Oh. I’d forgotten about the dog food, even though it had seemed to be the most amazing of all of Marco’s early feats.
What about Marco and the others? Sam asked.
That’s another reason that your body is preferable, Sam. With Sid out of the picture, most of the melodrama will fade away. Together, you’ll have no problem handling what doesn’t. None of these people will seem as formidable now.
We all paused, and I consulted my laundry list of unresolved questions and mysteries that I’d compiled over the last few weeks. Some of them were still pending, and it seemed as though this might be my last opportunity to get them answered.
Do you mind if I ask more questions about what’s happened to me? I thought.
Go ahead, God thought. Satisfy your curiosity if it helps you let go of it all.
Marco’s psychic powers and all that showy stuff back on his island. Was it real?
First of all, it wasn’t his island. And as you surmised, he is, in fact, somewhat psychic. But the rest was trickery. Frank was on Marco’s payroll at that time, as was one of your brothers. And so forth.
So meeting Marco on the water wasn’t a magically arranged synchronicity, either?
No. He bribed two of Tommy T.’s men to let you escape. And he knows those waters well.
Did he really win the lottery? I asked. Is that how he can afford all this?
No. His father died and left him money.
At this rate, slogging through every weird event in chronological order would take forever. I decided to streamline our conversation. Do I have an accurate idea of who Marco, Bhante, Jason, and my brothers are?
Yes, God thought.
And my parents were being straight with me since we reconnected?
Yes, although their understanding is, of course, incomplete.
Was Buddha really a woman? Sam asked.
That Buddha was—Shakyamuni Buddha. Usually they’re a man. RGP really is in possession of her fired-clay diary, by the way.
Who is Faroud—the old man with the turban I met on the street in Ahmednagar?
Like Rinpoche, he’s an advanced soul. Both of them contributed their energy to creating you as you are now. Faroud believes he’s helping people lose their attachment to material things when he steals from them.
It wasn’t those boys who emptied my pockets?
No.
Is Rinpoche Baba’s reincarnation?
No, but his belief that he is represents a garbled intuition of what the world needs—two souls in one body.
Is Ram Baba’s successor?
No. The role is self-appointed.
Here’s something else, I thought. I had a dream where Baba told me I had been Buddha’s son. Is that true?
Yes. That was Baba, and he spoke the truth. You were Rahula and Samavati was Mahapajapati Gotami—Buddha’s aunt—who raised him when his mother died a week after his birth.
So Sam didn’t just happen to get dragged into my drama, did she? We have an ages-old connection that we sensed when we met, right?
Yes. Your attraction to one another is both historical and a reflection of your upcoming symbiosis. You really are two halves of a whole.
I realized that I didn’t need more answers. I was content to know that it all could be explained. My curiosity was clearly irrelevant to the matters at hand.
Hey, I thought. My first name is Sid and Sam’s last name is Arthur, so together we’re Sid and Arthur—Siddhartha.
God shrugged. So sue me. I like a good pun.
Epilogue
So that’s how Sam and I came to run the world. If you notice a cataclysm begins to develop—a world war, an epidemic, a rogue asteroid en route to Rhode Island—but then it doesn’t happen—that’s us. Of course it goes both ways. We certainly don’t withhold a modest disaster or hardship if that’s what you need. We love you too much to cheat you out of any essential human experience.
Sam and I merged seamlessly. There just wasn’t that much individuality left in us after meeting Lannie/God.
The smallest things trip us up the most. Should we order a burrito or an enchilada at the taqueria (where everyone stares at our boobs no matter what we wear)? And which ghost-self gets to select the next US ambassador to France?
I want to acknowledge that I’ve changed most of the names, places, and other identifying features to create this so-called novel. I’ve also omitted some of what happened to limit the length of the book, create a more coherent narrative flow, and—believe it or not—make my story more credible.
In terms of metaphysical content, I’ve taken the precaution of including several spiritual red herrings to prevent readers from becoming inadvertently accelerated in their march toward enlightenment. If you were a recalcitrant jar—and the analogy is apt—would you rather be battered against the edge of a countertop or run under hot water for a few minutes? I’m picking the hot water for you.
Finally, I’ve selected a likely impostor and convinced him he’s the author of this book. Obviously, our work would be compromised if our identity was known.
It turns out that it’s quite easy to foster this sort of grandiose delusion in a writer’s mind. They’re all a little full of themselves, aren’t they?
A word about the author…
Verlin Darrow is currently a psychotherapist who lives with his psychotherapist wife in the woods near the Monterey Bay in northern California. They diagnose each other as necessary. Verlin is a former professional volleyball player, country-western singer/songwriter, import store owner, and assistant guru in a small, benign cult, from which he graduated everyone when he left.
Before bowing to the need for higher education, a much younger Verlin ran a punch press in a sheetmetal factory, drove a taxi, worked as a night janitor, shoveled asphalt on a road crew, and installed wood floors. He barely missed being blown up by Mt. St. Helens, survived the 1985 Mexico City earthquake, and (so far) he’s successfully weathered his own internal disasters.
Verlin is also the author of a psycho-spiritual mystery: Blood and Wisdom. He encourages readers to visit his website or email him to find out more.
verlindarrow.com
[email protected]
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