I gulped.
And so we were escorted back to the police car, treated now like dignitaries rather than criminals, and driven back to Paul’s Honda by the side of the road. I managed to make it to the driver’s door before Joey. With Booker and Findley waving us off, we continued on our way to our mysterious destination.
As they faded from view, I turned on Joey. “I can’t believe you did that! We had no insurance, you had no license, it was completely irresponsible. You almost got us arrested!”
“What do you mean,” said Joey indignantly. “We did get arrested!”
“Yes, but I mean we could have gotten into real, serious trouble, and it’s not even my car, Joey.”
“Ah,” said Joey. “We could have. That was the exciting part. We could have. But we didn’t.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew the chief of police? You left me thinking we were in deep trouble! And all the time you knew we’d be okay.”
“I didn’t know for sure. I had a feeling. And besides, I wanted to see if you think your life is real when the shit hits the fan.” Joey went back to his chocolate-covered almonds. “You do. You’ve got so caught up in trying to win the game, or should I say trying not to lose, you’ve forgotten how to play for fun.”
“But you can’t do that kind of thing, it’s completely irresponsible,” I said, realizing I was repeating myself.
“On the contrary,” said Joey, “I feel very able to respond quite freely to every impulse which life brings. From outside and from within.” He was grinning now. “I’ve lived perfectly well like this for decades. I don’t have a problem.
“To live your whole life in fear and restraint is nuts,” he went on, cracking open a pistachio. “Calculation is irresponsible. It completely kills the ability to respond. I tell you, I just do what guides me. Then things always work out.”
“But if you just do whatever you want, like that, you’re going to end up killing people and getting into no end of trouble. What if you feel like walking off a cliff, or … or … doing something violent?”
“How often do you feel like walking off a cliff? The only time you ever think of a thing like that is when you’re lost in pessimistic thoughts! And violence is all the fruit of holding back; it’s like a pressure cooker.
“Things always turn out when you stop thinking. There’s something guiding all this, see? What do you think it is that makes the trees grow? What do you think it is that makes the flowers all these colors? What makes the clouds so beautiful? You think it’s just random voidness? Feel it! There’s a benevolence in all this. It can only take care of you, it can only nourish you when you learn to trust everything perfectly. And that don’t only mean the things that happen to you, but every impulse of God’s desire that rises inside you, too.”
Something inside me wanted him to be right. I could feel the ground slowly eroding under me, which just made the whole thing more and more annoying.
“So you are just suggesting that I should never think, and just act completely impulsively?”
“You’ll see, you’ll see. It will all drop away. It is all dropping away. Once you let go of all that is not you, things become very simple. You just need training. We will start our real work this afternoon.” He paused. “As soon as you start to think, you create doubt. And I tell you, doubt cancels out that benevolence as quick as pissin’ will put out a fire.”
“It just doesn’t make sense,” I complained.
“You’ve spent your life living from logic,” said Joey, “haven’t you? You’ve spent your life doing what you thought was reasonable. And how’s it worked out?”
I couldn’t answer him. He knew perfectly well.
CHAPTER 14
OASIS
We drove in silence. Then Joey gestured to me and I turned right onto a smaller road. The larger houses and manicured lawns gave way to a different habitat now, paint peeling from smaller houses, yards long overgrown, old cars left out to pasture. Through the slightly open window I could smell the damp crispness of rural winter.
Soon he pointed to a narrow driveway suddenly appearing among the overgrown winter bushes. “Oasis Farm,” declared a wooden sign nailed to a tree. The driveway was just wide enough for one car. Leaves brushed us on both sides, dropping recent raindrops on the windshield, in a confetti shower of welcome. Finally, the driveway opened out into a graveled area where several other cars were already parked. Joey was first out, clutching chocolate wrappers and pistachio shells in his cupped hands. I followed in pursuit.
He found the trash can, and then strode down a path leading to a modest two-story farmhouse with a covered deck on the first floor. As we got closer, the front door opened and an older woman pushed the screen door out of her way.
“Well, hello there, stranger,” she called, in a thick, fruity voice.
Joey, quickening his pace, bounded up the stairs into the woman’s arms, lifted her feet from the ground, and swung her in his embrace. They were both laughing and kissing like teenagers.
“How are you?” She looked him up and down and twinkled, brushing some crumbs from his jacket.
“All the better to be home,” he beamed back at her. “Katie, meet my new friend, Matt. He’ll be with us for Christmas. Matt, this is Katie, the light of my life.”
Katie turned to me, welcome evident in every hint of her demeanor. She wore a long maroon corduroy dress, with deep pockets sewn on a little below the waist, and a thick woolen cardigan. Very colorful socks culminated in strong shoes with thick soles. Her voluminous gray hair was clipped in a barrette at the back of her head. The wrinkles around her eyes and mouth reminded me of a crumpled brown paper bag, but her eyes were bright, like a child on an outing.
“Well,” she laughed. “Why are we standing around out here like a bunch of penguins? Come inside by the fire.”
We stepped into the house. The front door opened immediately into the living room, which was scented with the rich smell of an open fire. Everything in the room seemed to be a shade of some rustic color: a brown sofa with dark wooden armrests, dark maroon curtains, a large Buddha statue, also in a dark color with hints of gold. Rich, deep music was playing. I knew it in my body, but could not place it. As I looked around I saw the room was filled with little treasures from all over the world, small carved boxes, candles, prints and pictures in dark wooden frames. An older golden retriever dozed in front of the splendid fireplace. He stretched and took in the scene. When he saw Joey, he woke up completely and launched himself at him.
“Matt, meet George Gurdjieff, another longtime companion.” The dog looked at me suspiciously. It refused my offer of petting.
“Mahler!” I announced triumphantly. “Mahler’s First Symphony. First movement.”
“Very good!” Katie stopped, and eyed me more closely. “Do you like Mahler?”
“My grandfather was the conductor of the Boston Philharmonic. I grew up on Mahler and Strauss.”
“Ah, deep and dark, like the forest at night. I love to be drawn into the shadow lands, that’s where the passion lies,” she sighed.
We had a moment there, Katie and I, loving our shared darkness. Then she bustled us into the kitchen. The room was dominated by a very large table, made of a thick slab of wood, rough and dented, a good eight feet long. Against one wall was a wood-burning stove, the kind people sometimes use in the country. She put the kettle on, and sat us down at the table. The floor was rough slate slabs, very thick. The room was full of competing smells: dried flowers hanging besides the window, some kind of spicy soup simmering on the stove, and chocolate. Katie produced an uncut chocolate cake and sat it on the table between us. Joey’s eyes lit up.
“You know the way to a man’s heart, my darling,” he teased.
She found plates, made the tea, and we were soon relaxing together. I used to visit my grandparents as a child for my vacations. My grandmother always had three or four kinds of desserts ready, and made me fresh orange juice, secretly delivered to my bedside in
the nighttime. Time stopped when we were there, days stretched forever, on a velvet background of sad, slow classical music on scratched vinyl records.
I was back there now.
“So, who’s coming?” Joey asked Katie.
“Billy and Dawn got in last night; they’re down in the barn,” she started. “And Lilly’s here, too, with a new friend.”
Joey looked up, interested, his mustache now covered in chocolate.
“You’ll meet her.” Katie went on to list at least a dozen more names. “And Cheryl will be here tonight. Oh, and Sam. She stayed with Tim last night, and they’ll be here soon, I think.”
Joey and Katie went on joking and flirting with each other like young lovers, but I no longer followed their banter. I felt nauseated. The cake sat heavy in my belly. Sam was coming with Tim. So that was it. Spending the weekend with friends. Lying bitch. Why couldn’t she just tell me straight?
Why do women lie? Had she been leading me on, knowing I was falling for her? I felt dizzy, like the life was lifting out of my body, leaving it to die like a wounded animal. I played with my cake, hardly touching it.
“Eat up, Matt,” I heard Katie’s voice. “Looks like you need a little extra weight on you.”
“He chatters like a chipmunk, eats like a bird. Needs Katie’s kitchen treatment,” added Joey.
I hated them both with a vengeance. There must be a way to drive back to the city. I’d find some excuse. Seeing Sam, after all my protestations of love, was a humiliation I didn’t need. Joey glanced at me. His expression gave nothing away, but I knew he knew.
“Well, can’t idle away the day,” bustled Katie. “Show Matt the room upstairs, my darlin’, and I’m going to cook you a meal you’ll remember until you’re an old man.”
Joey led me outside again to get my stuff. I looked at the ground; my skin felt raw. Joey said nothing, just walked by my side back to the car. We got the bag. On our way back to the house, he started in slowly.
“This is it, see. This is what has to be seen. This is where the rubber meets the road. You can have peaks and feelings of freedom, but this is where you find out how deep it goes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me she was with someone?” I protested. “You could see I liked her. I’ve had so much loss and disappointment. Why did you leave me in a place where you knew I’d fall?”
Joey looked at me intently as we walked back to the house.
“Keep going,” he said. “What else do your thoughts say?”
I hated him for this. I hated his total lack of any reaction.
“I don’t know. I feel like everything I touch just goes sour right away. There’s no hope.”
He led me back into the living room. George Gurdjieff was napping again. Katie must have gone out the back door, for the house was quiet. Joey motioned me to the leather chair by the fire and sat down on the sofa.
“Keep going,” he said. “Tell me everything that seems true.”
His eyes never left me for a moment. As I softened into the chair, for the first time I felt the sinking sorrow in my chest.
“Love always goes away. I feel like it’s all a tease. I loved my parents; they died. I loved my wife, but when I made a big mistake she left me. I love my kids, but I barely know them now when I talk to them on the phone.” My throat was tight and dry.
“Keep going,” said Joey. “Keep going. What’s the core that you feel?”
“I don’t know. No one loves me. Everybody leaves me.” The room felt cold. My back ached. I wanted home so bad, and had none.
“Good. Just say that. ‘Everybody leaves me.’ Just keep saying that.”
“Say what?” I felt like an idiot.
“Say those words again, ‘Everybody leaves me.’ Keep saying them, and feel your body.”
I was repeating it mechanically, muttering and looking at the floor. “Everybody leaves me … everybody leaves me.” Was he just trying to make a fool of me?
“Good.” said Joey. “Now, where do you feel that in the body as you say it?”
“I don’t feel anything,” I muttered. But his eyes were piercing. They would not let me off the hook. Reluctantly, I put my hand on my chest. “I guess I feel heavy here.”
“Keep your hand there, and go on saying the words.”
I kept repeating them.
“Everything you think, everything you feel, has underneath it a vibration, a frequency, like a piece of music. That Mahler thing you liked, it changes your feeling, doesn’t it? It has a vibration to it. Can you feel the vibration of ‘everybody leaves me’?”
It took me a little while to recognize what he was talking about. I really didn’t want to feel anything at all. But there it was anyway, the buzzing in my chest, the nausea, the hatred for anything alive.
“Yes, I can feel it.”
“How strong is it?” asked Joey.
“Not really strong. It’s there.”
“Good, okay. Now you’ve been fighting this and resisting it all your life. The last thing you’ve ever wanted to feel is that everybody whom you love leaves you. Instead of pushing it away, try to make the feeling stronger.”
It was a strange request, alien to my instinct, but I tried it anyway. Nothing happened. I wanted more than anything to get back in the car. But then it started, a trickle at first. I could feel his eyes on me, like a coach with his rookie. It came in pulses and waves through my body, a thick heavy blanket of pain.
“How strong is it now?”
“Stronger.”
“Good. Can you make this more?”
A whirlpool drew me into its center. As it pulled me down into a dark cave of despair, I could hear Joey’s voice, as though far away, encouraging me on.
“Keep going. Keep going. Keep intensifying what you’ve been running away from all your life. How strong is it now?”
“It’s very strong,” I gasped. I was shocked. My body convulsed, quite beyond my choice or control, making strange noises and jerks. But that was all on the outside. Inside I was being pulled deep into the darkness, to the place that Mahler must have known so well.
“Keep going,” said Joey. “Keep going. Don’t stop now. Let it take you over so there’s nothing left.”
I did as he said. Soon my whole body was in spasm. I was hardly breathing. I felt almost ready to burst.
“Can you have any more?” he asked. “Is there any possible way to make this more?”
“No!” I gasped.
“Then relax completely, let go.”
I did as he said. I fell back into the chair.
“Good,” said Joey. “Relax. Fall back into yourself. Try to find yourself now. Fall back and try to find the one who feels.”
I fell into deep relief, as an athlete might on crossing the finish line. Just as on the first night when I had met Joey; it was a falling back into nothing, as though into infinite, empty space. Silence.
“Good,” said Joey. “Good. When you look for yourself in this way, what do you find?”
I did not answer. But he must have known.
“Just let yourself be nothing. Allow yourself to be the space that you are.
“Now bring your hand back to your chest where you’ve been feeling it, and tell me what’s here.”
I did as he said. To my surprise, it was absolutely still. I reached out, trying to recapture my pain, but it had been stolen, leaving an empty space where it rightly belonged.
“Nothing,” I whispered.
“Good,” said Joey, and chuckled. “Now say it again; say the words again, Everybody leaves me.”
“I don’t want to.” I was sprawled back in the arms of the chair now.
“Do it anyway.” His voice was piercing, firm.
“Everybody leaves me.” It was hard to say, it sounded mechanical.
“How does it sound to you now?” asked Joey.
“Just words.” I didn’t want to speak. “Just empty words, it means nothing.”
“Good. Now say the opposite. Say, ‘Ev
erybody stays forever.’” I did as he said. “Now how does that sound?”
“More words.”
“Good,” said Joey, “Good. All a story; very good. Now open your eyes and tell me again about Sam.”
It was a shock to hear her name; I had forgotten all about her. And it was a shock, too, to discover that her name, too, was just a word. I tried anyway.
“She knew that I liked her, and now I find out there’s this guy Tim. I feel she misled me.” I was feeling bored by my own story.
“Good. Is it just Sam who has deceived you?”
“No,” I said. “Many women have done that.” Did we have to go there?
“Try saying, ‘I can’t trust women.’”
I went through all the steps with Joey again: repeating it, finding it in my body, building it up till I was writhing, and falling back into deep relaxation. By the end of each cycle, the statement had become meaningless.
Every time we were done with another frequency, he asked me again about Sam, and probed and teased and provoked until I came up with another sentence: “I’m all alone”; “Nobody cares about me”; “It’s all too much.” Each time we went through, it became easier and quicker to let go. Finally, there was nothing left. I was just in the room. Even Joey seemed different to me. Things were completely still; even in their moving, things were still. Joey spent about half an hour with me in this way.
“Life becomes blessing, when nothing means anything anymore,” he then said, so quietly I had to strain to hear him. He took a deep breath. “Everybody runs around their whole lives, on automatic, trying to avoid feeling stuff. I met a man once who’d worked hard his whole life. Gotten up before dawn, got to the office by eight, worked like a dog from dawn to dusk. When I met him he had one of the most successful construction companies in the state. Founded the company private, he did, no shareholders or nothing. He was worth two hundred million. And what frequency do you suppose was running, that man? What was it that got him out of bed before dawn every morning?”
I shrugged.
“There’s not enough,” he grinned. “That poor bastard wasted his whole life trying to not face a simple feeling. Even with hundreds of millions of dollars in the bank, it didn’t free him from what he refused to feel. The week I met him, we did what we’ve just done here. Took no more than half an hour. A week later he handed the entire company over to his employees, made them all shareholders, and began for the first time to enjoy his life and relax.” He looked intently into me. “Every human being is running away from something they don’t want to feel. If you’re running away from ‘I’m weak,’ you can go to the gym all you like and build pecs so big you’ll need to wear a bra, but none of it makes any difference until you face the dark caves in your own mind. If you avoid your own fears you fill your life with endless distraction.”
The Last Laugh Page 14