by Alvin Orloff
Outside, under a blazing summer sky of purest blue, the city streets throbbed with activity. People clamored on and off ancient green and yellow streetcars, dashed obliviously into the honking traffic, and strode purposefully down the sidewalk carrying briefcases or lugging shopping bags. Trash, graffiti, billboards, and soot blighted every inch of the already unlovely urban landscape. Nobody stopped to smell the roses because there were no roses. Clearly, this was a place where humanity’s nobler aspirations had been thoroughly subjugated to petty ego striving – an anti-garden devoted to the cultivation of selfishness, anger, fear, hate, and greed. I could almost hear the afflicted souls of the people around me crying out in pain.
And yet, the city also filled me with hope. Embedded in the very fabric of this foreboding metropolis was the promise of rebirth. The city was a chaotic Yin to the suburbs’ orderly Yang, and its danger and ugliness were small inconveniences compared to the opportunity it presented for spiritual development. Here, amidst Samsara, was where I belonged. On these mean streets I would wrest wisdom from disorder and despoliation. The city was ugly, and yet it was also unspeakably beautiful, a sinful cesspool in which I would submerge myself as a form of self-baptism and reemerge transformed into an avatar of Love.
I randomly decided to follow a middle-aged woman in a sensible blue skirt suit marching purposefully towards the gleaming towers of the business district. What was going through her mind? I couldn’t even imagine. After a few blocks, she stopped, looked up once at the azure sky, sighed, and plunged herself through the revolving doors of a highrise. I paused. Would I be allowed into a building where I had no business? It didn’t matter whether I would be or not, an unknown force compelled me to enter the lobby. It felt as if someone were moving my legs for me, as if I were a human marionette.
Inside the cool, quiet lobby, the woman I’d been following was gone. I walked past a set of sleek chairs and an abstract modern sculpture towards a bank of elevators on the back wall. Before I got there I was stopped by a voice. “Hey, you!” Directly to the left of the door was desk at which sat a security guard. He pointed to a visitor’s log. I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment and wanted to run, but the same force that had pushed me into the building guided me over to the desk. In the log’s columns for name, time of entry, and business, I wrote Govinda, 1:30 pm, Samsara. I smiled at the guard, but he’d buried himself in a newspaper and didn’t notice. I went back to the elevators and boarded one of the upward bound cubicles. Just as the door was closing a woman ran in and pressed the button marked eleven. “Your floor?” she asked, her hand hovering over the elevator buttons. The force directing my actions spoke for me. “Twelve.” There were twelve apostles, twelve signs of the zodiac, twelve months. Twelve was an auspicious number.
On the twelfth floor I found the office marked 1212. I’d have preferred it were 121212 as three was also a mystically charged number, but no such office existed. Twelve-twelve would have to do. The door was labeled Liebegott Electrical Supply. The sense of being directed by something beyond my own will intensified so that I felt myself nearly in a trance. I pushed through the door into an antiseptic waiting room, empty except for the receptionist, a frosty-haired woman in late middle age peering at a fashion magazine through tiny glasses. As the door clicked shut behind me she looked up from her desk. “Addison delivery?”
I panicked. “No, I have the wrong office.” She grunted and returned to her magazine. The panic faded. I cleared my throat to get her attention. “Could I maybe ask you a question?”
She looked up again. “Shoot.”
“What do you think is the purpose of life?”
“What?” She paused and a hint of a smile graced her scarlet lips. “You pulling my leg?”
“No, just soliciting your opinion.” I suppressed a tinge of ego-tripping pride at my clever use of the word “soliciting.”
“What? How the hell should I know? Are you on something?”
I felt myself flush with embarrassment. “No.” I examined her face to see how much I could safely reveal. She looked more puzzled than hostile. “I’m on a quest for the Truth. I want to understand Life and Reality and God, if there is one.”
The woman fixed me with a steely glare, took a sharp breath. “Let me tell you something, kid.” She stabbed the air in front of her with a pencil as she spoke. “Those kinda questions lead to nothing but trouble. I got a sister. Bright girl. College grad. We all thought she was gonna make something of herself. But she used to get all wound up about life and the cosmos and like that and married this guy, Dan. Fruity beatnik character with mismatched socks. Allergic to work. She supported him, even after they got themselves two little hungry mouths to feed. I said to her, ‘Girl, you’re living in la-la land. This fellow is a bum.’ No, she says, he’s not a bum, he’s a philosopher. He understands her. He’s doing important research. Well, shortly after that, Mr. Philosopher ODs. Do you know what that means?”
“Overdoses,” I winced, embarrassed by her sharp, accusatory tone, though still grateful for the attention she was lavishing on me.
“Right. You think he left her anything? You think she has two cents to her name? She works two jobs. Rents. Doesn’t have time for all that spiritual mumbo jumbo any more. Doesn’t even go to church on Sunday.”
I put on a grave face. “I’m sorry.”
“You know who’s sorry? She’s sorry. And what about you? Look at yourself. You got holes in your pants.” I looked down at my jeans. I thought they looked better all ripped up and tattered. “You wanna find God fine, but first take care of the basics. We all look up at the stars and wonder sometimes, but you still gotta pay the rent.”
There was a moment of silence. She was done. “Thank you for sharing your wisdom,” I said. My brain felt frozen by her dressing down.
“Take care of basics,” she repeated, pleased with the sound of her advice.
“Yes, thank you.” My brain unfroze a little and I found myself slightly angry. She would never have addressed an adult with such condescension. In her eyes I was a stupid kid.
The secretary picked up her magazine. “Any time.” Her tone indicated that I was dismissed. She began reading, or rather pretending to. Her eyes peeked above the magazine, no doubt to make sure I left.
I fled the office and stood in the long hallway. The space was lit by fluorescent-lights that shone off the white walls and white linoleum floor, creating a cold luminosity that was little more than a cruel parody of Mother Nature’s benevolent golden sunshine. I had envisioned Samsara as something dark, but clearly it could be bright, too. And sad – the secretary was so terribly enslaved to the false god of money! She toiled at a meaningless job eight hours a day with nothing more to distract her than a glossy magazine full of diet tips and movie star gossip. Nor was she alone. Throughout this whole building, this temple of Moloch, were other workers shackled to typewriters, adding machines, and computers, all selling their soul for the Almighty Dollar. And the greedy executives on the penthouse floor – were they not the most enslaved of all?
I rode the elevator down, signed out, and exited onto the street. It felt good to be outside again; the office building had induced a claustrophobia I hadn’t noticed till it was gone. I walked briskly and aimlessly, my thoughts buzzing with all the arguments I’d read that contradicted the receptionist’s materialistic viewpoint. This one-sided mental debate didn’t end until I found myself a few blocks from the office district on what looked to be Skid Row. I stopped in front of a pawnshop, its window displaying radios, guitars, knives, and a set of collectable plates depicting historical monuments. Things, things, things! How sad that so many lonely and unfulfilled people were trying to fill their spiritual void with clutter. I moved on.
The next store window displayed adult magazines and XXX movie posters. The nearly nude women depicted all had come-hither looks in their blue eye-shadowed eyes as they suggestively sucked lollipops, pouted childishly, or preened like Vanity personified. Though I’d exchang
ed free-form Christianity for a syncretic blend of Buddhism and psychedelia, I couldn’t help but think of Mary Magdalene. I imagined Jesus, who still looked a lot like Rick in my imagination, speaking gently with these harlots, convincing them to wipe off their makeup and step out of their platform boots so they could romp on the grass barefoot with the wind in their hair. And what of the dirty old men in trenchcoats who patronized such women? Weren’t they enslaved by their lust? The word “lust” took my mind to a place I preferred not to go, so I shut it off and kept walking.
A block or so later I came upon a shabby residence hotel with giant plate glass windows revealing a dim lobby. Inside, a male desk clerk sat sequestered behind an iron grill making little marks on a newspaper, perhaps picking horses or doing the crosswords. The bulk of the space, though, was devoted to a lounge in which a half-dozen elderly folks sat smoking, reading newspapers, and chatting in the overstuffed armchairs. One man in particular caught my eye. He wore an old suit from an earlier era with a natty bowtie, his thinning silver hair neatly parted and slicked back as if he’d just come from the barber. What really set him apart was that he sat utterly motionless with a scowl on his craggy face, as if he could see death coming for him. Again, an outside force (the marionette master) directed me to open the hotel door and go inside.
A few of the old people stared my way with expressions midway between fear and distaste as I entered their lounge. I walked up to the man waiting for death and crouched down so that my eyes were on the same level as his. He turned his head and glared at me, alarmed and angry. “You’re not getting any money from me, Sonny.”
“I’m not after money,” I explained. “I seek wisdom.”
“Get the hell out,” ordered the man gruffly. He sounded not so much scared or angry as exhausted.
A woman in a floral dress seated a few feet away peered over at me and scowled. “Leave Fred alone. Just go.”
Fred turned to her and nearly barked, “I can take care of myself.” He turned back to me. “Wisdom, huh?” Usually when seated people turn, their body twists a little, but Fred was utterly immobile from the neck down. I wondered if he suffered from some form of paralysis. “I got yer wisdom for you right here. You listening?”
“Yes,” I said, trying to convey my sincerity with an expression of respectful attention.
“Don’t take any wooden nickels.” Fred convulsed with laughter that sounded like a cross between rasping and choking.
The woman who’d asked me to leave Fred alone produced a sickly smile. “We’re not scared of you,” she said.
Fred was still laughing.
Majorly creeped out, I stood up. “Namaste,” I said with a little bow. It felt good knowing that the man probably wouldn’t understand the word.
“Fly away, little birdie,” said the woman dismissively. She made shooing motions with her hands, as if I were a pigeon.
The marionette master marched me out the door. I stood immobile trying to wrap my head around what had just gone down, but was distracted by my surroundings. On the corner was a wooden kiosk with a man inside selling newspapers. Could he be the modern American equivalent of a humble ferryman? A bosomy woman in a low-cut dress came out of a donut shop holding a little white bag. Was she a worldly-wise courtesan like Kamala? And those two furtive men conducting some sort of illicit transaction in the alley adjacent the hotel, what wisdom would they have to impart?
Before I (or the marionette master) could devise a plan of action, a voice addressed me from the sidewalk. “Spare change?”
I looked down to see a fellow with a gray-tinged beard huddled in the doorway of a boarded-up shop. His eyes were rheumy and his voice slurry from drink. Next to him sat a desiccated and disheveled Black man wearing a fedora at a rakish angle.
I compassionately dug a quarter out of my pocket and handed it over. “Here,” I said and then, wanting to imbue the crass commercial transaction with some spiritual uplift, added, “Spend it wisely.” I recognized right away that this sounded impertinent but was still shocked when the man made a sour face and threw the quarter into the street.
“Go fuck yourself,” he muttered.
“What you do that for?” The fedora man elbowed him and pointed to the street. “Quarters grow on trees? You pick that up.”
“Fuuuuck you,” groaned the bearded man, slowly shutting his eyes as if the sight of the world were too much for his delicate sensibilities.
The fedora man looked up at me. “Hey, white boy, go get that quarter.” There was no hostility in his request, but the reminder of my race and its shameful history sent me scurrying into the street. I found the quarter and dropped it into his outstretched palm. “Thanks. Right kind of you,” said the man, nodding.
“Don’t mention it,” I said hastily. I started to walk off, but then remembered my quest and turned back to the seated pair.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what do you think the meaning of life is?”
“Get right with Jesus,” declared the fedora man, not missing a beat.
“Fuck Jesus,” muttered the bearded man. He took the quarter from his friend’s hand and added it to a pile of change he produced from his pocket and started counting with an unhappy scowl.
Fedora man frowned at his friend. “You goin’ to Hell for that.”
I’d never liked the idea of Hell. “You believe Jesus loves everyone, right?”
“Sure thing,” said fedora man.
“And you believe Jesus is God, right?”
Fedora man shook his head up and down. “Absolutely, praise the Lord.”
“So God Loves everyone?”
The bearded man snorted, but fedora man paused, gave this some serious consideration, then finally declared, “Well, now, as it happens, I suppose that I do believe that God Loves everyone.”
“If He Loves your friend, how could He send him to Hell?”
Fedora man chuckled. “You ask good questions!”
“Or what if God doesn’t just Love everyone, but is Love. Or what if He isn’t just Love, but everything that is, the sum totality of all consciousness…”
Before I could finish, the bearded man poured the change into his friend’s hand. “We got enough.”
“Thank the Good Lord,” said fedora man. He pocketed the change and with great effort stood up. I wanted to offer my hand and help him, but couldn’t make myself. He looked dirty and smelled foul. Oh, the shame! In my next life, I’d surely be reincarnated as a beggar.
“Take care now, Sonny,” said fedora man, hobbling toward a nearby liquor store.
“Peace be with you,” I replied.
The bearded man looked disgusted. “Fuck you both!” As he spoke, fedora man tripped and stumbled to his knees. This time it was instinctive. I trotted to his side and helped him up by the arm. He felt incredibly light, as if, under his shabby trenchcoat he were constructed of chicken bones and newspapers.
“Thank you right kindly,” said the man, tipping his hat with old-fashioned courtesy. As he went inside the store I could almost feel my karmic burden lighten. I was aiding the afflicted! The next order of business was finding a sink – for though I’d only touched the man’s coat, I felt an overpowering compulsion to wash my hands. I began jaywalking towards a greasy spoon across the street, but noticed a sign in the window stating Restroom for Customers Only. I shifted directions toward the Greyhound bus terminal, a few doors over. Inside, I located their gargantuan, dingy, white-tiled bathroom. At the nearest sink I scrubbed my hands vigorously with the unnaturally fragrant pink soap and hot water till I was sure of being cootie-free. I felt mildly ashamed of my own disgust but consoled myself that cleanliness was, after all, next to godliness.
Safely sanitary once more, I exited the terminal just in time to see fedora man emerge from the liquor store pulling the cellophane off a pack of cigarettes. My heart plummeted. I’d aided him all right… aided him in purchasing the instruments of his own death! Oh, I had so many lessons to learn. I knew that all consciousne
ss was One, and our individual psyches were only temporarily separated in order to be perfected through reincarnation. Every spirit would lead every life in the infinite universe, learning new lessons each time. I was probably a Young Soul, in need of many more lives before I could rejoin the cosmic unity. Not that I wasn’t really already part of it. The separation was an illusion, as was time. That part of Jonathan Livingston Seagull had been right. We’re all of us already everywhere, but just don’t know it.
My ruminations were interrupted by the screech of a car swerving to miss me. I’d walked right into the street without looking! I smiled an apology to the driver, a young woman glaring at me with undisguised fury. She drove off, cursing me under her breath. I was racking up bad karma at an alarming rate! Suddenly, the marionette master took over. My body felt turbo-charged as I set off randomly, walking, walking, walking. Eventually I found myself in a residential neighborhood full of dilapidated Victorian houses and rundown apartment blocks. Despite their peeling paint and rusty railings, I preferred these to modern buildings as they had Soul. Evening fell and still I kept walking, enjoying the subtle thrill of being alone at night on the streets of a city my parents considered dangerous.
When my stomach began growling, I found a corner store and bought a tuna sandwich wrapped in cellophane and a Coke. I went outside and sat a bus stop bench to eat. As I did, I pondered the city around me. I was now in a lively district full of bars, restaurants, and boutiques catering to hip, young adults. All around were groups of people looking busy and cheery. Perhaps I envied them, just a little, but far better to be a Lonesome Wanderer seeking Truth than some outwardly happy zombie living an unexamined life in which bustle and striving took the place of wisdom and contentment.
As I finished my sandwich, I caught sight of a boy just a few years older than me walking across the street. His profile was exceptionally noble, resembling an illustration of young King Arthur from one of my favorite childhood storybooks. He wore tight denim flairs, a skimpy sleeveless tee-shirt with no jacket, and his long, dishwater blond hair was pulled back in a short ponytail. I was hit with an emotional tidal wave. This boy was no different than me, but he was poor. He would go home not to a cozy well-furnished house with a backyard, but a shabby apartment. And given his hair and demeanor of self-possessed street savvy, he was much cooler than I was. He probably slept naked and had a nickname.