By Dennis Erlich
24 July 1994
Hello. I am Dennis Erlich,
publisher of the inFormer — a
newsletter devoted to sharing former insiders' points of view
about scientology's actual (underlined) practices, beliefs and
agenda.
The two main things most people would be fascinated to learn
about scientology are:
1) The OT (higher, confidential, more costly) Levels deal
with exorcism and the myriad of entities implanted into your
body 75 million years ago who make up what Hubbard called
"Reactive Mind".
2) They believe that if they think something is true, it
becomes true. Reality is what you agree to. If enough people
believe the same lie — it BECOMES
reality.
The scienos
and their lawyers have tried to harass me —
directly and via friends and family — to intimidate me into
silence. Meantime, I have co-operated in investigations,
published and continued to speak out.
If you have any questions, feel free to ask.
Meantime, here's a bit of satire from the inFormer:
END OF THE Q.
by
Dennis Erlich
For those readers who never knew cult-talk, I apologize
for the following. But since the story is absolutely true and
occurred while I still was, as salesmen put it, "under the
ether," I will write it as I lived it. If you don't understand
the words I use, as the chinaman said, "You betta off!"
I have commented previously that leaving scientology and
re-entering society was like landing on a different planet. I
had to learn the customs and language of the "natives," adopt
their manners [or lack of] and hope there was a place for me to
fit in.
But an even greater shock was going to
Flag [in
Clearwater] when it first opened for business in 1976, to become
Sea Org crew in the "Mecca
of Technical Perfection."
First of all there was the matter of deceiving the
"local wogs"
with our shore story. All staff and students were told exactly
what lie to tell any Clearwater residents who asked about our
presence: we were all religious students on retreat at the new
United Churches facility in the Fort Harrison Hotel.
Fortunately for us, few of the locals even cared to talk to the
staring, stiff, and sullen students and staff. But still, it
didn't take long for them to realize we were not who we claimed
to be. It became very unfriendly in town.
Meantime, "The Friendliest Place on Earth" was also
proving to be something less than that. For me it was more like
basic training in concentration camp management. New staff and
students were packed like sardines, twelve to a tiny hotel room,
in bunk beds four high with barely enough room to squeeze
between them. Any time the income fell below half a million
dollars a week everyone was assigned to "Rice and Beans." On
these numerous occasions, all we were fed was spanish rice and
boiled beans. This was all part of showing the new recruit what
he was worth. The spiritual pecking order was energetically
applied and strictly enforced. Anyone new to Flag began as low
man on the scrotum pole.
Flag crew considered all "outer org" students or staff
to be DBs [degraded
beings.] The fact that I had a wonderful reputation in the
field and had run the most successful Internship in the history
of the cult, made no difference. When I arrived at Flag I was
treated like scum. Everyone was.
Brian Livingston [Class
XII] was the Intern Sup and Jeff Walker [Class XII] was
Cramming
Officer. What a line-up!
Brian, who has since blown the Sea Org and is no longer
a scieno, made a habit of getting up on a chair and screaming
his lungs out at individual interns. The standard message was
that they were
squirrels,
out-ethics or just plain stupid. His bellowing could be
heard all over the tenth floor ballroom of the Fort Harrison and
the HCI [Hubbard College of Improvement.] Students would hear
him and go silent with terror at the thought of having to
confront Brian's wrath when they finally arrived on the
internship. But this was just fine with Brian. It made them a
more cowed and compliant [than they already were], when
eventually he did have to deal with them.
Brian was the "nice" one of the two. Walker was the
most feared. He didn't have any completion statistic or bonus
to contend with. He had no vested interest in seeing that
interns survived his "handling" of them. Thus, he could act
like the ruthless little prick he was.
Walker was famous for getting right up inches from your
face, poking you in the chest and screaming "PIG SHIT!" when he
didn't like your answer to his questions and wanted to show his
disgust for you. One intern [who eventually ended up in the
galley], reported to cramming on a session she'd done. After
Jeff read the errors in the
folder, he threw
open the 10th floor windows next to his desk [which had no
screens], pointed outside and commanded her to jump. She talked
about the incident for years afterwards, claiming she barely had
enough self-control to withstand his control. This kind of
thing was a joke to Jeff. He never failed to show his
disdain for people. Usually disgust was the kindest emotion he
exhibited when dealing with outer-org interns. They just
weren't up to his standard or that of Flag auditors. Those few
who survived the indoctrination, gruelling hours, retreads,
retrains and the constant shifting politics of being Flag crew
were at least treated like they were somebody. Outer org
students and interns were not.
Brian and Jeff were the two individuals who trained me
when I first arrived on Flag. They were my "models" of how
staff were to behave. I won't go into any detail on what it
took to survive this indoctrination, win their respect and
become a valuable member of the "team." It did, however, take
some severe personality readjustment.
While I was still "green" at Flag, having only been
there less than a year, I was posted as Jeff Walker's junior:
Intern Cramming Officer,
FSO [Flag Service
Org]. What a thrill! Imagine getting to be trained by the most
senior Cramming Officer in the world! It had been my dream
before coming to Flag, to be trained in Cramming by Jeff. Here
I was! Right under him. Oh, what I would learn!
Well, the arrangement was a lot better for Jeff than it
was for me. He got to stop handling those stupid outer-org
interns, and I had to start.
He didn't even talk to me for several months, except to
grunt his disgust at me and the scum I was handling. I had to
fend for myself, which was fine with me because Jeff was [and
is] one of the most unpleasant individuals I had ever met and I
didn't miss his charming repartee.
Apparently
LRH didn't think much of him either, because two months
after I was on post as Intern Cramming Officer, Hubbard busted
Jeff and posted me in his place as Chief Cramming Officer, Flag.
I was totally unprepared for what was to follow.
I had to cram every auditor in the
HGC including the
Class XIIs. Since I was only a class IV, I had to quickly study
and check out on all of the material up through Class XII. I
had a person posted as my junior to handle the interns, who was
even greener than I. What a responsibility! I was now the most
senior Cramming Officer in all of Scientology. It was just what
I had wanted...
I found out what was meant by the saying "Be careful of
what you want... you just may get it." What a nightmare! The
pressure was so great on me that I don't think I said more than
a 12 sentences to my wife during my first month on post. At the
end of my 18 hour day, I would drag myself to my room, too
overwhelmed to speak to or be touched —
a total vegetable.
Then the disaster happened. It was bad enough to have
to confront and cram the likes of Brian Livingston [who had
since been busted to HGC auditor] and Jeff Walker [who had
worked his way back up to the HGC after his LRH bust], but
finally the supreme test -- I had to cram the Commodore's own
son, Quentin, who was also one of the Class XIIs.
Quentin was sent to Cramming by the HGC
C/S for failing to
get all the reads on a C/S Series 53 when he first assessed it
to an FNing list. PC
didn't progress, so the C/S ordered him to go back and assess it
again. He found the 53 still reading, which indicated that
reads had been missed the first time he FNed it. [Those of you
who don't understand what this was all about, are, as I said
before, better off. Suffice it to say that he'd goofed up on
someone paying many hundreds of dollars an hour for his
"counselling."]
I was supposed to check his
TRs, assessment and
metering and see why he messed up. It was a routine cram, but
having to do it on LRH's son made it something more.
Quentin, or "Q" as his friends called him, was 22 at the
time. He looked 15 and acted 5. He was slight, blonde and
effeminate in manner. While he sat if front of me in Cramming,
he was constantly zooming his hand through the air between us
and making noises simulating, much as a 5 year old would, the
sound and motion of an airplane. I had been told that he was
infatuated with flying, but I was unprepared for this: he did
not stop his motions or noises through the entirety of our
conversation.
That conversation was, to the best of my recollection, as
follows:
DENNIS: "I see that you got some more reads on the
53 after it had FN'd." [swallowing] "How do you think this
happened?"
Q: "I false reported." [still zooming his hand
through the air]
DENNIS: "You... false... reported?" [beginning to
stutter] "Uh-on the w-worksheets?" [knowing that this was
one of the highest crimes an auditor could commit, and would
require ethics handling and retraining "from the bottom up"]
Q: "Yea. I false reported that the 53 FNed."
[this said as casually as if telling me he ate cereal for
breakfast]
DENNIS: "Uh..." [struck with the import of the
moment]
Q: "I always do."
DENNIS: "You mean..."
Q: "I mean I always false report when I have to
FN a 53. I disagree with having to do that on PCs. It
never does anything for the PC and it costs him hours of
auditing. I think it's better to just false report and get
on with it."
DENNIS: "?......." [dumbstruck]
Q: "I think a lot of my father's stuff doesn't
work. So I false report whenever I need to. Personally, I
think my father's crazy."
[By this time, I had turned white and was sure that saliva
was dripping out of my now cavernous mouth.]
DENNIS: "Uh . . you know... I'm going to have to
re-train you... don't you?" [hoping, beyond hope that it
would be ok with him]
Q: "That's fine." [zoom goes the hand in the air]
DENNIS: "... from the bottom up?"
Q: "Ok." [paying little attention now]
DENNIS: "Well... [glancing at my watch and
praying it was dinnertime]... it's almost four... why don't
you come back tomorrow... after I've had a chance to go over
the folder more carefully, [trying to give any excuse for
delaying the
ethics routing form and retrain order]... then we'll get
you started on your retrain." [said under my breath as he
got up to leave]
Q: "Ok."
By the time this short conversation was over, I was
gasping for air and my heart was pounding so loudly I could
barely hear the thought screaming inside my head: "THAT'S LRH'S
SON YOU'RE ABOUT TO RETRAIN FROM THE BOTTOM!!!!"
I went running out of the Cramming room looking for the
only Class XII friend I had who had not yet
blown, Ron Shafran.
I found him near the swimming pool and he made me calm down
enough to tell him the story. I asked him what I should do and
he gave me the type of profound and deeply meaningful answer for
which Class XII's were famous. "I d'know. Do what you hafta!"
and walked quickly away. [He and his wife Linda left within the
year.]
The next day was more or less routine, except for my
underlying dread of having to bust the
Commodore's
son back to the HAS
course. I went about my business and didn't notice the day had
flown by without Q reporting in, until the late evening. I
decided to let it slide.
By the afternoon of the next day, he still hadn't shown.
My conscience was beginning to give me pressure. I felt guilty
about my relief at his not showing up. Was this some kind of
overt I was
committing? No doubt! Better get out and do something about
it.
By now Quentin's retrain was the talk of the
Tech and Qual
divisions. I knew most people were betting he'd get off
scot-free. He seemed to be in no trouble at all. But I had a
job to do and policy to follow. I'd get it done.
I went looking for anybody who might know where Quentin
was. Nobody did. Finally, I bumped into one of his few close
friends. I believe it was Cathy Cariotoki who finally told me:
Quentin had left for the West Coast to enroll [finally] in
pilot school to learn how to fly.
I felt cheated. How could he be allowed
to just skate out of the ethics trouble he was undoubtedly, but
not visibly, in? In the back of my mind the thought: "Get
real!! He's the Commodore's son, that's how."
I should have been screaming to the Qual Sec and
Senior C/S about Q's out-ethics. But instead I justified my
cowardice in allowing him to walk away with his certs not
pulled, by saying, "Well, he's probably not going to be
auditing, anyway."
I was relieved, ashamed and shocked.
But, then, things had a tendency to move quickly from
one emergency to another on Flag. "On with life!" or so I
thought.
A couple of weeks later I arrived in the crew dining
room for dinner to find the whole place quietly a-buzz with the
news:
"QUENTIN'S DEAD! NO ONE KNOWS HOW HE DIED. HE MIGHT HAVE
BEEN MURDERED!"
At that moment, hand to the Lord, I thought, "Rumor has
it that LRH was really pissed at Q. It was a huge loss of face
for "the boss" having a gay son. This most recent disgrace
— the false reporting
— was the last straw. I bet he was
murdered."
We learned later that he was found in his car in the
desert near Las Vegas airport. All the windows were closed and
there was a tube from the tail pipe into the car. The car and
his person had been stripped of all evidence such as licenses,
which would identify the occupant. He was still alive, but
unconscious when he was found. Something happened in the
hospital and he died two weeks later without regaining
consciousness. His death was listed as a "possible suicide."
There are obviously a few questions still unanswered about his
death.
For instance, we never did find out the cause. Neither
did the police.
But, when you think of the kind of life he was facing,
with a megalomaniac father who considered him a liability in a
grand scheme for world domination, there's one thing we do know
about his death: "HE BETTA OFF!"
Later,
Dennis |