I walk the line
Avon + Scientology = ???
11 looks for the secret Scientology compound
The Church of Scientology constructed an elaborate underground bunker to store the works of L. Ron Hubbard just twenty miles from my home. They cut it in secret, deep into steep sides of a scrub-tiled mesa in the middlest of middle nowhere. My son, 11, told me this as we drove through parched piñon-lined winter ranches in late December.
"Mom, listen, you gotta hear this!"
He rattled off a list of rumored facts - something about steel lined tunnels, two UFO landing pads carved into sold rock, and titanium etched records that can be played on a solar-powered turn table. I didn't hear his words. My throat gathered in a mother's lump at the new deepening of his voice, the way he held the newspaper folded in half with hands so much like a man's. He leaned forward and poked me in the side and my hands jumped, let the car lurch toward a nest of resting cattle.
"Mom! The bunker can survive a nuclear blast! The Scientologists say that after a blast the words of L. Ron Hubbard will be more important that ever."
11 snickered at this last part. His dark cowlick fell over one eye, and I noticed again how he looked more like me than any of my other children. He continued reading the news article to himself while his younger brother, 8, cocked his head to the side to read an advertisement for a movie about an overgrown ape.
He has the unyielding skepticism of his father, I thought. We know the future from the seeds we plant today. We can let our minds stray far into a black tomorrow, look at the trail of memory behind us, know what loaded weapons me might need to carry under our arms. Maybe the Scientologists need those books tucked into the furrows once dotted with Spanish missions, the space once inhabited by graceful people of the ancient lands. Maybe they just need to know they are safe, protected by nature's arid indifference.
"Oh, Mom!" 11 raised head from the paper once more with an expression of surprise and haughty delight. "I'm taller than Tom Cruise! Hey, what's a thetan?"
I tried not to let him see me giggle. The road curved past the two radio towers signaling across the start of the Great Plains. I saw my tiny town below us, cradled by the New Mexican Rockies.
"You see the town?" I pointed in the general direction of our house, kept my voice level and simple, the tone of the mother trying to teach a lesson. "We live among ten thousand people. Some of them are taller than you. Some of them are shorter. Some are smarter, or more musical, or better at Chinese checkers. Now as for thetans, I have no earthly idea what the heck they are. Some kind of Scientology belief."
I searched "thetans" on the internet that night while 11 looked over my shoulder. According to Scientology, the thetan is the spiritual being. The thetan is the individual, another word for soul. We read a lot more about thetans, too, from websites critical and concerned. We read about the collection of expensive fees, about people who claimed cult, about people who claimed spiritual salvation. What a complicated mess.
"Come on, Mom. Can you sell Avon at the secret compound? Can I come?" 11 pushed my hands off the keyboard and clicked a link showing a topological map of the Scientologists' mystery archive. "Come on, Mom! Tom Cruise is rich! You read all that stuff about them making a lot of money with those classes. You might sell a lot of makeup."
The boy had a point. I printed out the map, and opened my word processing program to make a targeted flier for my potential new rich and unusual customers. Lipsticks that every thetan needs! Ten tips for looking great at your next Audit! Beauty Secrets not found in Dianetics! I folded my fliers in half and stuffed them into the latest Avon brochures along with samples for the new Avon Anew Age Intensive Treatment. Even thetans gotta worry about wrinkles, I figured.
"OK, kids! Let's hit the road! We need a good adventure! 11, you're in charge of navigation and the binoculars. Let's see if we can locate the front door to this mystery mound. 8, you're in charge of snack dispersal! I'll watch the Avon. Keep your eyes peeled for Tom and Katie!"
We piled into my car, faced East, headed down Highway 104 toward the forgotten village of Trujillo, toward the unknown, eating Fritos and drinking bottles of Carizozo cherry cider.
To be continued....
7:04:22 PM 
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