It Came from the Sky Page 7

  My jaw clamped firmly shut. My teeth instantly started aching.

  I was arrogant? In need of spiritual guidance? Who was this person, wearing my mother’s skin and saying my scientific pursuits weren’t good enough?

  The situation was risky, though. If Mother was “worried about my future,” I’d be kept on a tighter leash. Ishmael and I needed freedom to successfully pull off the hoax. Plus, though it was hard to admit, part of me was sad about disappointing Mother.

  I was the good son. The prudent one. The studious one. The one she could count on while Ishmael got detentions for practical jokes and came home from parties reeking of alcohol. I thought my parents were proud of me.

  The conversation dredged up one of my least-favorite memories:

  I was ten years old and the school principal arranged a meeting with my parents. Apparently, several of my teachers suggested I skip a grade.

  I sat in the principal’s office, feeling accomplished. He’d given me hard, undisputed proof that I was intelligent. I was going to graduate early and go to college early and there was no way NASA would reject me.

  But instead of lavishing me with praise, my parents exchanged a look. Father—at the time I still called him Dad—asked that I step out of the room so they could talk privately.

  Naturally, I pressed my ear to the door.

  My parents expressed their concern that my “book smarts” and “social smarts” didn’t align. That I was already unable to relate to and communicate with my peers. They were concerned that me skipping ahead would make my stunted social intelligence even more pronounced.

  Then Mother confided to the principal that sometimes they worried about me.

  “He’s always been different,” she’d said. “We know not every child is outgoing or affectionate. But sometimes it’s as if Gideon… it’s as if he doesn’t feel anything.”

  I did feel things. I felt guilt and anguish and joy and all the rest. I might not admit those feelings, sometimes even to myself, but they existed. My own parents questioned that, though. They thought something was wrong with me.

  I never ended up skipping a grade.

  Years later, the memory still stung. But dwelling on the past wouldn’t create a better future—or present—for myself. I pushed my old feelings of inadequacy and shame away and focused on what mattered: Mother felt I needed spiritual guidance.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll attend the seminar. But promise we’ll go to the store after?”

  Mother beamed. “Yes, of course! I’ll take you anywhere you need to go. Oh, honey, I’m so excited for what you’re about to experience.”

  That made one of us.

  Interlude

  Multi-Level Marketing

  I wish that MLMs played no part in this tale I’m telling. But they do, in ways larger and more baffling than I ever could have anticipated. Which means you need some background on them.

  Like most legitimate businesses, MLMs begin with a product. The product can be anything: knives, greeting cards, dubious health supplements, etc. Unsalaried workers, often referred to as “distributors,” attempt to sell these products for a commission.

  That might sound reasonable enough. But MLMs differ from the average sales job: in addition to selling the products—which the distributor is expected to purchase large quantities of, in advance, with their own money—the distributor also attempts to recruit more distributors. These distributors recruit more, and these recruit more, and so on.

  The people recruited under them became the original distributor’s “downline.” Each time someone on their downline makes money, a portion of the profit filters back to the top, to the distributor who began it all.

  See the following chart for a visual representation:

  Generally, only the people at the top of the pyramid become wealthy. The lower tiers miss out on the luxury cars and fancy vacations they’ve been promised, and frequently end up in debt after spending thousands of dollars on products they’ll never sell. I once read a study claiming that 99 percent of all MLM participants lose money.

  Upward mobility, while technically possible, is highly improbable no matter how much time and cash is invested. There’s also debate about the legality of the business model. Over the years, countless MLMs have had lawsuits brought against them.

  But the most highly criticized aspect of MLMs isn’t the business practices; it’s the cult-like mentality that consumes distributors. Otherwise levelheaded people become fanatical about the company, the products, and especially the original founder of the MLM. That person is often treated like a god.

  And why shouldn’t they be? After all, they had people selling their products, working free of charge, and also making up the majority of consumers buying the products.

  It’s absolutely corrupt.

  It’s also deviously brilliant.

  Event: The myTality™ Seminar (Cont.)

  When Mother and I stepped inside the meeting room, I realized I’d underestimated the popularity of myTality™. I’d expected twenty middle-aged distributors raving about the health products and bragging about the size of their downlines. Instead, there were approximately five hundred people in the room.

  Mother and I took seats in the middle of the crowd. She buzzed with excitement. “I’m thrilled to see Oz speak live. I’ve only seen him in webinars.”

  I pulled out my phone and checked the clock. It was already two minutes past the seminar’s listed start time.

  Why didn’t events begin when they were supposed to? Maybe it was intentional. Start five minutes late and give stragglers a chance to arrive. But why cater to the chronically late? If people missed the beginning of an event, it was on them.

  I grew more annoyed with the seminar, and my presence there, every passing second.

  Finally, the lights dimmed. The crowd shifted in anticipation. A voice came over the sound system, booming and echoing. “And now, the moment you’ve been waiting for. Clap your hands, stomp your feet, and give it up for the founder and CEO of myTality, J. Quincy Ozzzzzzzzzzzzzzwald!”

  For god’s sake. Was I at a “business seminar” or a football game?

  Neon lasers began swirling around the audience. Instead of stepping onto the stage like a reasonable human being, J. Quincy Oswald appeared in the back of the room, lit by a spotlight. Techno music blared from speakers as he ran up the aisle toward the stage, arms spread wide to touch the hands of his adoring fans along the way.

  What the hell was this?

  I looked around the audience. People were rapt. They screamed and cheered and jumped up and down. They waved their arms in the air. Their eyes were bright and shiny, and a few of them had tears coursing down their cheeks.

  I’m not exaggerating. Actual tears.

  I turned to Mother, mortified at the thought of seeing such naked emotion on her face. She clapped and grinned and seemed utterly in her element, but thankfully refrained from crying.

  I didn’t get a good look at Oswald until he jauntily took the stage. He was younger than I expected and wore the uniform adopted by men trying to appear professional yet hip: jeans and a fitted sports jacket. Oh, how I despised that look. It felt like a communication error between the top half of the body and the bottom. To make matters worse, Oswald wore cowboy boots and a pair of sunglasses. Indoors. Perhaps the glare from so many lasers beams and spotlights was intense.

  Immediately upon facing the audience, Oswald tore the glasses off and tossed them to the crowd near the front of the stage. He let out a loud whoop while running a hand through his intentionally messy hair.

  “Now check this out,” he began, speaking with a slight southern accent. He scanned the room theatrically. “They told me Pittsburgh wasn’t a health-conscious town. But I’m seein’ this crowd, and I tell you, they were wrong!”

  More cheers.

  I wondered who “t
hey” were supposed to be.

  “Each and every one of you is here because you have a mission. Your mission is to become the best possible version of you. Who wants more energy?”

  “We do!” the crowd shouted in response.

  “Who wants a longer life?”

  More shouts, more cheers.

  “Who wants to live every moment to the fullest?”

  The crowd responded with the loudest affirmative yet.

  J. Quincy Oswald walked slowly to the front of the stage, a grave set to his shoulders. He spoke more seriously than before. “And who wants to accomplish all that while earnin’ enough income to enjoy a life of financial freedom?”

  All around me people leapt to their feet, clapping and hollering. My jaw was firmly clenched and pain began to twist through my neck and head. And yet, for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to look away.

  “Lemme tell you something,” Oswald said. “You’ve come to the right place. Because myTality is in the business of makin’ dreams come true.”

  Next to me, Mother’s hands were clasped to her chest as if she were listening to a particularly awe-inspiring sermon. Did she truly buy into all this?

  “Forget mortality,” Oswald went on, beginning a chant the audience seemed well acquainted with. “It’s not yourtality.”

  He paused dramatically, and I felt anticipation running through the crowd. Finally, he finished, the audience joining in at the end, “It’s myTality!”

  A rousing scream from the crowd threatened my eardrums.

  And thus began two of the most tedious hours of my life.

  Oswald jumped around stage, a true performer, preaching and whooping and imploring the audience to better themselves. There was music. There were light shows. There were more chants and tears. A new product was unveiled, MyTality™ Gro-Rite, a pill that promised stronger, healthier hair and nails after only one week of use.

  I heard more than I ever hoped to about the myTality™ product line. Supplements, vitamins, powders. Shakes and juices. Skin creams for aging, for acne, for radiance. Products that made you healthier. Made you happier. And most important, products that turned back the clock.

  “Maybe people shouldn’t fight acne if they want to look younger,” I whispered to Mother.

  She shushed me.

  “Now I wanna ask you something, and I’m lookin’ for an honest answer,” Oswald drawled. “How old would you guess I am?”

  People shouted numbers, as if they were taking the moment very seriously, though I was 84 percent sure they’d seen the skit before.

  “Thirty-five!” someone called.

  “Forty!”

  “Thirty-eight!”

  “Thirty-four!”

  Oswald held up his hands for quiet. “Listen to this and hear me well: I turn fifty years old this year.”

  The crowd went wild.

  There was absolutely no way J. Quincy Oswald was fifty. No way.

  “You wanna know why I look so good?” he asked.

  “Yes!” the crowd roared.

  He waited until the room fell silent, drawing out the moment. “Because I faithfully use myTality products!”

  I sighed deeply. The seminar was even more nauseating than I’d imagined.

  And yet, I thought, yet…

  Yet I was mildly intrigued by J. Quincy Oswald. By the way he held people rapt, made the crowd hang on his every word. I thought of the hoax, my own massive con. A small, dark part of me wondered if I might be able to learn something about trickery from Oswald.

  The seminar shifted focus from health products to myTality™ being a “prepackaged, proven business opportunity.” With myTality™, Oswald claimed, you worked when you wanted, where you wanted, and how you wanted.

  Was anyone listening to his words? Or was it the cadence of his speech that captivated people? Was it the confident set of his shoulders? Was it the way he peered at the audience, as if trying to make eye contact with each individual attendee?

  “You’ve heard the old saying,” Oswald went on. “Money doesn’t buy happiness. And that’s true. But I’ve been dirt poor. I know what it’s like to watch bills stack up, to wonder where my next meal is gonna come from.”

  Some audience members nodded in acknowledgment. A few sniffled. I glanced at Mother and raised an eyebrow, knowing full well that she’d never had to worry about money. She ignored me.

  “So no,” Oswald continued, “money won’t buy happiness. But I’ll tell you what it can do: it can buy you freedom—freedom to better yourself and seek out the happiness you deserve.”

  As the seminar drew to a close, Oswald made a big production of giving awards to our region’s top-ten distributors. I nearly fell out of my chair when Mother was acknowledged as number seven.

  When she got back from traipsing across the stage, where she received a wooden plaque directly from Oswald, I turned to her.

  “Number seven out of how many?” I asked.

  “Thousands.”

  “Huh,” I replied, grudgingly impressed. “Congratulations.”

  “I’ve told you this is a real business venture for me.”

  She had. Yet I’d assumed she was bleeding our finances with all the products she had stocked in the barn. It never occurred to me she might be bringing money in.

  Despite the new respect I had for Mother’s business skills and my slight curiosity about Oswald, I was relieved when the seminar finally ended. As we filed out of the conference room with the rest of the crowd—most people shuffling along with expressions of dazed wonder—I pulled out my phone and skimmed my shopping list.

  “We might have to make two stops, if you don’t mind.”

  “That’s fine,” Mother said agreeably. “But first we’re going backstage to meet Oz.”

  I sucked in a sharp breath through my nose. “Please don’t make me do that.”

  “It’s a perk of being in the top ten,” Mother replied. “It’s an honor.”

  I knew from her steely expression that her mind wouldn’t be changed. I let her lead me backstage, where J. Quincy Oswald held court among a bevy of adoring fans.

  “Jane Hofstadt,” he said with a grin when he noticed her.

  Mother looked like she’d been personally recognized by Jesus Christ. “You remembered!”

  “I’d never forget a distributor with the drive and dedication you have,” he said.

  Mother blushed.

  “And who do we have here?” Oswald asked, glancing at me.

  “This is my son, Gideon.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Oswald,” I said politely.

  He grabbed my hand, shaking vigorously. “I won’t stand for any of that Mr. Oswald business. Call me Oz.”

  Under no circumstances was I going to call the man Oz.

  “How’d you enjoy the seminar?” he asked us.

  “It was…illuminating.”

  Mother placed a hand over her heart. “I’ve never felt closer to myTality than I do at this moment.”

  Seeing him up close, I was even more certain Oswald wouldn’t approach fifty for at least a decade. He was young and handsome and clearly charismatic. I imagined those traits accounted for his success more than any business acumen.

  What did that mean for the hoax? Was Ishmael’s charm more essential than my scientific knowledge?

  No, I told myself. They’re equally important.

  While Mother and Oswald exchanged platitudes, my mind wandered. I wouldn’t take my brother’s skills for granted, I decided, but I wouldn’t diminish my own either. The hoax required both of us. It could only be a success if we worked together.

  And it would be a success. It had to be. My whole future was suddenly riding on it.

  Interview

  Subject #3, Cassidy (Cass) Robinson: I spent Sunday rehearsing for my
epic performance. Not memorizing lines for Hamelin!, but… You sure it’s all right to talk about this? Okay, cool beans. So yeah, I practiced for the stunt Gideon asked me pull on Monday morning. I was totally ecstatic about the hoax, which maybe makes me a bad person. But whatever. I needed some joy in my life after being cast as the love interest in Hamelin!. Ugh. Is there any role more insulting than the love interest?

  Interlude

  Hoaxes in History

  Hoaxes aren’t new. Over the course of human history, there have always been individuals with the desire to fool the people around them—or, for the truly ambitious, to fool the entire world.

  Take George Hull, for instance. In 1869, he discovered the petrified body of a ten-foot tall man on his property. Soon to become known as the “Cardiff Giant,” Hull charged spectators admittance to see the spectacle in person. But when the legitimacy of the “giant” was called into question, Hull admitted it was a prank.

  Another infamous hoaxer was a man named Robert Kenneth Wilson, who, in 1934, sparked interest around the world when he took a photo of a strange serpent-like creature, eventually dubbed the “Loch Ness Monster.” Today, of course, that photo is generally considered to be fake.

  Then there’s George and Kathleen Lutz. In 1975, they bought a home where six people had been brutally murdered. After moving in, the Lutzes experienced rampant paranormal activity, eventually leading them to write a bestselling book about their experiences. But ultimately, the haunting of the Lutzes’ Dutch Colonial house in Amityville, New York, was revealed to be just another hoax.

  More recently, in 2000, someone calling himself John Titor gained internet fame for insisting he was a time traveler from the year 2036. But when many of the predictions about world events were inaccurate, his followers became skeptical. It turned out that, you guessed it, it was yet another hoax, perpetrated by a Florida entertainment lawyer and his computer scientist brother.