by Rob Binkley
Ted was bear-hugging Brian on the mat and laughing at his new appearance, “What the hell? Who shaved your bloody melon! You look like a goddamned cantaloupe! C’mon, where’s that good hash? You got it stashed in there somewhere—I know it!” Then he began to tickle Brian.
Brian tried to keep his composure until he couldn’t take it anymore and screamed, “Get off of me you stupid idiot!” The word “idiot” echoed through the monastery. Everyone could hear the commotion.
It seemed like that one word summed up this entire affair … Maybe our entire lives.
Ted, sensing Brian’s colossal unhappiness, got off him quickly. Tears of rage welled in Brian’s eyes; he was mortified. It took this moment for Brian to realize he could never escape his sordid past—not so easily, not with me and “ghosts of debauchery past” like Ted haunting him.
Like a recovering addict who has to break ties with all his user friends, Brian stood up, bowed to the other old monks who were still bowled over like a bunch of bald crimson-robed bowling pins, and said, “Please forgive them … I’m sorry.”
Then Brian set his gaze on me and gave me a death stare to end all death stares. He said quietly, yet firmly: “You led him in here. You just want your little buddy to stick around and be your ‘drink monkey’ forever. You never wanted us to have a personal renaissance. You just wanted to run away.”
“What?? That’s not—”
“You’ll never find enlightenment, man. Go home … I was right; you’re not ready. It’s over.” Brian turned his back on me and disappeared into the night.
I was stunned. His words hung in the air and felt like daggers in my heart. A part of me knew he was right. A couple of idiots had invaded heaven, and this time Brian wasn’t one of them. But I was one … I always am. Would God ever forgive me?
Ted, my new idiot sidekick, could see I was upset. He came over and draped his meaty paw around me like nothing much out of the ordinary had happened. “Was it something I said, mate?” All I could say was, “Dude …” which must have triggered his conscience because he hung his head in humiliation.
I felt another hand on my shoulder. This one was gentle. I turned around hoping it was Brian, but it was the head monk who did not look pleased. “Please excuse, we must ask you two to leave the monastery at once.” Ted and I made the walk of shame out of the Sera Monastery. A few tourists were laughing at us and taking our picture. One of them was a Swedish kid wearing a Dodgers cap who said, “Brutal,” when we walked by.
It was a brutal ending.
I have been kicked out of many establishments in my life—universities, bars, restaurants, saunas, sporting events, strip clubs—but I had never been kicked out of a monastery before. It was the most humiliating experience of my life. It felt like God was banishing me from his kingdom.
Karma had kicked my ass.
When I got back to the hotel, Brian had already packed his things and left. He left no note this time. Dejected and ashamed, I couldn’t stick around any longer; I just wanted to be gone, so I hailed a taxi to the Lhasa Gonggar Airport with my tail between my legs. I told the driver, who’d been shuttling us around when Brian and I were too lazy to walk, to take me to the airport.
“Hey buddy. Where’s your friend?” He asked.
“I don’t know. On the road to enlightenment, I guess,” I said.
“Left you behind, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“You need hashish?”
“No.”
“Where you going now, my friend?”
I sat there for a minute, watching the traffic go by. “Back to square one.”
10
Westward Bound
MY EPIC JOURNEY WAS on life support.
I’d endured eleven months full of profound self-discoveries and painful realizations, wild adventures, and unadulterated debauchery. I was weary from all that road going, my beaten body and rattled soul yearned to be embraced by the tender bosom of the West, but all I had was a Barbie doll.
With thirty days left before I turned back into a tax-dodging pumpkin, I was officially giving up my “new experiences only” rule I’d been living by all year and heading back to the bustling anthill of the Western world to lick my wounds. No more roughing it in hellish environs. Testing the boundaries had gotten me nowhere. Had I found myself in the third world jungles? In the Asian rice paddies? In the sprawling outback? Riding the raging rivers? Scaling titanic mountains? Had I grown at all in a year?
I needed an introspective mirror, but it was shattered all over a monastery floor.
I dragged ass into the Lhasa Gonggar Airport. I had no idea where I was going. I was looking to book the first flight headed west, I didn’t care where. All I wanted was to wipe the memory of Tibet from my mind, which was a depressing notion since I truly loved my time here.
I waded through the sea of people; the airport lady told me there was a nine-thirty flight to Munich. “I’ll take it.” I slapped my ticket on the counter.
I started flipping through my mental Rolodex of friends, colleagues, and semi-acquaintances. I had to know someone in Munich, right? Who doesn’t know a crazy German? No Germans came to mind … but I did know this crazy Italian who maybe lived somewhere near there.
His name was Giancarlo, my old scoundrel of a business partner who (coincidentally) fled the US (just like me) to Germany a few years ago, supposedly. Wasn’t he involved in some sort of scandal? Now that I think about it, didn’t he still owe me some money?
I rifled through my pack, I’d lost all my contact numbers I brought with me. All I found was a bar napkin from Singapore with some stoned backpacker’s number scrawled on it.
Then it hit me. I must have Giancarlo’s number in my address book, back home. To find out, I finally had to bite the bullet and call Jody, my estranged assistant back in Palo Alto. I went looking for a bank of payphones to crawl into, and called her. It took eight rings but she answered, amazingly, even though it was three in the morning on a Tuesday in California.
“Rob? Is that you?” Jody sounded dead asleep.
“Yeah, it is I. Back from the dead … You pissed?”
“We all thought you committed suicide … or got eaten by sharks.”
“I may kill myself soon. Hey, weird question—but do you still have my contact numbers? Or did you throw them in a dumpster the second I left you holding the bag?”
“You left me holding a bag of shit … Ya know, Rob, I’m so glad you called to wake me up in the middle of the night to ask me about some random asshole’s number. If you were here I’d punch you in the face right now. You know that, right?”
“That’s so sweet. Are you mad because I never dropped you a postcard, or because I stuck you with all my crap?”
“Both.”
I apologized profusely for leaving her in the lurch. She said, “The only good news I can offer at this hour is that I have not burned your Rolodex … But before I continue, may I remind you that you owe me six months back pay.” Which made sense since I cleaned out my business account a long time ago.
“Oooh, sorry about that … The check’s in the mail?”
Jody sighed. Then she updated me on the fallout from my escape. After I sold all my possessions except my condo, she said she closed my “virtual office” but kept all my mail because she “still has a soft spot” for my “dumb ass.”
“Thank you. I owe you, big time.”
“Yes, you do.”
I filled her in on all the craziness I’d been up to all year.
“So I guess you’re both probably wanted by Interpol. Can’t believe you left the country with Brian. I bet you both have one of those mountain-man Unabomber beards … You do, don’t you?”
“No …. yes … I do look like a hermit. I’ve lost a ton of weight. Brian turned into a Buddhist—he wants to kill me. It’s a long story.”
Jody told me no warrants were out for my arrest but “there is definitely some serious civil litigation brewing” if I ever decided to
come home. “Also, not to be a total downer, but your lawyer quit a long time ago. I’ve got his invoice, among others. And I don’t mean to be the bearer of even more bad news, but … Elena’s been squatting in your condo all year.”
“What?? It never sold? I was going to give you a commission!”
“You left. You’re not paying me enough to handle your shit show of a life—in fact, you’re not paying me at all. I should hang up—Is this a collect call??”
“No-no, don’t hang up—point well taken … What is she doing over there?”
“She’s doing what all squatters do, squatting! I stopped by a few times while I was still getting paid and she wouldn’t answer the door—all she did was turn down the stupid samba music she had playing inside.”
“That harlot … Someone’s been screwing in my bed, and it hasn’t been me.”
“Don’t be such a drama queen. It’s what got you into this mess. You never had to leave. You just panicked.”
“Don’t judge me, okay? You just … don’t get it.”
“Whatever, Rob. I probably know you better than yourself.”
I had to find out what was going on with Elena, so I begged Jody to get over there and serve her “eviction papers.” “Write up some false documents that look legal … and threaten to call the INS—she’s not an American citizen! Her green card ran out a long time ago. She wanted me to marry her to legalize her Columbian ass!”
“You’re shouting again. Why do you care so much? The courts may have already seized your condo!”
“She’s in my house!” I calmed down and whispered. “She’s in my house and I wanna know who the hell she’s been screwing in my house. I’ll wire you your back pay when I get to Munich. I swear to God I’ve been lost in the jungle for a year, where they don’t have banks.” I lied. Kinda.
“You could’ve at least let me know you were alive. I was really worried.”
“I know … I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you when I get back. I’ll be home soon.”
“Promise?”
Jody said if I promised to come home she’d whip up some false eviction papers “the second my wire transfer arrived” in her account. I promised, she promised, then she dug up Giancarlo’s number and ended our call with a “be careful and come home … I want to be the first person to punch you in the face.”
I promised I would let her be the first person to punch me in the face, then I hung up. I stood there imagining all the people who I abandoned back home lining up to inflict bodily harm on me.
My mind went back to the hot mess that was Elena. Was she screwing one guy or a string of them? Was he wearing my clothes? Does she have keys to my storage unit? I don’t know why I cared; maybe I was still in love with her, whatever love meant anymore. But what really messed with my head was that I had been paying for her to screw some dude in my bed all year like some kind of reverse pimp.
I tried to call Giancarlo next; his contact information said he was in Bavaria, Germany … That’s close to Munich, I think. Thank God he answered, too.
“Rob Binkley? Heeeey buddy, you waken me from my siesta. What is the occasion that I hear from you? I first have to tell you that I have all your money, I just—”
“I’m not calling about the money—I’m flying into the Munich Airport in twelve hours, can you pick me up??”
“Of coursssse my friend, you are lucky to be coming here now. I have many girlfriends to introduce you with—”
“Yeah, yeah, okay—my flight lands at seven thirty…. in the morning.”
I hung up and walked aimlessly around the airport. I thought I saw Brian sitting about a hundred feet away staring me down—but it was only an illusion, a memory of what could have been. And what should have been …
I still had six hours before my flight departed, so I killed time drowning my sorrows at the airport bar. I was in a dark place and had post-traumatic Brian disorder. I talked to this old lady about Buddhism and proclaimed it was all bullshit. She didn’t like that very much, so I told her that I besmirched a monastery and was being deported.
This got her so upset she moved to sit at the other end of the bar. I was clearly pissing off every Buddhist within earshot—mostly because I was angry and hurt. I wanted the world to feel my pain. I was in a deep and irreversible stew over Brian’s shaming.
I couldn’t believe he blamed me for Ted’s idiocy back at the monastery. After all I’ve done for him over the years? Since we were kids I always looked out for him and pulled him out of a ton of jams. I was always the responsible one and he was the loose cannon. How come he didn’t cut me some slack?? It was a shock to see him lose his Zen cool and drop that anger bomb on me.
I still kept expecting to run into him at the airport, but no dice. Where did he go? Is he up in that monastery? Did he really find nirvana without me? I hoped not. I know that’s selfish, but hey—I’m a selfish American.
I slept the entire way to Munich to try and flush some of the bitterness that was churning inside my soul. I awoke just as we touched down. I got off the plane and wandered out of the airport. Thankfully, there my flaky friend was, standing by a shiny red Peugeot.
“You like de wheels? I promise I have your money.” A smiling Giancarlo took one look at me and frowned, “Jesus, what has happened to you? Have you been in a Turkish prison??”
“I’ve been backpacking through Asia—it has a tendency to lean you up.”
“You are ‘heroin chic’ without the ‘chic,’ my friend … Come with me, I will fatten you up!”
He sped me off to his hood, straight to one of the pizzerias he owns in Viechtach, a town in the Regen district of Bavaria on the Schwarzer Regen river. He drove like a bat out of hell past beautiful German houses and a sea of neverending farms, I looked in the side mirror and stared long and hard at my reflection for the first time in months. I was a slip of a man, a paper-thin shadow of my former self—inside and out.
I mumbled, “Weight loss is like aging; you barely notice it when it’s happening, but if you ever get a true glimpse of yourself it can be a frightening reminder of your mortality.”
Giancarlo laughed, “I am supposing you want to eat like a horse?”
“I want meat, lots and lots of meat …”
“You came to the right place. You will eat all you want, my treat. I own many restaurants now; I do very well! You will come in any time of the day and I will take care of you. I owe you money anyway! And you will not get a hotel, you will stay with me, do you hear?”
“I couldn’t—”
“Do not say another word, do not even mention it. If you want to get your figure back, you can work out all you want at the gym in my apartment building. Rest, recoup, relax—you look like you just returned from war, my friend!”
“I kinda did …”
“You look like someone has broken your heart recently, am I right? Who is she??”
“Um … her name was Brian.”
“Oh … is he hot? Do you have the HIV?”
“No.”
“That’s okay, that’s your business, but I didn’t know you swung that way. But this is Germany, you can get as kinky as you want, my friend! I have this swingers’ house you will like—we must go and wet our beaks!”
“It’s not like that—”
“No-no-no, of course, you want the meat, you get the meat! Who am I to judge!? But I have many sexy girlfriends for you, too.” I was too tired to explain the whole story to Giancarlo. I just let him think I was gay while he took me to eat. It didn’t matter anyway since Europeans are more sexually progressive than us uptight Americans.
This is when I embarked on a monthlong food bender of epic proportions—it was a nonstop eatathon. My taste du jour was copious slabs of roasted flesh. My inner carnivore was starved and I was going to feed the beast. It had been nearly a year since my taste buds had gotten a taste of a rare steak, a tender pork chop, a juicy sausage, a succulent slice of ham, a big fat greasy cheeseburger, a bite of crispy fried
chicken, or a piece of bacon. Oh, how I dreamt of them all these months.
I would eat my sorrows away, devouring every mammal in my path. I didn’t care what part of the monster: I wanted livers, hearts, gizzards, tongue, intestines, gall bladders. If it moved, I was gobbling it down … I wouldn’t eat a vegetable for two weeks. And even then, it was beans sautéed in bacon fat.
I slept for what felt like two days straight in Giancarlo’s guest bedroom. Luxuriating in a regular bed for the first time in nearly a year made me appreciate all the things we take for granted in the Western world. The only weird thing about the setup was Giancarlo had to walk directly through my “guest room” to get to his bedroom, so those first two nights I got a front row seat to a sexy parade of girls, which made me yearn for them even more.
When I woke, I was recharged again and ready to take on the world, but I was so stiff I could barely move—starvation fueled me to get up. Giancarlo had left me a note with directions on how to get to his restaurants. I took his note and ventured outside like a ravenous vampire seeing the sun for the first time.
I walked to the closest one on his list—which was a pizzeria that was only a two-minute stroll. I stretched my legs and breathed in the glorious air of freedom; I was back in Western civilization and it felt great. As much as I liked the challenge of roughing it for a year, it was like I had died and gone to heaven. Giancarlo was so gracious; he really treated me right.
I kept the same “morning” routine for the next few weeks. I would arrive at the pizzeria around noon and take my eggs on the terrace. When I needed more food, I’d go back in the kitchen and they would make whatever I wanted. I’d joke around with the Czech cooks and waitresses in the kitchen. They greeted me like one of their own—it was great. There were usually three or four different languages being spoken in the kitchen and I wanted to learn to speak all of them. Through my taste buds, I was slowly rediscovering my joy for life, learning, and laughter … and food.
In the afternoon, I had this rehab routine where I’d go to the little gym in his apartment complex and get in a workout, then go take a nap. Eventually I started taking long hikes in the Bavarian forests, then longer runs—then another nap. Later in the day, I would walk back up to the restaurant and eat more. Eat, exercise, sleep. I repeated this cycle for weeks.