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Excerpts from The Human Equation


Thirst for Community

I was bored. I picked up the Village Voice and went directly to the personals. You could always rely on the Voice to offer some new variety of urban adventure. I was hungry for change; I was looking for the unusual. There were the typical ads where someone was looking for a kinky, bizarre or outright dangerous relationship with one or more other individuals with similar inclinations. They were so predictable that they became tedious. I passed over those quickly.

Suddenly, there was an ad that caught my eye. It read, Urban Commune with Successful Business Looking for New Members. There was a telephone number and a name, just a first name: Mateo. I circled it with my pen. “Interesting," I thought to myself. I was responding on pure impulse; I would not be deterred by any arguments, no matter how cogent, against pursuing this ad. I picked up the phone. At first there was no answer. I let it ring. Finally, a voice bellowed into my ear, “Mateo speaking, who is this?”
“I’m calling about the ad I saw in the Voice,” I answered.
“You mean about the commune?” he asked in almost disbelief. “What did you want to know?”
“What can you tell me about it?” I asked.
All of a sudden, he sounded petulant, "Well, you'll just have to come over here and talk to us. I'm certainly not going to discuss this stuff over the phone. You could be a damn spy or psychopath or something.
Warning bells should have begun to sound the alarm in my rational mind. But, they did not, or if they did, I ignored them. "All right," I responded, "give me your address."

I took the subway to the Lower East Side. The evening rose above the city and the night air was filled with the fervor of human destiny waiting furtively on street corners and impaled on the shadows. The summer air was still hot and everything seemed to shimmer with pale electricity. I carried a piece of paper with the address and lingered under a street lamp to read it. Finally, I arrived at my destination; it was a four story tenement. Brimming with curiosity, I walked up the stoop. I was very interested in the idea of community and had long dreamed of becoming part of one. It was a dream that took shape in the idealistic atmosphere of the sixties during that very brief interval when everything seemed possible. It was an era that spawned the creation of Steven's Farm in Tennessee. I visited that place of dreams where burnt out hippies from San Francisco put all their hopes into their master Steven’s egomaniacal hands. From that experience and others, I came to doubt that a successful commune was really possible. It seemed, however, that the dream was not yet dead.
I rang the bell and waited for the return buzzer to release the lock in the front door. I opened it, and immediately froze in place when I was greeted by an obviously self-assured and mature German Shepherd on one of the steps of the stairway ahead of me. I had expected Mateo. Another German Shepherd appeared and another and another; until, fourteen dogs occupied just as many steps. They did not bark, but looked at me very intently. I slowly moved my left hand behind my back and held securely onto the door knob ready to make a very quick exit. It seemed, however, that the dogs were only curious, nothing more. They looked very relaxed and were not agitated. Still, no Mateo. Eventually, I saw a bald head peeking around a corner at the top of the stairs. The most extraordinary feature on what appeared to be a disembodied head was the wildest looking eyes I had ever seen.
"Are you Joe?" he shouted. "Yes," I replied plainly relieved to have human contact. He darted down the stairs and chased the dogs into a room in the middle of the landing. After all the dogs had obediently entered the room, he shut it. "That's their shit room," he proclaimed.
“A shit room for fourteen German Shepherds, how bizarre,” I thought to myself. Again, here I had an excellent window of opportunity; I could have made a very wise and judicious escape. But, my own insatiable sense of adventure intervened and I decided not to leave. Mateo led me upstairs and took me to the kitchen to meet the remaining members of this commune. There were only two others, both males.
“Joe,” he began, “this is Mark and Gerald.” Mark was a young blonde with well delineated features. His hair was long and straight; the end was tied in a pony tail. He simply nodded as he shook my hand. His grip was strong, almost overbearing. There was something about his eyes that made me think of a farm owned by a friend of mine in West Virginia. Then I remembered; yes, of course, his eyes reminded me of those of a cow, wide-eyed and vacuous. Gerald had a weak and insipid handshake. He seemed timid and withdrawn. He was balding and obviously entering the very tenuous phase of middle age. “Hey mate, welcome,” he said. Gerald spoke with an obvious British accent.
“I suppose you want to know what we do here?” Mateo asked but did not wait for an answer. "Our goal is to be self sufficient. We own this building and have many vacant rooms. Right now they are apartments, but we're gonna change that soon and have wide open areas with fewer walls. We don't like walls; as a matter of fact we detest them. Walls are ways of keeping us imprisoned. Imprison people and you lock up their minds. When their minds go, so go their hearts. Dig!" He kind of made sense, but he didn't know when to stop. He just went on and on. Then he would suddenly, almost miraculously, launch into another topic.
"None of us have regular jobs, but we all work together in our own business. We have a carting company. People who are remodeling their homes, you know the yuppies, call us to move away the debris. They're afraid of work and mostly of getting their hands dirty. We just help them part with their money. Our truck is parked outside; I don’t know if you happened to see it as you came up.”
"No," I answered, "I didn't see it."
“We’ll take you on a tour of the place. Then, you can ask us any questions you want. First, let’s go down to the basement.”
The stairs down to the basement were in ill repair. The whole area was lit by one dim and bare incandescent bulb that hung from a rusted chain. The concrete floor of the basement was covered with bits of plaster that had fallen from the ceiling. The air was laden with dampness and the smell was unsettling. It took awhile for my eyes to become accustomed to the darkness, but once I could see, I realized that the entire space was occupied by boxes stacked on top of one another. These boxes were everywhere.
“What are these?” I asked.
“They’re C rations,” Mateo answered proudly. “They’re from World War II. We have a lifetime supply of food here.”
One of the boxes was opened on the floor and inside were exquisitely arranged containers of C rations. “He isn’t kidding!” I thought to myself. “These guys must eat this stuff everyday.”
“Would you like a taste?” Mateo asked.
I wanted to say no, but I knew I dare not. “Sure!” I answered. My whole body braced itself for what I was about to introduce into it. Actually, it was not as bad as I had expected. It was amazingly tasteless; a quality the armed forces probably had spent much time, effort and money perfecting for its fighting men. I could not help noticing Mateo watching me very carefully; he was in a state of perpetual excitement. His eyes were hot like coals, his face flushed and his body constantly restless in disposition. “What am I doing here?” I asked myself thoughtfully. It was a question I could not readily answer.
“Look, I really don't have time to show you everything, but you get the idea. You seem like a smart guy. Well what do you think?” Mateo asked. “Do you want to come join us? We need an answer.”
I knew immediately what my answer should be. However, I said, “I’m not quite sure yet, but I would like to work with you for awhile to see what it feels like. I think the idea is a good one. Would you mind if I did that?”
Mateo looked around at his comrades. They nodded approval. “All right then, you got a deal; I guess these guys like you,” Mateo replied as he extended his hand. "But don't take too long; we can't wait around forever.”

The following day, I returned ready to immerse myself in this newly discovered universe. I felt like I had become an explorer of a strange new world. The medium of my adventure was the mind. Like all adventures, I had no idea where all this would lead.
I felt the wind in my hair as the old truck lumbered through the Prospect Park section of Brooklyn that was going through a stage of serious and rapid gentrification. Luckily, we were not stopped by the police for the truck was in an obvious state of disrepair and the bellowing sound of its engine made some local dogs howl behind their fences. Mateo, who was driving, parked the truck along the curb next to an old brownstone that was being renovated. The four of us got out of the truck. We had the general appearance of refugees from a leper colony. The owner of the building was waiting inside.
He had recently come into a huge inheritance. He was doing his own construction and hired Mateo and his crew over the phone. He was taken aback by our general appearance, for we looked more like apparitions than humans. He reconciled the feelings of dread and mistrust with the fact that he was saving lots of money hiring Mateo's Communal Carting Company for this job. He kept his instructions short and direct.
"I need you to cart away all the materials piled up against the wall facing the outside windows on the second and third floors. Also, clear the floors of all debris. I expect to have more trash over the next few days. I will pay you on the day of the last haul. Okay?" Having said this, he reluctantly extended his hand.
Mateo did likewise; he had a fatuous grin on his face. "You got a deal!" he said boisterously.
"All right then, I'll leave you to it."
For the rest of the day, we threw refuse out of the upper floor windows into the truck below. There was no real skill involved in this job except lifting and hurling. At the end of it, we were all exhausted. Afterwards, I was quite surprised to see that we went straight back to the communal house. "Aren't we going to take this stuff to the dump?" I asked.
"Are you kidding!" Mateo answered. "We don't have a license to dump anything. It's way too expensive. We're going to wait until after dark. After dark it's free," Mateo smiled.
"Isn't that illegal?" I asked. They all laughed.

At about midnight, Mateo led us down to the truck. We carefully covered the debris with a large canvas tarp and then drove into the night. Just before arriving at the dump, Mateo turned off the headlights and drove blind up to the chain link fence.
"Gerald," he said, "see if they repaired our hole in the fence."
In a little while, Gerald answered, "Yeah I'm afraid so."
"Well shit," Mateo said. "We play this stupid game. We cut a hole in the fence and then they repair it. It's such bullshit." He reached beneath the driver's seat and pulled out a huge pair of bolt cutters. With this he cut a new hole in the fence big enough for us to pass through. Watching him work was enough to induce vertigo. His movements were rapid and disjointed. He looked like an animated Barbie Doll gone berserk.
It took us many hours to carry all the garbage into the dump. At one point, we all panicked when we thought we saw a police patrol car. It turned out to be some teenagers instead. Mateo was constantly shouting orders and obscenities. By the end of it, I was sorely tempted to leave him behind along with the rest of the trash. When we were finally done, dawn was about to break. We were all terribly exhausted, except, of course, for Mateo. While driving back to the tenement, he began to launch into one of his crazed monologues about community effort and the evolution of human progress. It did not seem to matter to him that no one was listening or even had the capacity to listen at that moment. He was completely oblivious to anyone else's state of mind besides his own.
It was surprising just how much work Mateo managed to get for his group. I suppose the possibility of cheap service was too much for the yuppie soul to pass by. The next few weeks were uneventful. One day, however, Mateo was sick and was unable to drive. He was depressed (the other side of his manic episodes), suicidal to be precise. As a matter of fact, Mark and Gerald had confiscated all sharp objects from his room and locked him in. I was recruited as the driver and Mark remained behind in case Mateo went totally berserk. As Gerald and I left, we could here Mateo ranting. I vaguely remember him yelling something about the apocalypse.
Driving that truck was like trying to cajole and control a lumbering dinosaur. With my particular kind of luck, the truck managed to stall out right on the Brooklyn Bridge during rush hour; a rush hour that actually lasts all day. It did not take long for the traffic to back up for miles behind us. Of course, the truck could not be pushed and, in reality, there was no place to push it. Before long, a police car pulled up along side of us. I am sure that on seeing that truck and its passengers, the officer knew he had a huge problem on his hands.
"Mister," he began, "the tags on this vehicle have expired. Let me see your driver's license and registration.”
I thumbed through my wallet nervously and pulled out my license. I then looked over to Gerald who was sitting beside me. "Where do you keep the registration?" I asked.
"Registration?" he questioned. "Oh shit," I said under my breath.
The officer proceeded to write out a very large citation. "You're driving a commercial vehicle without valid tags and registration. This is going to cost. Sign here." I looked at the summons and quickly handed it to Gerald. "I'm going to call a tow," the officer continued, "you better get this matter straightened out or the vehicle will be impounded. Do you understand?"
"No way!" Gerald retorted. "There's no way in hell we're going to pay for this."
I looked at Gerald. "What the hell are you doing?" I asked.
He ignored my protestations. "Take us to jail if you have to; we're not paying.” I tried to tell the officer to ignore him, but it was too late.
The officer's face brightened to a brilliant crimson. He put his hand on the butt of his gun. He opened up the cab door and commanded us to step out. As he said this, he summoned his partner who was sitting in the squad car. They began to escort us both to the police car. Gerald foolishly tried to make a dash for it. He was quickly apprehended, thrown against the truck and frisked. They then proceeded to frisk me as well. We were thrown into the back seat, and, with sirens blazing, we were brought to the police station. If I had been left alone with Gerald, I would have surely gone for his throat.
After a night in jail, I was released as an innocent party. As soon as I returned home, I changed my telephone number and canceled my subscription to the Village Voice.


The End