Agreed
By MiaSMa
Chapter One:
Why I agreed to be the one to tell this story I don’t know. I wasn’t even in town for the crucial stages of Carlton’s, that is Carly’s, what? ...Development, and I’m not another one of those losers under Randall’s thumb. I like him well enough, sure—a good man to have in your corner, tough-minded, all that—but I don’t let him push me around. Not like Carly does. Nowadays. Jesus. Could the kid get any more femme? I mean, what’s with the pageboy cut?
Anyway. I write this because Randall, he claims, can’t spell worth a damn. (If that’s true, it’s because he only enjoys hearing himself talk.) Then too, I guess, the fact that Carly has a hard time forming coherent sentences lately disqualifies him for this job. Though his point of view would certainly be more interesting than mine. If he could formulate anything more complicated than “Whatever you say, Milord. Tee hee.”
Stupid pussy. Hard to credit he was ever a philosophy major and a swim champ. He looks and acts fucking fourteen now, like some Disney Channel princess, popping gum and IM’ing girlfriends.
It started at the bar. Duke Luke’s Juke Joint. Everything starts at Duke Luke’s when it’s the six of us: me (Andy, OK? In case you’re some joker I don’t know), Randall, Carlton, Ice Mike, Ian, and Flint. It was a Monday, not our usual night. Ostensibly it was a going-away party for yours truly, since I’d landed my first big design account, in New York, and would be away six weeks starting that Tuesday. Yeah, I was excited. Yeah, scared too. Really what that night was, like always, was an excuse for Randall the Vandal to hold court.
All of us were varying degrees of plowed, nodding or shaking our heads with varying degrees of drunken meaninglessness. What was said didn’t matter. Being together and fucking with each other, that mattered.
Today I make more money than anybody at that table, which gives me a little edge. But then...? I tended to lay back.
“Then it’s settled.”
“Shettled,” echoed Ian, just returned from the jukebox. Sade, “Your Love is King.” Ian’s minor-key, mildly bluesy taste in music is his best characteristic. His depressiveness translates into some good-for-bullshitting juke tunes.
“Starting a cult is definitely the way to go.” Randall didn’t slur a syllable.
“Cults are comin’ back!” proclaimed Ice Mike enthusiastically. Because he can’t stand the world or anybody on it, Mike finds every subject equally fascinating.
“Yeah they are.” Randall—never Randy, I’d seen him actually clock a guy who called him Randy after having been warned—held up two fingers to signal Helen, the owner/barmaid. Small place, you know? “All around, Helen.”
Flint belched, then clapped slow. “Who’s in charge? Who’s our leader?”
“Duh.” That from me. I examined a thumbnail, resentful at the turn in conversation away from my pending breakthrough.
“Lotta work,” wet blanket Ian said. “Lotta paperwork.”
“Who else?” I dunno who said that. Ice Mike, probably.
“Yep.” Randall leaned back, took a deep pull on his new beer with his ring hand. It was difficult not to follow that heavy old ruby—his grandmother’s poison ring, he said—whenever it moved through the smoke-snarled air. “Who else indeed?”
“Ian, paperfuckinwork? For a cult? That don’t even make sense,” said Flint, punching him on the shoulder.
“You have no idea. Ow.”
“It’s your idea, Randall. You should go.” Helen set another beer in front of Carlton, same label as Randall’s beside him, then dropped cocktails for the rest of us. Carlton stared at his beer a few moments before drinking it, fidgeting and blinking.
“Yah think, Carlton? Thanks, kiddo.”
“We could take turns being leader!”
“Shaddup, Mike.” Me again. “Fucking cheerleaders make lousy cult leaders.”
“Who you calling cheerleader, purse boy?!”
“Guys.” Everybody looked to Randall except Carlton, staring at his beer, and Ian, too blitzed to lift his head. “It’s fine, it’s fine, you’ve convinced me. I’ll be glad to it.” He raised both hands as if accepting a nomination by acclaim. “I’ll go first. New Orleans is ripe cult territory. Who’ll look askance at one more wild-eyed stranger? By this time next year, once our hordes are tithing us and all, we’ll be on Easy Street.”
“Where’s Easy Street?” asked Flint, who has never picked up a book or a magazine or goddamn cereal box in his life. Every reference sails over his head. Carlton shushed him.
“It’s where we never have to work, Flint,” explained Randall. “Even Mr. Rags-to-Riches here,” he added, swinging his beer bottle my way.
“Don’t forget the goddamn paperwork.” I prayed Ian would pass out soon.
“To Mr. Rags-to-Riches! Bags for bitches!” muttered Flint, hoisting a toast that no one else joined him in. I design women’s accessories. Fuck you too.
“But there’s a problem we got.” Now, thinking back—trying to recreate the scene, you know; sorry for you how I’ll miss all sorts of “telling details”—I’d swear Randall’s eyes were glittering. Like the ring on his second finger. A trick of memory or of jukebox light, whichever, he was definitely jazzed. You could see his vibrations humming through Carlton, squashed in between him and massive Flint.
“Can’t see what it could be,” I almost smirked. “No start-up costs.”
“Flinty, could you move your elbow some? Just a little fucking bit?”
“Make Prince Charming move over, Carlton. I’m set in stone.” By now Rickie Lee Jones was singing about “Coolsville.”
“Followers. I’ll need followers.”
“Can’t have a cult without followers. Whose names and addresses we’ll have to goddamn keep track of.”
“Until we move them all into a compound or something.” Mike was really into it. How many of these mofos were taking Randall’s booze brainstorm seriously? All of them?
“Just one for starters. A starter follower.”
“So go out on the street and hypnotize some bum. Hold up a quarter,” Mike suggested.
“That’s just the problem! It can’t be a loser. It’s got to someone attractive, someone cool—”
“That leaves me out.” Flint was butt ugly as well as big, wore both like badges of honor. Hot chicks—including this sharp gal Lana, who I studied design with—slept with him, every so often, just because they couldn’t believe he had the nerve to hit on him.
“—Someone who makes cult life look appealing. It can’t be all Follow the Leader. The Follower has to be having fun. You’re right, Flint. You can work the door at the compound.”
“OK! Make them pretty assholes wait behind my rope.”
“What about what Ice Mike suggested? Just upgrade, from bum to Quarter rat.”
“No, Andy. I mean, not no; I could do it. Pick some loser off the street, fuck his head and dominate his ass till his balls shrink and drop off dry.” Wedged tight, Carlton looked like he was in pain. Randall slid his right arm up and around the kid’s shoulder, giving him some breathing room.
“Jesus, Randall. Shit. Ugh.” And finally Ian passed out.
“But as a first-time cult leader, my first-time follower really ought to be someone I already know. We’ll have to work together closely, constantly, building the base. It’d be better if it’s someone I know I can count on.”
“That leaves out everybody else here!” cackled Flint. “And we here, we’re everybody you know.”
Randall sighed theatrically. “Except for a few cops. Maybe you’re right.”
“’Course I’m right! I’m too ugly, Ian’s a 24/7 boozehound, Andy’s blowing town, Ice Mike—”
“Can’t stand Randall.”
“—Mike hates your bossy ass, and Carlton...Carlton—”
“I’ll...fucking, fuckin’ do it.”
Maybe it’s time I said something, anything, about Carlton. Pretend I knew him. Since we’re about to lose him and all.
Where did he come from? Who brought him into out little tribe, anyway?
Sounds inadequate for a eulogy, sounds stupid, but he was just a sweet kid. Smart. Daydreamy smart. For him these evenings were the equivalent of running with his cool older brother’s cool crowd. Carlton was the youngest of us by a couple of years, still attending Loyola. And the best-looking of us by far—dark-eyed Randall with the jet black butch cut included—his heavy blonde hair swept across his forehead, physically trim, not real tall but seeming taller because most of his height was in his legs... like, you know, the human version of a prize colt. Given his name, I think he came from money, and was a little embarrassed by it, amongst the assembled working class. (I lost that bugaboo years ago.) Like I know he was embarrassed by his looks. He looked almost girlish in this crowd of toughs, slobs, hustlers on the make (me), especially given those big, blinking eyes of his. Probably he’d been a gawky, bookish kid, didn’t come into his looks until late, didn’t trust them.
Randall, clever bastard, stayed silent, watching, holding him by the shoulder. Until Carlton stopped his squirming and turned to him. “Unforgettable,” Nat’s original, without his bitch daughter’s voiceover, filled the air.
“I said I’ll do it, Randall.”
“You sure, kiddo? It’s a big commitment.”
“You said, you said you need a starter follower, right? To help tempt others into your cult?”
“You got it.”
“I have the summer off. So I can give you six weeks. To get it rolling.”
“Same amount of time as I’m gone.”
“Exactly, Andy. Perfect. And Charlene, she’s going to Europe. So you can have, have me—”
“—have you—”
“—until Andy returns. If I don’t get bored—”
“You won’t be bored.”
“—just get up and go myself.”
“You won’t.”
“By then you’ll have other followers, so you could let me go.” Somebody else must’ve said something, but I sure don’t remember who or what. Randall just stared holes into the kid’s colt eyes, smiling kindly.
Carlton began talking in a rush now, like I’d never heard him do. “This whole experiment, it’s right in line with what I study. The structure of belief, of faith; how the mind works. And it’s a truism of hypnosis that the intelligent, the highly verbal, are the ones most susceptible to suggestion. Who else here besides me, except Andy?”
“Not me. Not me,” grumped Flint, watching them both closely.
Carlton continued. “Aw, you’re smart, big guy. Just not much of a talker. And hey, Randall? Randall? It’s the question. What can you do to the mind? What can you change of belief? How long does it last? After Andy returns,” he repeated, “You could let me go.”
I heard the tense. I’m sure Randall heard the tense. He nodded, thoughtfully. “Yes. Yes I could.”
“It’d make for one great ‘How I Spent My Summer Vacation’ essay when I start senior year. ‘I helped start a cult!’”
“All right! Then it’s all settled.” This from Ice Mike, surprisingly. “The Cult of Randall the Vandal is open for business.”
“Where’s my velvet rope?”
I tried to interrupt. That’s all I can say for myself: I tried to interrupt. “If you guys are going to take this fucking seriously, then I think one night, one weekend—”
Randall waved a “pipe down” hand, the one with the ruby ring on it. It carried its own authority, matching that of its wearer. “Not quite. We’re not quite ready to go.” I think I sighed, and leaned back. Change of subject coming up. “Carlton. This is a big commitment, like I said. It requires that there be no reservations between us, no deception.”
“I’m not deceptive.”
“Not deliberately. But the way you talk about becoming my follower, you clearly think that hypnotizing you, enthralling you, is something I’m going to do to you. Yes?”
“...Yes.” Carlton sure looked confused. Where’d we find him?
“Use the poison ring!”
“Another word, Ice Mike, I wrap my ring ‘round the neck of this bottle and ram both up your ass.”
“In your dreams, faggot.”
“Ignore the ring, Carlton. Fuck the ring. Relax. Look at me. Just me. Work with me now. And maybe listen. Listen, you know, you know enough about hypnosis, I know, to know that hypnosis is not something the hypnotist does to you. I don’t hypnotize you. Listen. Listen and know this. We hypnotize you, you know? You know that, Carlton? We. You and me. We work together, Carlton. We do this together. Listen. You know what I mean. We enter hypnosis together. We enter trance together. It’s an agreement, Carlton, between us. Do you agree?’
“Yes.” They began breathing together.
“Yes. So you know. I will not hypnotize you, you know you just have to listen and relax. And agree. We will hypnotize you. We will enter trance. Together. You will obey me with me, in trance together, and relax, listening, in agreement, a simple agreement between us. Do you agree?’
“Yes.” Carlton had stopped his blinking.
“So listen, let’s keep this simple, you know. Let’s just agree. Let’s agree to agree, and to know. You are under my command, you know; you obey me, you know. Agree?”
“I agree.”
“What do you agree to, Carlton?”
“I agree that I’m under your command.”
“I agree. You are under my command.”
“I agree that I obey you.”
“I agree. You obey me.”
“I know.”
“Yes. You know.”
“I obey you.”
“I know. You always have.”
“I have?”
“Yes. You know.”
“I have?”
“We just have never talked about it before, have we?”
“No.”
“Not no, Carlton.”
“Yes.”
“Yes. We never talked about it before, but you have always obeyed me. Agree?”
“Agree.”
“Agree.”
“I have always obeyed you.”
“You have always been under my command. Agree?”
“Yes.”
“Agree?”
“Agree. I have always been under your command.”
“Then we agree. That’s how we are. That’s how we’ve always been. I command...”
“Yes.”
“...you obey. Yes?”
“Yes?”
“Yes, what?”
“What?”
“What did we agree?”
“That I have always, always...
“...belonged to me.”
“Belonged to you. Yes.”
“Agreed. If you say so.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Yes?”
“Yes” ...Here it comes... “Master.”
“Almost.” ...But there it wasn’t. Not quite.
“Master?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, but...”
“But what, Master?”
“Why do you obey me?”
“Because we agree.”
“Yes. Why else do you agree with me?”
“Because I always have.”
“Yes. Why else do you agree with me?”
“Because... because...”
“Because...?”
“...Master?” He was almost agitated.
“Because you worship me.”
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“You always have worshipped me.”
“Yes.”
“Do we agree?”
“We agree, Master.”
“I have always been...”
“Always.”
“Your master.”
“My master. Yes, Master.”
“And...”
“And?”
“And before your master...”
“Yes?”
“Your Lord and...”
“Lord and...”
“Lord...”
“Lord.”
“My Lord.”
“Yes.”
“Agree?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“Yes. Your lord.”
“Milord.”
Randall nodded at Carlton, who’d never once shut his eyes. They turned, together, to face the rest of us. Carlton smiling, Randall grinning. I think we were up to Willie’s cover of “The Lucky Old Sun.” Randall smacked his hands together.
“And that’s it, guys! Sorry to interrupt our drinking time. Helen!”
Helen got to us with our last round before anyone spoke. Carlton just sat and stared at Randall, but hell: So did we all, except snoring Ian.
Flint spoke first. “What the fuck was that? What the fuck was that?”
“An induction,” I said.
“Fuck no. That was no induction. Carlton, you’re the college boy. Was that an induction?”
“No, Milord.”
“That was a conversation. Carlton and me, we just talked awhile. Right, Carlton?”
“Right, Milord.”
“We came to an agreement.”
“Some amazing fucking agreement,” said Ice Mike wonderingly.
“Look, if you don’t believe two smart guys can just sit and talk and come to a meeting of the minds, that’s your problem. You’re the misanthrope. By the way, Carlton? Forget that you know what an induction is. And forget the word itself. Forget everything you ever learned about hypnosis, including the word hypnosis.”
“Yes, Milord.”
“In fact, Carlton, if you wouldn’t mind—I know we’ve always agreed, I know you don’t mind—forget that you attend college or ever have attended college.”
“Yes, Milord.”
“Hypnosis, gone. College, all gone.”
Carlton was blinking again, not as rapidly. “I agree, Milord.” He looked around the bar for the first time since the end of their conversation, like he was wondering how he got there. Then he looked back at Randall, the light dawning on his smooth face, and giggled. “I worship you, Milord.”
“Damn straight.” Randall pulled him in closer, almost snuggling him.
Flint, weirdly agitated, had talked non-stop, muttering really, still. But loudly, if you can mutter loudly. “...the hell. What the hell you gonna do to the kid next, Vandal? What are you going to mindfuck him into believing next? That he’s a bitch, Vandal? That he’s your pussy bitch?”
“I didn’t do anything to Carlton. We came to an agreement.”
“Yes we did, Milord.”
“Hell you did!”
“Flint. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why don’t you ask Carlton yourself? So we can get Ian home. So we can see off Andy. So we can get up early enough to get our cult rolling.”
“Fine. Fine. You’ll let him talk?”
“Of course.”
“Fine! Fuck. Carlton!” Carlton turned to face Flint, attentive, even concerned. “You’ve been hypnotized, OK? I’ve never seen hypnosis hocus-pocus before, or believed in it if I thought about it, but that’s what happened to you, just now, so now you’ll believe anything this asswipe Randall tells you, and I want to talk to the part of you that isn’t under his control because this ain’t good for you. You got college ahead of you, your whole life ahead of you. You get me, sweetheart?”
Carlton, his big eyes moist and puzzled again, stared at Flint a moment, then patted the ugly man’s hand. “Flint, you’ve had too much to drink, my friend. Or perhaps I have.” He smiled winningly, laughed lightly. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”
“Hell you don’t.”
“All right, well all right. I understand the words, Flint, sure. Most of them. But I’ll be darned if I understand what they have to do with me.” I noted, with mild interest, that Carlton seemed more refined, slightly more effeminate. No cursing, for example. Like even that little bit of macho he managed to don before entering our company had been shucked.
“You’ve been hypnotized.”
“What?”
“Hypnotized!”
“What the heck is that?” He turned to Randall. “It sounds like, I don’t know, hospitalized maybe. Is Flint telling me I’m sick, Milord??
“Yes! Sick as a street dog!”
“Flint.” Randall ring-gestured again, force of habit. “No, Carlton, you’re great. Just wonderful. It’s not hospitalized. Flint’s saying hypnotized. Past tense of hypnotize.”
Carlton scrunched up his face. “Hippo-nice?”
“Hypnotize. It’s a word they teach kids in college.”
“Ohhhh! Not me they don’t, Milord! I never been to college.” He turned back to Flint, who looked ready to hurl. “I had no idea you were so smart, big guy.”
“Carlton?”
“Yes, Milord?”
“You agree, don’t you, of course you do, I agree with you, that you’ve always gone by the name Carly. That Carly isn’t short for any other name, that it’s the only name you ever answer to? Do you agree with me, Carly?”
“I sure do, Milord.”
“You so worship me, Carly.”
“I so do, Milord.”
Flint’s veins were popping like cable under his forehead. “Carlton, for godssake!”
Carly just stared at his lord, unhearing. Phlegmy Ice Mike laughed, snorted till he started to choke, pounding the table open-handed.
Another minute of sputtering and Flint actually upended the table, stormed out, ranting and slamming the door. Mike choked with even greater glee. Most of the drinks were saved.
We didn’t stay long after that scene. The whole situation was so bizarre that nobody else seemed ill at ease, even. Carly’s enthrallment to new cult leader Randall was just one of those inexplicable things. Me specifically, I was too drunk, too distracted, a little too annoyed, to give it much thought. I’d think about it on the plane, sober. Hell, I figured Carly would sleep it off.
There was a final, half-hearted toast to me and my success. At Randall’s instruction, Carly paid the tab, leaving Helen a fifty percent tip. She called a cab for Ian, who’d woken up long enough to demand another drink. Ice Mike took Randall aside, joshing, but not at all joking, about how his apartment sure could use a good cleaning, as he eyed Carly, who smiled dreamily and swayed to Bob Seger on the juke. “Blame It on Midnight”: “Till you’ve beside a man/You don’t know what he wants...”
“Carly, here. Let me help you.” Responding without thinking to his girlish cues, I assisted him into his coat. As he slipped into the right sleeve, murmuring thank-yous, I realized: I’d begun thinking of him as Carly from the moment he had done.
Well, so what? Carlton was never quite real to me anyway.
On the way out to the street, with Carly giggling and clutching Randall for unneeded support—he’d put away less than any of us—Randall elbowed me and grinned. Seeing my pissed expression, he put on his solemn face. “Six weeks, hunh? Great time for both of us, hunh? Stay longer if you have to, bro. I want us both to succeed.”
Then he turned to the kid and asked him if he didn’t agree that he lived with Randall, that he’d always lived with Randall, that he’d never been on his own. Passionately, Carly agreed.