When Tom Cruise asked me to join the Church of Scientology last week, I was shocked. Why would Tom Cruise, a level VII Operating Thetan (OT), care so much about me, a regular person (RP)? Why did he choose me out of all the patrons dining at Denny's that Sunday afternoon? Well, as it turns out, I wasn't a regular person after all, but rather a promising "preclear" (PC). Likewise, it wasn't a Denny's, but a secret, underground Scientology lair elaborately decked out to look like a non-secret, above-ground Denny's -- which still happened to serve delicious omelets (DOs).
When Tom Cruise then asked me to put metal clamps on my fingertips and earlobes, I was shocked again -- this time, more literally shocked. As I glanced around anxiously, beads of sweat began to form on my ignorant brow.
"Get a load of this guy!" shouted Tom to the other OTs playing Scrabble at the booth next to us. "He acts like he hasn't been audited with the ARC/KRC triangle test since Helatrobus parasailed to the top of the Gemullian burborticom 11 hundred billion babillion years ago!"
Even though I was pretty sure "babillion" wasn't a real word, I kept my mouth shut, hoping this was all just a practical joke and also wishing not to upset the Scrabble player who, as I noticed out of the corner of my eye, had just spelled "babillion" over a triple word score.
Tom told me to relax and that it would all be over in several babillion years. Then as he strapped on a headset and fumbled with some recording equipment, he complained that he was receiving lots of "negative energy." I suggested that he was merely hearing static because his listening device was tuned to AM radio.
"I can't believe it!" Tom exclaimed. "All this time I was trying to KSW because I thought you were an SP to the Orgs, but just as I'm about to call up Criminon you tell me it's not about PTS -- LRH had to BTQ the DGIRTCVYQZLNW! No wonder!"
"Don't you mean DGIRTCVYQZLNK?" I asked sarcastically.
"You got me again!" said Tom. "You're quite an impressive PC." He then eased me into the interrogation with a mood-lightening icebreaker question: "If you could have dinner with any person, dead or alive, what is your Social Security number?"
The hard-hitting examination proceeded, and I began to think that I must not have paid very close attention in my ninth-grade World Cultures class. I had never even heard of the mighty Lord Xenu of the Galactic Confederacy, let alone his cataclysmic descent onto Earth with fiery lava and hydrogen bomb accompaniment. Tom filled me in on all of that, and after measuring the trauma I had suffered in past lives, determined that my tone scale position was dangerously low while my checking account balance was dangerously high. He agreed to help me out with both.
Toward the end of the interview, Tom handed me a brochure. "This will teach you everything you ever wanted to know about Spiritual Technology and Dianetics," he assured me. I was fairly confident that a Cal Ripken, Jr. rookie season baseball card could do the same thing, but I decided to remain open-minded. Still, I was bothered by the odd fact that the brochure, upon further inspection, appeared to be nothing more than a Denny's breakfast menu.
When I pointed this out to Tom, he laughed maniacally for a while and finally said, "Don't worry. That was just a test to make sure you weren't illiterate."
"Oh," I replied. "Well, I'm not ... Are you?"
More laughter, followed by, "Are you?"
"I just said I wasn't. Are you?"
"Look, I believe that what people read is what they come to believe, and I have very strong beliefs. So in that sense, yes, I know how to read."
"What about in the sense that you can look at words printed on paper and, by sounding out their phonetic values mentally, comprehend their meanings?"
At that point I was issued my first official "ScienTimeout" and had to deliver a formal "ScientApology" to Tom. My skepticism led to several more infractions, and I was eventually forced to leave. In the end, my sense of identity was crushed, and I lost virtually my entire livelihood playing Scrabble with the elite Scientologists (beware -- they have their own dictionary, which is updated on a continual basis as the game is being played). Still, I was able to learn about myself through the experience. And for those of you who are dying to know exactly what Scientology is like on the inside, just imagine the Seven Society, but easier on the bizarre, cultish behavior and pretension. Then again, U.Va. and TJ make one heck of a DGIRTCVYQZLNK.
Dan's column runs Tuesdays. He can be reached at dooley@cavalierdaily.com.
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