A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

Richard's feet are killing him. The only food around is hot dogs and hamburgers and weird chicken nuggets, and what they call a salad is a plastic bowl of iceberg lettuce with carrot shredded on top. He buys himself an ice-cream sandwich, and because the sun is baking his head, he gets a hat. "What name do you want on it, Dickwad?" Did the guy say "Dickwad" or did Richard just think it to himself — loudly?

"Blank," he says. "Just leave it blank."

And now he looks like a hot, sweaty, overwhelmed mouse that's been had — just like everyone else in the park.

In one of the gift shops, Ben wants an enormous stuffed animal; it costs $175.

"The camel is my animal," Ben says.

And Richard has to say yes.

ON THE WAY BACK to Malibu, Richard is at the wheel.

"I'm not done yet," Ben says. "I want to keep going."

"What does that mean?" It means they stop in a shopping center that has an indoor game park and sign up to play Laser Tag. Again, there is a wait; there are boys everywhere, jumping, climbing, clamoring.

"Have you done this before?"

"A couple of times. There's a place in Times Square, we used to go for birthday parties." There's a pause, a moment when they're both distracted watching two boys fight over who put quarters in the vending machine. "You know," Ben says, "you never took me anywhere, never met my friends, never taught me how to be a guy, how to fix things."

Richard listens, thinking about the trips he made to New York, carrying things, things he'd collected over the months between trips, things he'd bought at the last minute worried he didn't have enough, the time he brought a bike with him, a computer, the bones of a dinosaur.

He came carrying everything he could think of, and always it was the wrong thing. Why didn't I get you a football, a baseball glove, we could have gone to the park and tossed a few around? It's raining; we can't go to the park. It's snowing; we could go sledding. Do you have a sled? Maybe we can get one; he is on the phone calling; sold out, out of stock, next week? Snow doesn't stay on the hill for a week; maybe we could borrow one. Any of your friends have a spare? How about an empty box, a big cookie sheet, a magic carpet… well, at least let's get some hot chocolate.

"You never taught me to shave without slitting my throat, never helped with homework, never took me to a game, a concert, a show."

"That's not true," Richard says, on the defensive. "We went to Radio City once to see the Christmas show."

"Yeah, and I ate too much candy and threw up in the ladies' room, because when I said I didn't feel good you didn't get up, and some lady took pity me on me and brought me in there."

"I went looking for you. I looked everywhere. I thought you were missing. I never thought of looking in the ladies' room."

Their number is called. Richard pays and they're ushered into the Armory.

"No running, no pushing, no firing at the eye. Any violation of any of the aforementioned and you are out of the game. When you are hit, your vest will flash. It will flash for fifteen seconds; while it is flashing, you cannot be hit again. While it is flashing, you cannot fire. Your score is kept electronically. Those are the rules."

They put on heavy vests, like breastplates, with guns attached by coiled phone cords. A man fits Richard's vest to his body. "First time?"

Richard nods.

"Go slow. The kids will run you down."

Richard and Ben are on opposite teams. Richard is Red, Ben is Green.

"That way I can kill you," Ben says, gleefully.

They go into the game room. There's a countdown, flashing lights, a fog machine, everyone hides. The game begins with a loud farting blast — an air horn. Kids rush past Richard; he is surrounded by the rat-a-tat-tat of plastic gunfire. Someone runs past — smashing him in the leg. Richard grabs the kid by the shirt and shakes him. "No running."

His vest starts flashing; he's hit. He didn't see it coming. Looking around, he has no idea where it came from. Richard takes cover. From his perch, he fires back, hits a big fat kid — easy target. He picks off another one, and then he's hit again. His vest is still flashing when he passes Ben on the bridge.

"You all right?" Richard asks.

"Yeah," Ben says, heading off into the dark.

Richard works his way around the lower level, ducking in and out of corners, hideaways, learning to fire using the mounted mirrors that reflect his shot — ricochet, you're dead. He is breathing hard. His vest goes off again. He hears laughter.

"Ben?"

"Yeah."

"Where are you?"

"I'm hiding."

Richard waits for his vest to recover. He isn't sure exactly where Ben is — to the left or to the right. As soon as his vest goes clear, he's hit again.

"Ever wake up and think, 'I blew it'?" Ben asks, speaking into the chemical fog.

"Yes."

Richard's vest reactivates; Ben pops out and shoots him — point-blank. The boy waits, poised to kill him again.

"What fun is it if you keep shooting me right away?"

"It increases my score."

"Don't I get another chance?" Richard asks.

"You missed your chance."

Richard ducks around a pole, firing at someone passing by — direct hit. "What's the point of always being angry with me?"

"You talk with your feet," Ben says

"What does that mean?"

"Behavior. It's not what you say, it's what you do."

Richard gets good at the game, learns how to avoid being killed, acts like a sniper, hits a few people out of the blue.

The game ends — they come out sweaty, excited. Richard offers to go yet another round. "Anything else you need to say to me?"

"Not right now," Ben says.

They turn in their guns and go home.

On the way home, Richard stops at PC Greens; Ben stays in the car. Richard runs in; he's starving. He throws some of everything into his basket: every green, every vegetable, some organic turkey to make chili, some beans, some sort of soy ice cream, more root beer.

Across the aisle he sees Joseph, from the retreat. Joseph with a basket with nothing in it but chives.

"Hello," Richard says.

Joseph nods — he seems to have no idea who Richard is. He continues talking to the young man he's walking with. Richard follows them along the next aisle, listening in. "The disciple's love is dominant, and just at the moment when he needs the master most, the master no longer gives the disciple anything — nothing. The disciple suffers, his trust has been betrayed. But the entire purpose of the relationship is to create such incredible loss that the disciple's ego is broken, and only then can the disciple transcend the limits of his consciousness and become one with the infinite, the master. Beautiful, eh?"

"Are you a member of the club?" the woman at the register asks.

"Apparently not," Richard says.

He piles the bags into the trunk. "I just saw the guy who ran my meditation workshop. For seven days I stared at him ten hours a day. I spilled my guts in a private meeting with him, and he looked at me like he'd never seen me before."

"He probably has a lot of students," Ben says.

"That's what you'd call a big teaching on how insignificant you are."

"It's not you personally," Ben says. "We're all insignificant."

A moment later, Richard glances over — Ben is crying.

"More," Ben says. "I want more."

"Of what?"

"Everything."

Instead of driving home, Richard and Ben drive to the Santa Monica Pier. They share the pint of soy ice cream and cram themselves into the toddler teacups and onto the mild Matter-horn and then turn in wide, elegant circles on the Ferris wheel.

Later, when they're back at the house, Ben says, "That was fun."

Richard takes it the wrong way: "Are you giving me shit? All day it was unrelenting; I didn't say anything, I listened, I figured I deserved it; but at a certain point it's enough."