Miss Buddha

by Ulf Wolf

  “And how’s business?”

  “Could be better.”

  “Have you noticed any changed over the last several months?”

  “In business?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, funny you should ask. I was just talking with my partner about this the other day. Many of the calls we get these days are from people who have tried to fix things themselves, and dug themselves a hole a little too deep for them, if you know what I mean?”

  “And this is different from what?”

  “Well, usually people call us when there is a plumbing problem. They don’t try to fix it themselves first, they just call.”

  “I see. And how about the volume? Of calls, I mean.”

  “Well, they’re fewer. A lot less. About half I’d say. Although, we sort of like the calls where they’ve really made a mess of it by now. Takes longer to fix, and costs them more.”

  “So you’re making out better or worse?”

  “Oh, worse. I was just telling my partner the other day that there was no way of telling how many people actually fixed it by themselves now, and so never called.”

  “I see. So income is down.”

  “Yes, it is. Definitely.”

  “And why do you think people are trying to fix things themselves these days rather than call you, a professional?”

  “Well, I was just talking with my partner about this the other day. His guess is that with all the hoopla about more mindfulness and taking more responsibility for your life and surroundings, which is what Ruth Marten here is preaching, a lot of people seem to be taking her advice and taking on these problems themselves.”

  “Instead of calling you?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Have you noticed anything else in Columbus, Ohio, that you feel is the result of Ruth Marten’s suggestions?”

  Judge Moore looked very pointedly at Ruth, imploring her to object. Ruth chose not to. Just smiled and shook her head.

  “Shortages,” said Bill Black.

  “What kind of shortages?”

  “Medicine.”

  “Medicine?”

  “My wife’s got asthma, needs her medication.”

  “And she can’t get it anymore?”

  “Not at our regular pharmacy.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because it’s gone out of business?”

  “So where do you go now? To get your wife’s medicine?”

  “To one of those grocery store chains, you know. They’re not liable to go out of business. Not quite yet.”

  “Well you never know,” offered Jones.

  “Not the way things are going, I agree,” said Black.

  “Are you worried, Mister Black? About the future.”

  “Funny you should ask,” he said, and then looked straight at the camera nearest him. “I was just talking to my wife the other night. Calming her down, actually. She was worried we wouldn’t be able to get her medication at all, and then where would she be? I tried to tell her that her medication would always be available but she came back at me with some story about her friend Liesel who just the day before had been unable to find the bread she normally buys, and had to settle for some other brand. ‘Things,’ my wife was almost crying now, heck she was crying now, ‘are vanishing from the shelves, Bill,’ she said. ‘Things are vanishing.’ And I saw what she meant and, yes, I was worried then as well. I’m worried now.”

  Jones looked over at the jury and was pleased with what he saw: all taken in by Bill Black’s lament.

  “No further questions, your honor,” said Jones.

  Judge Moore knew by now that any invitation sent Ruth’s way to cross-examine the witness would be fruitless, still she had to. She looked over at the defendant, raised eyebrows, cocked head.

  Ruth shook hers in response, and Judge Moore drew one of many deep sighs at the young girl’s naiveté.

  :

  Rhonda Love was thirty-six years old, had died her hair an ashy blond, and sold car insurance for a living. She lived in Seattle, Washington. She was recently divorced and made a point to tell Jones to address her as Miss.

  “Miss Love,” said Jones. “You were the second person, out of a thousand, who drew the lucky number.”

  “That’s what they tell me,” she answered with a voice that bespoke of a long-term smoking habit.

  “And they tell you the truth,” said Jones. Then, “You’re from Seattle, are you not?”

  Miss Love, clearly self-conscious about being on camera and on such an important trial, made an effort to not look the camera’s way as she answered. She was successful, but the effort was evident. “Yes, sir. Born and raised.”

  “And you sell car insurance?”

  “Yes to that, too.”

  “How’s business?”

  “Not good.”

  “How not good?”

  “Very not good. This month, so far, we’re running at half the pace of last year, same time.”

  “As in fifty percent?”

  “Yes. Half.”

  “And how is this affecting you, Miss Love?”

  “I work on commission. Well, I have a base salary, but that salary pays no bills, barely covers rent. I live on my commissions. At this rate, I’ll hardly have any at all by the end of the month.”

  “Do you have any idea why this might be happening?”

  “I do have an idea. People are unregistering their cars.”

  “Define people,” said Jones.

  “Eighteen instances so far this month. That’s unheard of.”

  “What happens, precisely?”

  “People get it into their heads that they don’t need their cars anymore and they call the Department of Motor Vehicles and unregister them. Then they call us to cancel their insurance, for they’re not going to drive their vehicles anymore.”

  “So how do they get around?” wondered Jones.

  “They walk, or bicycle. That’s what those I’ve spoken to told me.”

  “Do you get dinged for canceled policies.”

  “No, sir. I don’t. It’s not my fault if they don’t keep their insurance, that’s the company’s fault.”

  “I see. But this is a worrying trend, for you?”

  “Of course it’s a worrying trend. If this keeps up I’ll not only don’t make any commissions at the end of the month, I’ll soon be out of a job.”

  “Do you think it’s that bad?”

  “Do I think? I know it’s that bad. Two sales people have already been laid off at our company.”

  “Why?”

  “Due to the slowdown in sales.”

  “I see. And you fear you might be next?”

  “No, not next, they’re letting us go in order of seniority, you know in reverse order of employment.”

  “I understand.”

  “There’s one other woman that’s been there a little less than me. But after her, it’s me. I’m gone.”

  “Not such good news, is what you’re saying.”

  “Terrible news, is what I’m saying.”

  “And, Miss Love. Do you have any ideas as to why this is happening? Why you stand to lose your job if this keeps up?”

  “Sure do, sir. It’s this Ruth Marten thing.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “People are listening to her and taking her advice.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as, and this is what one lady told me, you don’t need a car to drive two blocks to the grocery store. Why don’t you walk instead and listen to the birds? And why on earth do you need two, three, four cars? Those are the kinds of questions Ruth Marten is asking all over the Internet, and people listen. That’s the problem. They listen to her and they agree, and they unregister their only, or second, or third cars, and then cancel their insurance.”

  “Do you know if it’s the same at other car insurance companies?”

  “I do. I have a friend who works at one of our competitors. They’ve recently let four peopl
e go.”

  “Four?”

  “Yes, and more are in jeopardy.”

  “Not a cheerful future, is it?”

  “No, it’s terrible, sir. Terrible,” now so caught up in the terribleness of it all that she forgot she was on camera. All emotion and indignation. Jones could not have been happier.

  “No further questions, your honor.”

  Ruth had no questions.

  :

  Jones’ strategy was nothing if not well planned. The testimony of his recent witnesses had raised this question in many a mind: Why did people listen to Ruth Marten? Why did they take her to heart and act on her suggestions? Were we that impressionable, were we that easily conned? He had, astutely indeed, anticipated this question and had lined up a witness to answer it.

  August Brent was made the chair of UCLA’s Psychology Department in 2012. In 2021 he received the Nobel Prize in medicine for his research in and applications of cognitive science in helping the mentally disturbed or, as he preferred to call it, mentally unfortunate.

  In some circles he was as well known for refusing to wear anything but jeans and a t-shirt—including at the Nobel Prize presentation—as for his research and practice.

  He was also unique in his field in that nobody disliked him. Even his professional rivals agreed that he deserved the Prize, and many of them vied for any open slot in his department, putting aside differences in opinion for the opportunity to work with, and learn from, the “August” Brent, as he was often known. Or just “August.”

  Sporting a very white t-shirt, and washed out jeans, long gray hair in a ponytail, August Brent sauntered up to the witness stand with what can only be described as grace. He stood a thin five foot eleven (testimony to his vegan ways), and as he promised to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, his voice seemed to fill the room like some magic liquid.

  If the media was surprised that he would testify at this trial, no mention was made of it; in retrospect, many outlets held, he was indeed the perfect witness.

  “Mister Brent,” said Jones. “Over the last few days of testimony, there is one question I am sure has surfaced in most minds, and I can think of no one more qualified to answer it than you.”

  Jones paused to let the as yet unasked question fill the room. Then said:

  “And that question is: Why do people believe Miss Marten?”

  August Brent took in Jones with a long, even gaze. Then he surveyed the room, seemingly oblivious of the two cameras. He looked back at Jones.

  “That,” he said. “Is a very good question.”

  Jones nodded his unreserved agreement.

  “Miss Marten, and make no mistake about that, is a brilliant young woman. Her genius—she’s earned a Doctorate in Particle Physics from Cal Tech, and a combined Doctorate in Philosophy and Theology from USC, don’t forget that—is underscored by her captivating beauty. Her very blue eyes, in such dramatic contrast to her jet-black hair, make her almost unworldly.”

  “Mister Brent,” said Judge Moore as a precursor to a question regarding the relevance of this descriptive diversion. But, then struck by precisely such relevance, said no more.

  August Brent looked up at her and said, “It is relevant, your honor.”

  Judge Moore nodded, and August Brent continued:

  “Add to this an amazing vocabulary, and a beautiful voice. And add to this her uncanny ability to read her audience and to tell it what it seemingly needs to hear. Add this all up and you’ll find that this woman is very little short of a miracle.”

  Jones looked over at the jury as if to urge it on to get all of this, really.

  “Given all this,” continued Brent, “it is no wonder that people will listen, and believe, when she outlines and promises them heaven here on earth.”

  “Is that really what she promises?” said Jones.

  “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation,” said Brent. “Thoreau said that almost two hundred years ago. It still holds true today. Most people,” and here Brent finally acknowledged, and looked into, the camera, “on a very real level, suffer through their lives. Not many of us realize this, we’re so busy covering up our dissatisfaction with truckloads of things that we hardly notice it, but deep down—though not so deep as to be indiscernible—we know, we feel unfulfilled, incomplete. We seek to complete ourselves in a thousand, in a million ways. Many through relationships, others through the arts, though most through possessing more and more and more. Still, this, well I call it incompleteness, refuses to complete. We know that we come up short.

  “Those who take this certainty to heart turn to philosophy or religion, but most take little notice, rip open another beer, or smoke another joint, or take another pill to deaden the hurt. Or buy another car.

  “This is the internal, the mental state of affairs of our race, Mister Jones.”

  Jones nodded that he understood—though, truth be told, he did not.

  “To then have this near miracle, this Ruth Marten, stand up and tell you that you can indeed reach a place where you will feel fulfilled, where you don’t come up short.

  “People don’t specifically know what this place is, or what Nirvana is all about, but they do recognize—or convince themselves—that what she’s talking about is relevant, personally relevant to them, to their deep spiritual or mental problem.”

  “Meaning?” said Jones.

  “Meaning that she tells people precisely what they want to hear at precisely the right mental level. That, if anything, is her genius.”

  “But this promise,” began Jones.

  “This promise,” interrupted Brent, “is a promise of nothing. It is a dangerous promise. Sitting still long enough will not solve the issue. We are not a race of seclusion; we are a gregarious race. We are a race of inclusion. She is pointing them in a precarious direction.”

  “It is a false promise, then” suggested Jones.

  “Yes, it is a false promise.”

  “Do you, in your expert view, believe that she knowingly misleads her audiences?”

  Here August Brent took a deep breath, and almost closed his eyes. He then straightened up and looked over at Ruth. “She knows precisely what she is doing,” he said. “She is, in my expert view, knowingly misleading her listener.”

  “Why?” said Jones. “She does not, as far as we can ascertain, benefit financially or otherwise from her lectures, or from her astronomical online viewership.”

  “Another good question,” said Brent. “I can only surmise that she derives a healthy dose of self-gratification from her notoriety.”

  Then he added, “That is not an uncommon thirst.”

  “So you give no credence to her Buddhist teachings?”

  “Oh, I do. As teachings go, they are true to the Pali Canon all right. She is very, very well read. But that only leads to the next question: does the Pali Canon hold water?”

  “The Pali Canon?” Jones asked for the jury’s benefit.

  “It is the Bible of Theravada Buddhism,” said Brent. “It is, among the true believers, held as the word of the historical Buddha. Sacred teachings.”

  Jones nodded that he understood, and Brent continued:

  “But how much credence can you give some ten thousand pages of scripture when their first five hundred years consisted of memorized words passed down verbally from monk-generation to monk-generation. You have to assume that a comma slipped out of place here or a preposition was dropped there.

  “You remember the old game of whispering a phrase in the ear of person number one in a line of ten, who then whispers that phrase to his or her neighbor, et cetera. You never end up with the original phrase at person number ten. Never.

  “Extend this analogy to ten thousand whispered pages through a line one hundred monks long and what do you think you’ll end up with? The historical Buddha’s words, verbatim? I think not.”

  “You are saying the Pali Canon does not hold water?”

  “I’m saying it is leaking like a sinking
ship. It could not possibly.”

  “And her teachings?”

  “Her teachings—and I’ve listened to and dissected quite a few of her lectures—are based on the Pali Canon, mixed up with some of her scientific and philosophic insights and adapted for the youth of today.”

  “So, that’s your take? She’s addressing younger people.”

  “Yes, they are as a rule more gullible.”

  “Demographically, however, no one age bracket seems to dominate her viewership,” Jones pointed out.

  “Yes, she is very, very good,” admitted Brent.

  “So why, in a word, if you can, do people believe her?”

  “Because,” said Brent. “She is believable. She not only isolates and addresses a spiritual need, she is also the perfect blend of youth, beauty, intelligence, mysticism, and charisma to capture the attention of today’s audiences. And she rides this advantage all the way.”

  “All the way to where?” Jones thought, and then asked before he could check himself.

  “Well, that is the question, isn’t it?” said Brent. “All the way to world collapse, perhaps.”

  Which, to Jones, was the perfect answer. And the excellent lawyer that he was, he knew when to stop.

  “No further questions, your honor.”

  Judge Moore, more by protocol than anything else, looked in Ruth’s direction. Ruth smiled and shook her head.

  :

  NBC Online was the first channel to openly declare the prosecution as winner, not in the least because the defense, by her inactivity, has proven itself utterly incompetent. The array of convincing witnesses was, one after the other, nailing the coffin shut (perhaps literally, one reporter added) for Ruth Marten. At the least, if found guilty—which now was a foregone conclusion—she would face a long jail time, if not life in jail, and would be ordered to cease and desist forever; and at the worst, she could face the death penalty.

  Whether such a penalty would ever be carried out was another question. NBC Online thought not.

  :: 134 :: (Los Angeles Federal Court)

  These days, it would be impossible to do an online search of “Buddhism” and not find seven or eight out of the top ten responses mention or reference Sunyata Bodhi.