After finally taking their “personality test” — which was “problematic” according to my 20-something male Stepford guide (yes, a movie reference about blindly submissive housewives) — I agreed to undertake 10 minutes of “auditing.” My guide escorted me down the hall to my “auditor,” a middle-aged male, quite serious, who asked me to hold onto the twin handles of the “e-meter” while he probed me with questions.

I felt I had nothing to lose and besides, I believed the more raw I was the more resonant my article would be.

I told my auditor about my failed relationship … and after less than five minutes he told me my “engrams” were blocking my recovery and my happiness.

My future was determined, if he had his way.

From Scientology promotional materials (excerpted): An engram, as used in “Dianetics” and Scientology, is a detailed mental image or memory of a traumatic event from the past that occurred when an individual was partially or fully unconscious. … An engram is a “cellular level recording” that includes both physical and emotional pain.

My auditor then told me that my engrams were out of balance.

“You will need at least 200 hours more of auditing to prepare you for getting clear from their neagative impact.”

(In Scientology-speak, “Clears” suffer no illness and do not even wear glasses. I wore glasses and still do; apparently, if I had listened I would have saved a great deal of money avoiding ophthalmologists over the subsequent years.)

So, after five minutes holding on to two sticks, and I was already prescribed 200 hours more of auditing. I saw the scam right away, but asked how much it would all cost, out of curousity. “$20,000 or so and then we’ll work with you from there.”

As expected.

I had my article fodder. But I pressed on.

“Where will I get the money?” I asked. “I’m 21-years-old.”

“Are your parents still alive?” he asked.

That touched my Brooklyn temper, but I remained cool.

“Yes.”

“I’m sure they’d look out for your happiness, right?”

“We live in a small apartment in Brooklyn. They don’t have that much money.”

“They have a car?”

“Yeah — ”

“Sell the car.”

“It’s an old car.”

I was beginning to lose it at this point, but I stayed.

“Do you have any hobbies?” he asked.

“I collect coins and comic books,” I said.

“Great! Sell your collections. It’s what LRH (Hubbard) would want.”

The conversation devolved from there. I went home and began work on my story … which I quickly discarded as the truth was I was searching for help, not an extra buck. I decided to stick with the writing I knew best in 1984, as a columnist for a series of sports-entertainment magazines.

Besides, I didn’t want the world knowing about my personal life.

But that was then. I feel maybe this experience could do some good now.