't take up your check. Even the faint of heart among us muster courage. We grab the check, and with sufficient cash in one hand, head toward the register, take a deep breath and continue out of the establishment, acting as if someone else in our party is paying the bill. We also develop a backup plan, should we fail. One day Lisa, Pauline and I walk out of a coffee shop in Tenafly, but the waitress chases us into the parking lot. I am holding the check, and I turn to her with trained calm and feigned sincerity, "I'm really sorry; I got distracted and forgot."

Falsely humble, I expose our check, folded around a twenty-dollar-bill, and follow her inside to pay. We are three well-dressed, pleasant, young women, and the waitress suspects nothing. Later that week, Lisa points out to George that sometimes missing checks are deducted from waitresses' salaries. But he ignores her, and instead digresses to reiterate that "management in large corporations does little to eliminate waste." This leads to inflated prices and consumer ripoff. In light of this larger incompetence, like a drop of water removed from an ocean, loss from items we claim for ourselves could not possibly hurt the company.

Although it is exciting to get stuff for free, there are two greater attractions for most of us what little money we save gives us a momentary sense of relief from the burden of paying George, and more important, each success story wins a coveted slice of his heartfelt approval.
Mike Stavos has great bravado, and one day he tries to pinch a vacuum cleaner from the Closter K-mart. A manager spots and detains him. The police are called and charges pressed. A few weeks later he is fined in a Closter courtroom. In response, George reprimands him. "Asshole! You tried to do it from your mind instead of using The Energy." Mike sorrowfully admits he made a mistake.

K-Mart serves our mission again when Serena shops, accompanied by her father. She approaches the checkout, planning to pay for a hairbrush and shampoo. She prefers to do things the old-fashioned way, not for moral reasons, she is simply too afraid of getting caught. George spots her on line, pulls her into an empty aisle, and scolds her. She is commanded to walk out with the items; she must not defy The Energy. Serena complies; she has no choice.

Several weeks later, my mother is stopped by the store manager of Sloan's Supermarket, on 97th and Broadway. She has a can of tuna wrapped in a newspaper under her arm. The manager, viewing her as a harmless, piteous, old woman, lets her go but bans her from shopping there again. Rachael doesn't seem to care.

Wealthy Beatrice is fond of hiding items under the supermarket circulars at the bottom of her cart. One day, she too gets caught, and a court date is set. Her husband, an upstanding citizen of their Westchester community, is mortified. However, Beatrice explains to their lawyer that she is currently writing a novel which portrays the life of a thief. The shoplifting was merely an experiment to connect with her main character and improve her narrative skills. The court lets her off with a slap on the wrist, and George spends hours bragging about Beatrice's skill. "She knows how to use The Energy to bypass the system."

Christopher and George make weekly visits to the Westwood Grand Union Supermarket. They place open, brown bags in a cart and stroll the aisles, nonchalantly filling them. Once satisfied, they walk past the checkout confidently, acting as if they have already paid. They are never stopped. But one day, Christopher goes alone and is caught. He is handcuffed by the local police and later released into his father's custody. George brings Christopher home in tears, all the while excoriating him for ignoring the signals sent by The Energy that today was not the day to do this. George hires a lawyer, for whom Christopher must pay with his Bar Mitzvah money. But he never makes it to court. Because Christopher is underage, seventeen, the store drops the charges.

Thanksgiving Morning
9:00 A.M. to 1:00 P.M.
1987 to the present

Today is a national holiday and a treasured day off from work, but we all arise early. Lisa and Pauline wake at 6:00 A.M. Traveling from eastern Queens, N.Y. they will arrive punctually at George's New Jersey den by 9:00. My alarm jolts me to consciousness at 8:30. I wake Mike; we pull on clothes, grab a quick coffee at the 7-11 around the corner, and head north. Speeding on local roads from Hackensack to Teaneck, we reach George's block by 9:05. George's white house is first on the left. Everyone else has already arrived, and their cars selfishly crowd the tiny, residential block. I spot Laura's white Toyota, Beatrice's green Jaguar, Acura Integras (the official Group car of choice) belonging to Nora, Lisa, Christopher, and Serena; Beth's light blue Honda Civic, and Carl's Ford Escort wagon. Walking up the driveway, with Mike at my heels, my stomach twists in fearful anticipation. I wish I was anywhere else, not only because of the painful amount of money I am about to spend, but also because dissension almost certainly lies within. I push back these feelings and struggle to recall some positive event that I can recount when I enter the room and George throws out his typical "What's going on?"

While ascending three stairs up to a deck, I force a cheery smile and then make a quick left. Two final, long strides gain us entrance to George's den through an oak door. Standing on white tile just inside, I remove my coat and place it on the floor. There is a full house today, and the inadequate coat rack to my right overflows with garments. I pause to quickly scan the room. A wave of tension passes through me; I hate being here, but I push past these feelings again. To my left is a blue and green plaid couch on which Pauline, Bess, and Carl are squeezed. Daylight streams through a large picture window behind them. George is barely two feet away, his back to me, comfortable in an overstuffed armchair with matching fabric. A love seat across from him, occupied by Nora and Beatrice, completes the living room set. Laura sits in an oak rocker to their right, her eyes squeezed shut, and Serena occupies a white-cushioned, swivel-based, rattan chair next to her father, just to the right of where I stand. Her impenetrable visage always makes me nervous, and I avoid looking at her. Christopher is nowhere to be seen, probably in his basement office doing a graphic arts project on the computer. Lisa and my mother (who is now close to seventy) perch on green velveteen folding chairs behind the love seat. As usual, later than the rest, all of the good seats have been taken. Only the awful folding chairs remain. I hate those chairs, especially when I know I'll be staying for four hours. Mike opts for one, but I slip as unassumingly as possible between George's chair and Serena's knees, and plop down on the carpet beneath the fish tank. I am right next to Jan (the 8th grade special education teacher), whose earthiness usually directs her to prefer the floor as seating. Having settled myself, I blend in with the other twelve eager students who feel they must obtain a healthy dose of The Energy before heading out to the family, holiday dinner war zone.

Beatrice and Nora, pasty-complexioned, have entered their personal trance states already. Carl looks nervous and twiddles his thumbs rapidly. Mike, his simian resemblance seeming so much more pronounced as I view him from across the room, rocks back and forth on his tiny, folding chair. I can imagine him in the jungle, perched on a tree's limb, banana in hand, grunting at passersby just going with the flow. Serena, as if she were royalty, observes her subjects tranquilly. Her coarse, wavy black hair, cut in a shoulder-length shag, contrasts with her bloodless complexion. Completely clothed in black (her favorite color), she wears glasses and long, silver, star-shaped earrings. With her coloring, she could easily pass for one of Dracula's wives, except that she isn't pretty enough. Her weak chin and puffy features are far from easy on the eye. Actually, she resembles her father in female form. Of George's two offspring, Christopher, who takes after Doris, got all the looks. Bess, next to Pauline on the couch, seems terribly worried about something, while Pauline is so close to George that their knees touch. As I glance around, trying to avoid being noticed, I realize that a conversation is already in progress. George confronts an upset Pauline energetically, "Why don't you want to grow?"

"I don't know how, " she moans, her yellow-gray hands (with the bony fingers and dry, wrinkled skin of a much older woman) clenching the fabric of the couch's arm.
"YES. You do. You're just holding back. Why don't you just let The Energy lead you? It's your only friend."
Pauline's voice trembles, "I try and try, but I never get it."
Annoyed by her whining, George raises his voice. "Don't waste my time; you have all the answers inside, but you're too lazy to make an effort."
Pauline's face pales by the minute. "No, I don't know what to do. Can't you help me?"
George switches gears and explains like a supportive teacher, "I can only assist after you take the first step on your own." He adds vocal force. "Just drop your manipulations, get on your bicycle, and start pedaling."
Pauline whimpers, "I can't find answers inside of me like you say."
George flips back to exasperation. "You're lying. You prefer to play games with me games I have no time for. I have an important job to do, and you're holding me back on purpose."
Pauline continues to insist, "I really can't do it; I need help; I'm just stupid, and I can't get it."
George rises menacingly with glaring eyes, conceiving fear in all of our hearts. "Only people who choose to cooperate belong here. I'm giving you one more chance, but you better switch your attitude now, or you're out."
Tears roll down Pauline's face as she pleads, "Please don't throw me out; I'll try harder."
"Do you actually think I'm stupid enough to fall for your fake tears? I don't understand you people. There is all this wonderful stuff to experience, and none of you want it. You'd rather stay in misery. Why is it that I am always alone in the end, the only one who wants the truth? All of you want to be taken care of thumb-sucking babies."
Each of us silently checks her attitude, and each concludes she does want the Truth and will listen to George. Poor Pauline sobs outright, her head down and scrawny body shaking. She rocks, wringing anxious hands, her throat so tight she can barely speak. This display angers George anew, and he escalates into full -blown rage, thundering at the top of his lungs, "Fool! Drop it now! There are others here who want to move ahead. I can't make everyone else pay because of you."
Having had his fill of assassinating Pauline, George abruptly begins a round of vigorous headshaking. The rest of us have no sympathy for Pauline, except Bess. Last year, thanks to her, Pauline obtained a lucrative position in Beth's office. The two women now work closely, and Bess feels responsible for Pauline. She leans toward Pauline reassuringly. Sweet and patient, she also possesses an intimate understanding of the rebelliousness which Pauline is experiencing. "Pauline, you know, yesterday at work I was resisting and resisting. Then I decided to sit still and focus on the wall. I thought, Why am I such a baby? I am part of this wonderful mission. Immediately I was better, and right after that Arthur (her boss) stopped by my desk. He told me he had just gotten a new client and that I would get extra, overtime hours. In that moment, I put it all together when I let go of small thoughts, everything works out."
George interrupts his shaking. "There. Exactly what I mean. Does everybody understand? Bess was all screwed up, but when she let the garbage go, good things came immediately. Now, why can't all of you do that too? It would make my job so much easier. Don't you realize that I can't focus on discovery if I have to constantly stop and change your dirty diapers?"
This scene has become our daily diet. Six days a week, ten hours a day, people come and go; most spend at least four hours. Faces change, but George's stance remains the same. He has incredible stamina, usually railing against our lousy attitudes for many hours. His voice rattles the window panes. The object of his rage, different almost every day, recedes until her face turns ashen. The rest, simply grateful to be excused from the hot seat, sit quietly, wearing pious and knowing looks, trying to impress upon George that we, unlike the person under fire, "get it."
Pauline apologizes, "I'm sorry, I forgot to appreciate what we have here."
And George responds sweetly, "See, that's all it takes; just admit you don't know and let The Energy take over."
George directs his eyes to hers, and she returns his gaze. Her sobbing fades and eventually dies away. After about five minutes, as the focusing progresses, she slips into a staring trance, her body jolting from The Energy. She reports that there is green light around his head, and George nods encouragingly. We all understand that now all is well. George continues with Pauline. His head shakes a little, and then quickly gains speed. Exhausted from the battle, we focus on George's spinning head, and soon we all experience some Energy. One by one, eyes close and we nod off. Christopher comes up from the basement, entering through the kitchen door at the rear of the den. He lies down flat on his back next to Serena's chair and falls under instantly. George himself, after half an hour of continuous headshaking, lets go. His head rolls back in his chair, his mouth falls open, and he slips into deep sleep. I find solace in our familiar state of nothingness no thoughts, no conflict.
This den is my home, and I know every inch: the diagonal, knotty pine paneling; the white, Berber carpet; the tiny bathroom to the left of the entrance, with its inspirational poster, "Footprints in the Sand," posted on the back of the door; George's oak roll-top desk in the opposite corner, overstuffed with personal paperwork and our checks to him peeking out from a cubbyhole; the square coffee table where we rest our feet when we sit on his couch; the jingle of wind chimes outside on the deck. Total silence reigns as fourteen people and George's two cats, B.J. and Tyler, succumb to a drugged sleep. The doorbell rings and his black Labrador Retriever, Ben, barks in another part of the house, but no one hears a thing. Our bodies weigh a thousand pounds; we couldn't move our limbs if we wanted to. After an additional hour George comes to. It is 12:55 P.M., exactly five minutes before the time he has intended to finish. Gently he rouses us, "OK everybody, it's time to get going."
We all groan as we drag ourselves out of the oppressive sleep still engulfing us. Feet grope for shoes, and one by one, we rise slowly from our seats. George, watching over his flock, asks how everybody is doing, and Pauline replies first, "I feel much better. I think I understand more of what you mean."
George replies lovingly, "Now you're getting smarter!" and then coaches the rest of us. "You know we are all in this together, and we need each other. We have to be unified."
Pauline looks at him gratefully, her face shining. She thanks him and follows with a hug, which he receives without emotion. Then she writes his check, but cautions while handing it over, "Don't cash this until next week. I can't give you everything for today; I'll give you the rest after my paycheck next Wednesday."
He nods in acknowledgment and continues his lecture, "We all went up a level today and learned a lot. Now everybody, make sure you don't throw it away as soon as you go out the door. At your Thanksgiving dinners, just observe your families, but don't get involved. Learn from them; use them to grow, to break your connections to the garbage they are drowning in. If you can get strong then maybe you can lead them out too, if they want something better for themselves. Just remember that The Energy is always with you. Stop resisting and enjoy the ride!"
Beatrice kisses George on the cheek as she heads for the door, and he smiles sweetly. Bess follows suit and then asks, "What are you doing for Thanksgiving?"
George's face dissolves into contempt. "Doris has some crap planned. Serena, Christopher, and I have to drive all the way out to Long Island so that we can spend the day watching her sister and brother-in-law act like babies. The house is filthy and her cooking sucks. Well, that's the price we pay right now. Holidays are total nonsense."
"I know. I'm going to my brother's. His kids are nuts, his wife's controlling him with the Female Program, and he doesn't have a clue. Every time I try to tell him that he could have so much more if he came here, he ignores me and changes the subject. I don't know why he is so stupid when the answer is right under his nose."
"Yeah, I know what you mean. Parents in The Program are so crazy that it's amazing our mothers didn't put us in the oven instead of the Thanksgiving turkey! Hah. Hah."
"Right you are, George! Well, take it easy and I'll see you tomorrow, first thing in the morning when you start. I have the whole day off from work. How late are you going tomorrow?"
"Short day. 9:00 to 5:00."
"OK, I can stay the whole time; See you at 9:00. . . . I'll bring some bagels." Bess leaves smiling, anticipating tomorrow.
Laura shares her plans also, as she leaves. "I'm going to my brother's in Harrington Park for dinner. They just had a new baby."
"Well, just watch how they throw away their own lives to put the baby on a pedestal and worship her. If you can sneak to the side with the baby, hold her and get some of The Energy into her. It will build up and she'll come our way when she gets older."
"OK, I'll see you tomorrow. I'll be here from 10:00 to 2:00." Laura pulls a stack of twenties from her pocket and peels off one for herself. The rest she hands to George.
We continue to file out, handing him checks or cash, all of which he receives without expression and immediately pockets. Serena and Christopher, the crown princess and prince, remain seated. They silently observe The Group members' exodus and the transfer of cash the growing fortune they will one day inherit. Today, this holiday morning from 9:00 A.M. to 1:00 P.M., George has scolded Pauline, eaten bagels and fruit offered by Lisa, Nora, and Laura (at a spontaneous break somewhere within his two-hour tirade), and then headshaken himself into a ninety-minute stupor. He has earned $1,760.