Pithole

“Mr. Petit wants to see you,” someone said to me, “he’s out on the Bronson side of the property.”

Mr. Petit was the newly assigned Commanding Officer for Celebrity Centre, the Scientology org tasked with catering to celebrities for all things Scientology.

I had, within the last couple of years, been forgiven from the RPF, the gulag program for wayward Sea Org members, along with 200 other RPFers. Most had been assigned to the newly renovated Celebrity Centre.

Well, we had all spent several years remodeling it, now I guess we got to “enjoy” it’s beauty.

I went out to the muddy lot where I found Mr Petit. The interior had been remodeled but the grounds had not.

Since the RPF was disbanded and there was no-one to do the slavework, contractors had been hired.

Petit was standing, looking at the pit-hole (I want to call it a word that rhymes with pit-hole, but I’ll leave it as pit-hole) of a building that was an eyesore at the corner of Franklin and Bronson.

They were ready to tear it down. Petit looked at me. “I thought you might enjoy watching this come down.”

Wow.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to relax my shoulders and enjoy the moment, but two decades had hardened my emotions. Nah. Poh.

I politely watched as the building started to be torn down. There were multiple skid steers and other equipment busting its walls and roof.

With each crash, I was reminded of so many things.

The hellhole daycare of the 70’s and 80’s was coming down.

The building was small. It was actually attached to Celebrity Centre by a bridge, under which was a deep pit area called the gulley.

I chuckle now as I think about the shiniest thing about Scientology, it’s celebrities, and the most horrible thing, directly attached, right across the bridge, the absolutely disgusting daycare for Sea Org children.

With each crunch, I was reminded of the children’s showers, with no towels, where up to 200 of us would run up and down the halls naked to dry off. And the kitchen, where we used strainers to strain the maggots out of the milk before feeding the infants, and the infant wing, where screaming babies had horrible diaper rashes and heavy, full diapers. And the halls, always stinking of piss.

Hubbard says that children are no longer children once they are six years old. And so once I turned six, I was right in there with all the rest of the kids, responsible for the younger ones.

I think Petit was the first adult who, in his own way, acknowledged that what happened there in that building was not right. It was definitely a bonding moment for both of us.

It was hard with no supplies. The parents of the children… whatever Sea Org unit they were in, were responsible for weekly payments into the daycare for the children. But those orgs were poor too. And little or no money would come in to buy basic supplies.

And often the parents worked long hours. Even long days. Some parents, like mine, showed up after midnight or sometimes not for days.

Every child wanted out, as far as I could tell.

Sometimes there would be a “huge celebrity” coming in to Celebrity Centre. All the children had to hide. What religion hides their children?

Occasionally we would play out in the fenced yard out back. We could see into the gulley, where kids of Scientology parents played. It looked like they were having fun. Sea Org kids, at least back then, didn’t have that freedom. We worked. We fed the babies, we tried to clean the floors, the cots, the cribs, the blankets.

We made the barley formula for the babies and fed them.

There were a few nannies but not near enough to take care of a 24 hour daycare. Kids and babies were always there and more and new ones dropped off all the time. No parent or child or nanny had any idea when they might be back for their child. It could be hours, days or weeks. They had a planet to clear.

As the building came crumbling down, I remembered last childhood moment in the building, when all of the children had been locked up in the basement until everyone who had been sexually assaulted by one of the nannies came forward.

Watching the building crumble was an emotional moment for me. At least as best as I could feel. I had been so hardened, even at that young age, to my emotions.

I wish I had been handed a sledgehammer and given a week to take it down myself. No machines. Just me, myself and a sledgehammer.

But I had my life ahead of me. What was done was done. Even through the pile of rubble, I could smell the piss, the emotions, the rage, the fear, the sadness of the children who also disliked it there. We wanted our mommies. Was that too much to ask for?