Free to shine
Shiny & Free
Chapter Seventeen - Freedom
Chapter Seventeen - Freedom
http://counterfeitdreams.blogspot.com/2008/07/chapter-seventeen-freedom.html
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My wheels hissed against the asphalt as I drove north on 101, through Calabasas, Agoura Hills, Thousand Oaks. It was a drive I’d made many times, going up to see Mom. It was after midnight, and there wasn’t much traffic. A light misty rain dusted my windshield, but a touch on the wiper every few minutes kept it clear.
Boxes and bags were piled high on the back seat. More boxes filled the trunk. The Accord felt heavy, slow. I had put as many of my belongings into the car as I could. The rest, including my furniture and boxes of books – most of them Scientology books – were in a storage facility in Beaumont, just over the hills from the Base.
Streetlights cast a yellowish glow, haloed in the mist. Bits of civilization drifted by: a car dealership, a gas station. I looked at it all with new eyes, curious eyes. Me, the newborn citizen of this world – the world outside Scientology. As I started up the long grade at Newbury Park, cars rushed past, their taillights glowing in the mist. Let them rush; I was in no hurry. I had the rest of my life.
It was Saturday, April 16th, 2005. That morning, I had woken up in my dormitory room in the Old Gilman House. I had spent ten weeks in the OGH Compound, weeding and clearing brush, and getting Security Checking, hour after hour, to clean up all my "critical feelings about David Miscavige" by finding my "crimes against Scientology."
At the beginning of April, Manu and Michela had arrived at OGH. They had been told they were being offloaded as well, out of the Sea Org. We began working together, and soon any animosity melted and we all became friends. Security had purchased an old fire engine and wanted to get it cleaned up and polished, so Manu, Michela and I worked on that, day after day. Evenings, the two women would frantically write up ethics conditions formulas, petitions, confessions. They were desperate to get reinstated to the Base. They encouraged me to join them, but I said no – I was not interested in going back. In my mind I was already gone. I spent the evenings reading, or sorting and repacking my belongings.
There were two other CMU staff at OGH, two of the artists, Carrie Cook and Jimmy Yeoh, also slated for offload. With Manu and Michela gone, I estimated there were only about eight people left in CMU – really a skeleton crew. And it wasn’t as if Miscavige’s winnowing process had left the cream. Jimmy and Carrie had been the best designers. The only designer left, Kerrie Francis, had been the worst and slowest designer. And with Manu and Michela gone, there was no one left who could competently write a marketing campaign. CMU had been decimated, it was no more.
But the morning of April 16th had not been like any other. The Security Guards were in a panic. Those who were slated for offload had to be gone, right now, today. One can only imagine what the "flap" was. Maybe Miscavige was on his way back to the Base.
I said goodbye to Manu and Michela. They said they might go to Italy, where they both had family. Jimmy Yeoh gave me his e-mail address.
Most of my possessions had been brought out to OGH and stacked in a spare room, but some of the larger items were still out at the Kirby Apartments. A Security Guard named Salvatore Meo took me out to Kirby in the Security truck and we got the rest of my things, including a big queen mattress and my desk. It took two trips to get everything. Then Sal drove me to a U-Haul place in San Jacinto where I rented a truck. I paid for it – of course. I drove it back to OGH, where we loaded up the truck with everything I owned. Anything I was going to need immediately, I packed into my car. The rest was going into temporary storage.
Sal and I drove the truck up through Lamb’s Canyon, over the hills to Beaumont, where we found a storage place. I paid for the space, then Sal and I unloaded everything and locked it up. We about to head back to the Base to get my car when Murphy phoned. Change of plans: I was not to come back to the Base. Murphy would meet us with my car.
We waited at a nearby Dennys, sipping coffee until Murphy showed up. Sal and I got into my car; Murphy took the truck back. Sal drove my car. It was dark by the time we entered the lobby of the Hollywood Guaranty Building on Hollywood Boulevard. We took the elevator to the 11th floor, where the Office of Special Affairs was. I was ushered into a conference room where there were a couple of OSA legal staff. There was a video camera at one end of the conference table, and a stack of documents. When they turned on the camera, Sal stood over to one side, out of camera range – having a uniformed guard standing behind me might look too much like "duress."
In my frame of mind, I simply signed whatever they put in front of me. Yes, I understand I have no rights, I can never sue the Church, I can never speak out against the Church, I can never reveal what went on at the Base, on and on. Yes, yes, whatever. Initial each page and sign the final page. Document after document, all recorded on video. It took hours.
Finally, we were finished. Sal handed me an envelope with a check in it. Five hundred dollars. This was my "severance pay."
Five hundred dollars? I had no idea what it cost to rent an apartment or buy food, but I knew five hundred dollars wouldn’t get me very far. It was a slap in the face. I had assumed, throughout my whole ten-week "offload" process, that the Church had some way of relocating staff they dismissed – even those who were "declared Suppressive." I had assumed there would be some kind of assistance in finding an apartment and a job, and sufficient severance pay to, at least, pay a deposit and first month’s rent on an apartment and living expenses for a month or so, until one could get a job.
It was not to be. I found myself walking back to my car with $500 in my hands. Fortunately I still had a bit of money left from Mom’s inheritance. Not much, but enough to live for – what? Four months? Six months? I had no idea what things cost.
I got in my car and just sat for a moment. I was parked on Vine Street, just north of Hollywood Boulevard, in a car crammed with my belongings. I was 58 years old, and at that moment, homeless. I had a modest bank account, and a check for $500 in my pocket.
I had no place to go. My brother, my only living relative, was still a Scientologist. As a Suppressive Person, I had been told by Murphy, under no uncertain terms, that I was forbidden to talk to him. The last I’d heard from Kim he was moving to Clearwater. I had no address or phone number for him. I had lost track of Gwennie – she had moved without a forwarding address. I hadn’t heard from her in four years. And after 35 years working for the Sea Org, my only friends were Sea Org Members. I knew no one on the "outside." So it was just me. Me and my car full of belongings, sitting on Vine Street in Hollywood.
At that moment, I realized I could literally drive anywhere and start a new life: down the coast, up the coast, out to Arizona. But I knew where I would go – Santa Barbara, where my mother had lived. It was a city I knew and loved. It was by the sea. And it was in the opposite direction to the Base.
I slipped a CD into the stereo, and turned it up: the Rolling Stones’ "Start Me Up." I pulled out into traffic.
Half an hour later, as I drove up the coast, I felt strangely disembodied, floating. The music had stopped, and I slid along silently, down the long hill into the lights of Camarillo, then through darkened farm country to the lights of Ventura and the Coast. On my left, the Pacific Ocean glimmered in the scattered moonlight. I wound between cliff and ocean, riding the edge of the continent, drifting.
It was well after midnight when I finally pulled in to Santa Barbara. I took the downtown exit and headed up State Street. I found a motel with a vacancy and checked in. It was $100 a night. There went a fifth of my severance pay, but I didn’t care. I was exhausted. It had been a long day.
Santa Barbara - my refuge
Sunday morning, I woke feeling refreshed. I went outside and smelled the fresh sea air. It really came home to me then – I was free, and I was on my own. It was exhilarating.
At the same time, I felt an underlying panic. I had no job, no home. I had to get busy. I went across the street to an IHOP for breakfast. On my way in, I grabbed a local paper. As I ate, I turned to the classified section, apartments to rent. I knew that was my first priority: I had to find a place to live.
Ironically, I found a place available right on Bath Street, about a block from where my mother had lived. I went over and saw it, but it turned out to be unavailable. I called a few more places, then walked down State Street, got a haircut, and went into Barnes & Noble to look for some books on job hunting.
I’d been out of the job market for 35 years. I had no idea how to look for a job, or even how to write a resume. I got two books, Idiots Guide to the Perfect Resume, and What Color is Your Parachute, a book about career changes. I figured that’s what I was doing – a career change.
I didn’t want to pay another $100 for the room, so looked into other motels. I found one a block down the street willing to charge me $55 a night for five nights – through Thursday. The motel was run by a nice guy named Chris, who gave me some advice on apartment hunting.
...continued
Chapter Seventeen - Freedom
http://counterfeitdreams.blogspot.com/2008/07/chapter-seventeen-freedom.html
-------------------------------
My wheels hissed against the asphalt as I drove north on 101, through Calabasas, Agoura Hills, Thousand Oaks. It was a drive I’d made many times, going up to see Mom. It was after midnight, and there wasn’t much traffic. A light misty rain dusted my windshield, but a touch on the wiper every few minutes kept it clear.
Boxes and bags were piled high on the back seat. More boxes filled the trunk. The Accord felt heavy, slow. I had put as many of my belongings into the car as I could. The rest, including my furniture and boxes of books – most of them Scientology books – were in a storage facility in Beaumont, just over the hills from the Base.
Streetlights cast a yellowish glow, haloed in the mist. Bits of civilization drifted by: a car dealership, a gas station. I looked at it all with new eyes, curious eyes. Me, the newborn citizen of this world – the world outside Scientology. As I started up the long grade at Newbury Park, cars rushed past, their taillights glowing in the mist. Let them rush; I was in no hurry. I had the rest of my life.
It was Saturday, April 16th, 2005. That morning, I had woken up in my dormitory room in the Old Gilman House. I had spent ten weeks in the OGH Compound, weeding and clearing brush, and getting Security Checking, hour after hour, to clean up all my "critical feelings about David Miscavige" by finding my "crimes against Scientology."
At the beginning of April, Manu and Michela had arrived at OGH. They had been told they were being offloaded as well, out of the Sea Org. We began working together, and soon any animosity melted and we all became friends. Security had purchased an old fire engine and wanted to get it cleaned up and polished, so Manu, Michela and I worked on that, day after day. Evenings, the two women would frantically write up ethics conditions formulas, petitions, confessions. They were desperate to get reinstated to the Base. They encouraged me to join them, but I said no – I was not interested in going back. In my mind I was already gone. I spent the evenings reading, or sorting and repacking my belongings.
There were two other CMU staff at OGH, two of the artists, Carrie Cook and Jimmy Yeoh, also slated for offload. With Manu and Michela gone, I estimated there were only about eight people left in CMU – really a skeleton crew. And it wasn’t as if Miscavige’s winnowing process had left the cream. Jimmy and Carrie had been the best designers. The only designer left, Kerrie Francis, had been the worst and slowest designer. And with Manu and Michela gone, there was no one left who could competently write a marketing campaign. CMU had been decimated, it was no more.
But the morning of April 16th had not been like any other. The Security Guards were in a panic. Those who were slated for offload had to be gone, right now, today. One can only imagine what the "flap" was. Maybe Miscavige was on his way back to the Base.
I said goodbye to Manu and Michela. They said they might go to Italy, where they both had family. Jimmy Yeoh gave me his e-mail address.
Most of my possessions had been brought out to OGH and stacked in a spare room, but some of the larger items were still out at the Kirby Apartments. A Security Guard named Salvatore Meo took me out to Kirby in the Security truck and we got the rest of my things, including a big queen mattress and my desk. It took two trips to get everything. Then Sal drove me to a U-Haul place in San Jacinto where I rented a truck. I paid for it – of course. I drove it back to OGH, where we loaded up the truck with everything I owned. Anything I was going to need immediately, I packed into my car. The rest was going into temporary storage.
Sal and I drove the truck up through Lamb’s Canyon, over the hills to Beaumont, where we found a storage place. I paid for the space, then Sal and I unloaded everything and locked it up. We about to head back to the Base to get my car when Murphy phoned. Change of plans: I was not to come back to the Base. Murphy would meet us with my car.
We waited at a nearby Dennys, sipping coffee until Murphy showed up. Sal and I got into my car; Murphy took the truck back. Sal drove my car. It was dark by the time we entered the lobby of the Hollywood Guaranty Building on Hollywood Boulevard. We took the elevator to the 11th floor, where the Office of Special Affairs was. I was ushered into a conference room where there were a couple of OSA legal staff. There was a video camera at one end of the conference table, and a stack of documents. When they turned on the camera, Sal stood over to one side, out of camera range – having a uniformed guard standing behind me might look too much like "duress."
In my frame of mind, I simply signed whatever they put in front of me. Yes, I understand I have no rights, I can never sue the Church, I can never speak out against the Church, I can never reveal what went on at the Base, on and on. Yes, yes, whatever. Initial each page and sign the final page. Document after document, all recorded on video. It took hours.
Finally, we were finished. Sal handed me an envelope with a check in it. Five hundred dollars. This was my "severance pay."
Five hundred dollars? I had no idea what it cost to rent an apartment or buy food, but I knew five hundred dollars wouldn’t get me very far. It was a slap in the face. I had assumed, throughout my whole ten-week "offload" process, that the Church had some way of relocating staff they dismissed – even those who were "declared Suppressive." I had assumed there would be some kind of assistance in finding an apartment and a job, and sufficient severance pay to, at least, pay a deposit and first month’s rent on an apartment and living expenses for a month or so, until one could get a job.
It was not to be. I found myself walking back to my car with $500 in my hands. Fortunately I still had a bit of money left from Mom’s inheritance. Not much, but enough to live for – what? Four months? Six months? I had no idea what things cost.
I got in my car and just sat for a moment. I was parked on Vine Street, just north of Hollywood Boulevard, in a car crammed with my belongings. I was 58 years old, and at that moment, homeless. I had a modest bank account, and a check for $500 in my pocket.
I had no place to go. My brother, my only living relative, was still a Scientologist. As a Suppressive Person, I had been told by Murphy, under no uncertain terms, that I was forbidden to talk to him. The last I’d heard from Kim he was moving to Clearwater. I had no address or phone number for him. I had lost track of Gwennie – she had moved without a forwarding address. I hadn’t heard from her in four years. And after 35 years working for the Sea Org, my only friends were Sea Org Members. I knew no one on the "outside." So it was just me. Me and my car full of belongings, sitting on Vine Street in Hollywood.
At that moment, I realized I could literally drive anywhere and start a new life: down the coast, up the coast, out to Arizona. But I knew where I would go – Santa Barbara, where my mother had lived. It was a city I knew and loved. It was by the sea. And it was in the opposite direction to the Base.
I slipped a CD into the stereo, and turned it up: the Rolling Stones’ "Start Me Up." I pulled out into traffic.
Half an hour later, as I drove up the coast, I felt strangely disembodied, floating. The music had stopped, and I slid along silently, down the long hill into the lights of Camarillo, then through darkened farm country to the lights of Ventura and the Coast. On my left, the Pacific Ocean glimmered in the scattered moonlight. I wound between cliff and ocean, riding the edge of the continent, drifting.
It was well after midnight when I finally pulled in to Santa Barbara. I took the downtown exit and headed up State Street. I found a motel with a vacancy and checked in. It was $100 a night. There went a fifth of my severance pay, but I didn’t care. I was exhausted. It had been a long day.
Santa Barbara - my refuge
Sunday morning, I woke feeling refreshed. I went outside and smelled the fresh sea air. It really came home to me then – I was free, and I was on my own. It was exhilarating.
At the same time, I felt an underlying panic. I had no job, no home. I had to get busy. I went across the street to an IHOP for breakfast. On my way in, I grabbed a local paper. As I ate, I turned to the classified section, apartments to rent. I knew that was my first priority: I had to find a place to live.
Ironically, I found a place available right on Bath Street, about a block from where my mother had lived. I went over and saw it, but it turned out to be unavailable. I called a few more places, then walked down State Street, got a haircut, and went into Barnes & Noble to look for some books on job hunting.
I’d been out of the job market for 35 years. I had no idea how to look for a job, or even how to write a resume. I got two books, Idiots Guide to the Perfect Resume, and What Color is Your Parachute, a book about career changes. I figured that’s what I was doing – a career change.
I didn’t want to pay another $100 for the room, so looked into other motels. I found one a block down the street willing to charge me $55 a night for five nights – through Thursday. The motel was run by a nice guy named Chris, who gave me some advice on apartment hunting.
...continued
We felt the SAME way and made the SAME decision! 
!
Jeff! 
