Arlo Gust

(Read: ~10 minutes)

The exterior of the apartment building stayed unchanged during the period of explosive growth around the rest of Bohemia. But on the inside, Connie began to adapt the space to the needs of the growing circle around La Bohème, including reinstating the communal aspect of an old parlor at the front of the building. La Bohème kept her childhood room overlooking the clover-covered yard and strip mall parking lot. She never emptied her mother’s room and those memories stayed behind a locked door.

Even so, after Letitia and Clem died, openness emerged as a core tenet of Bohemian philosophy. According to the tabloids, dark passages led to sensations experienced only by a lucky few, sex parties with bulging rock stars, smug billionaires tripping towards enlightenment, movie stars screwing best-selling authors. La Bohème and her friends kept a high caliber of company and she invited me to come anyway. Perhaps she grew impatient waiting the way Madame Rouge did years before. After receiving the invitation, I already felt late to the party.

My editor loved the exclusive angle. Turns out La Bohème never gave interviews, not a single one since she sat down with Clem and Crystal, the weather lady. When people listen, you can speak for yourself.

My editor didn’t care why La Bohème chose me but the question gnawed inside my brain. Investigation runs both ways in my job reporting. On several occasions in the past, people tried to slow my work by dangling skeletons pulled from my closet, which never worked. Smart people ignore reporters sniffing around until we get distracted, by cryptic invitations from strip mall psychics, for example.

Nothing in my background could have been particularly eye-opening to La Bohème, given what’s condoned in Bohemia. My only ménage à trois has been in my imagination, where my thoughts are huge. Before long, fantasies about joining a drug-fueled sex party in Bohemia occupied my daydreams. My vulnerable ego caught wind of the sexy thoughts and rose to rabid, preemptive defense of my manhood, cursing La Bohème for the invitation, swearing she provoked the wrong writer. My job is to eviscerate, not venerate, pick the world apart piece by piece.

In the past, several lucrative paychecks came my way in return for high-profile pieces about scammy religious activity. Exposing pious preachers with their pants down or busting charlatans with their pockets full counts towards community service. In the days leading up to my trip to Bohemia, a melee ensued between my rational self, focused on the task of exposing La Bohème, and my lust for the freaky Bohemian lifestyle.

La Bohème and Bohemia aroused emotions in plenty of other people, too. A battle raged in Charlottesville between those who condemned the lifestyles embraced in Bohemia and those welcoming, or at least unbothered, by it. While most residents of the city welcomed Bohemia or at least defended the movement’s right to exist, a vocal minority sought to nip the budding popularity of a dangerous cult. La Bohème suffered the personal attacks with love, never complaints. She understood peace and notoriety don’t coexist. She took criticism with an indifferent attitude learned from Jason Clementine, whose shadow loomed large over Bohemia long after his death.

In fact, Clem had been dead serious when he told the weather lady that he wrote a will and notarized the document at a bank on The Corner. When his family refused to honor his wishes, La Bohème took the issue to court with Connie’s help and won. The pair promptly co-founded a company specifically to protect and promote their friend’s legacy. Under Connie’s management, the number of people who loved Clem’s music skyrocketed along with the people who hated every note and lyric.

Incessant talk of drug use and sex in Bohemia helped make the place cooler to everyone except the bible-thumpers raising the topic. The pastor of a local mega-church spent so much time complaining about La Bohème, he either envied her success or secretly lusted for her, probably both. Whatever his motivation, he and his publicity-hungry flock frequently gathered on a sidewalk opposite the strip mall to denounce and protest the debauchery associated with Bohemia.

The local media covered the weeks-long scene extensively. Our old friend Crystal did a voice on the street segment, which included interviewing a group of twenty protesters, all of whom yelled and waved signs screaming No False Idols!… Sinners Burn! … Save Your Souls!

Crystal stopped to talk with a red-faced lady holding one of the signs.

“What brings you out here today?” Crystal asked.

“I’m a God-fearing Christian woman and Bohemians are sickos, Crystal,” the woman began her screed. “Our Lord hates their behavior, fornicating and using drugs! And telling people to do whatever and whoever. Yucky sexual deviants and drug users.”

Crystal thanked the lady and tried to move on, but the protester grabbed the microphone, addressing Bohemians directly. “Go ahead and love a complete weirdo and believe she possesses special powers. Only Jesus Christ is the real deal; she’s just a fraud.”

Crystal shook the lady off her mic.

“We’re going to stop her, Crystal!” bellowed a man who towered over everyone else in the crowd, holding a sign written in a hectic scribble, BEWARE!! DOLPHINS ON ACID.

“Stop her from doing what?” Crystal asked the man.

“She’s putting people under her witch’s spell and brainwashing weak minds with drug-fueled fantasies. She feeds off their vulnerabilities and weaknesses, making deals on behalf of the devil.”

“She seemed great the time we met,” Crystal replied with a laugh.

“Exactly!” the man answered. “She shifts shapes to fit whatever situation she finds herself in in order to use her demonic powers.”

“Wow! Weird,” the weather lady replied while taking a step back from the menacing man.

“Not when her true nature is exposed at the end of her masquerade in human form.”

For a second, Crystal seemed at a loss for words and another woman in the crowd fills the void.

“The ideas in Bohemia are evil! Devils want us to live like animals and have sex whenever we want and with whoever wants us. It is disgusting and oughta’ be illegal. And any decent member of our community agrees with me!”

The pack howled in agreement.

“We number in the thousands, millions, and we represent the Will of God,” the lady called out.

The red-faced woman chimed in again. “God will be the judge of their lust and blasphemy. Brainwashed people claiming to be free. Ha! Sinners aren’t free from His rules.”

Crystal took a step back from the group crowding her and the TV crew. “Plenty of people in the neighborhood say Bohemia builds community and provides valuable services. What about their right to decide how to live?” she asked no one in particular in the group.

The towering man answered for the group. “Their pride in a deviant lifestyle will be the cause of endless pain and suffering as their souls roast for eternity,” he railed. “There’s no dealmaking with God. There’s only one way to avoid self-inflicted misery, admit you were born broken and you’re still broken. Admit you need salvation through the word of Jesus Christ, the Almighty.”

The red-faced lady woman spoke up again. “Jesus loves them; so I try,” she lied. “Despite their sins and sick view of morality. People can follow a temptress and be ignorant of God’s will. We take comfort in the love of Jesus and the knowledge only the deserving will find a place at His side, next to God, and eternal life in heaven. I’ll be there. Deviants won’t.”

Crystal challenged the woman’s statement by asking, “What about those who say you’re trying to intimidate members of the community?”

The towering man bellowed, “Christians get attacked and silenced for spreading the word of God, but we won’t be victims of Satan. We will fight our unholy enemies to the death in the name of Jesus Christ for proper, family values.”

No one in Bohemia picked a fight with the towering man, certainly not La Bohème. In fact, she never responded to the protestors or her critics directly, which didn’t stop the attacks.

Standing in the face of this self-righteous onslaught, Crystal called on the same tenacity she did with Clem in the interview a few years before.

“Who gets to determine family and community values?” she asked. “We need room for a diversity of viewpoints.”

“There’s only room for God’s viewpoint. That’s why they’re called the Ten Commandments!” the towering man yelled in response. “Ignore them at your own peril and be damned for eternity!”

At this point, the camera-hungry preacher for the congregation slipped into the scene to exercise tact for his frothing followers.

“Of course, people are free to worship according to their own beliefs,” he demures, smiling with a mouth full of pearly-white teeth. “After all, we live in a free country. And you’re correct, people have a right to decide the moral standards to serve their community’s needs. Which is what we’re doing here today, speaking about keeping our children safe, our families intact, our neighborhoods strong and Jesus in our hearts.”

The penitent posturing calmed his sign-toting choir to a degree. The pastor continued with his appeal to the better angels in all of us.

“Since Jesus taught us to love all God’s children, we don’t judge,” he lied. “But our neighbors in Bohemia behave wrong, if you will. And now, their leaders try to convince everyone else their way is how life works. But the word of God covers all eternity and can’t be replaced. Jesus suffered and died for our sins. So, yeah, we got His back now against sin,” the preacher nods, shaking his head of styled hair.

“There’s plenty of heated rhetoric to go around, Reverend,” Crystal said. “People worry confrontational words will lead to violence. Should they?”

“There’s no need to beat around the bush. The harm these folks in Bohemia bring to our community demands a strong response. We’ve got truth and right on our side and lies deserve wrath. His Will, Crystal, not mine.”

Crystal wrapped up the segment by thanking the preacher for sharing his viewpoint with her viewers.

“It’s the Lord’s viewpoint and we’re only doing His work.”

No doubt the scene triggered flashbacks for the weather lady of her interview with Clem and La Bohème several years before. After watching the clip a dozen times, Clem’s bravado, a sneering arrogance to some, fills my thoughts like graffiti covering a wall.

His relationship with La Bohème intensified right up to the end. What Clem liked least about La Bohème was how she made him care at all, a cause he never wanted. When Clem jumped up on stage during the pouring rain at the festival, he proved his love. The thought of something happening to La Bohème frightened him more than the potentially deadly electrified equipment like guitars and microphones. He risked his life to help La Bohème, same with the rest of Them. Seeing Clem take action, the band followed without hesitation.

Since then, Clem’s fame has continued to grow, despite the fact few of his early critics thought highly of him or his music while he lived. One claimed Clem …lacks any lyrical style with nothing interesting to say, anyway. Another remarked … Clem’s performances resemble strange experiments to see what remains after stripping away the joy people find in music.”

Old reviews demonstrate the challenge of predicting winners and losers in any industry, whether stocks, music or religion. Case in point, one of Connie’s record labels recently issued an album of Clem songs remixed by famous producers and DJs. Now, the reviews say …he shows us what’s horrible and compelling about the human condition. He rubs our face in the mirror instead of allowing us to hide. And we’re grateful.

In their interview, Crystal remarked on Clem’s growing fan base and asked about the meaning found in his music. Clem brushed off the suggestion with a wave of his hand. “Most artists hope their creations attain cosmic or metaphysical significance. I’m under no such delusion about my own work.”

If his music entertained people who found comfort or release at one of his shows, these temporary discharges merely make life bearable for short periods of time. “My impact is fleeting. Soon another act will inevitably take my place,” he predicted. “Makes no difference to my sanity if people say I possess a vicious soul or vaunted spirit, claim I’m the devil or a saint, if anyone loves or hates my music. So, people think there’s a chip on my shoulder.”

Love Clem or hate him, he walked head up and chest out and did what he wanted regardless of popular tastes. He argued just to win and was smart enough to do so, remaining himself despite annoying critics in the process. At the same time, more than a few folks found themselves defenseless against his sulking charisma and invasive insights. His enduring popularity, and the festering hostility towards him, confirms his impact.

Speaking to me in my mind, Clem asks whose side the protesters would have chosen in the life and death of Jesus thousands of years ago. Did Mary worry for her son the way Letitia did for Rosa? Because of how far crowds like those gathered on the corner in Bohemia can be pushed. Witness to miracles they never saw, threatened by magic in front of them.