Why Aren't You Smiling? (20 page)

Rick felt a bit ashamed of his fibbing, but it was for a good cause, so what could it hurt? Everyone was looking at him as if there should be more. Casting about wildly for something with which to embellish his story, he went on. “And though I didn't know where we were heading, I did know that it was to a place, a beautiful place, called… Pleroma.”

Pleroma. Pleroma? Pleroma. The word echoed on everyone's lips. Rick suddenly wished he'd chosen a different name. Pleroma sounded like a cheap ladies' perfume or maybe a rare variety of lung infection.

“What does it mean?” asked Bob.

“The dream didn't say, but I looked it up. It means the Infinity of God.”

Beth, who had half a degree in theology, corrected him. “Actually, it's ancient Greek for the Totality of the Divine. It's also understood as a place of light existing above creation. Some people believe there are entities called Aeons who self-emanate from this realm of light, manifesting on our plane.”

“Angels?” asked Susan.

“Not exactly,” said Beth. “Some believed that Jesus and a female counterpart called Sophia, or wisdom, were Aeons.”

Bob twitched. “A female counterpart to Jesus? That's freakin' weird.”

“All divinity has a male and female aspect,” declared Beth.

“Yeah,” said Susan. “Why not?” She turned to Rick. “Right?”

Rick thought fast. “God doesn't have a body, so… no body, no gender.”

“I guess that makes sense,” said Bob, still doubtful.

Beth was slightly put out. “But by having no gender and encompassing every thing, God contains all the aspects that we humans with our limited consciousness define as male and female.”

“Sure, absolutely,” agreed Rick, impatient with Beth's theological hair splitting. “But right now, we have to focus on the task before us. We're going to plant a new seed in God's garden. We will found the People's Christian Community of Pleroma!”

I
'd only been home a few days before my memories of Oregon took on the hazy cast of a poorly remembered dream. This suited me just fine as I had no desire to dwell on my humiliating failure to connect with Rick. I wanted only to forget, and reveled in my dull routine of dog walking, family meals, reading, wandering, and watching TV. Soon enough, though, I fell prey to crushing summer boredom. I'd quit my paper route, Kai was out of town, and there were too many hours in the day. Salvation came, as it so often did, between the covers of a book found in Danny's library. Every page of
Siddhartha
made my head spin with excitement. I'd read a couple of Herman Hesse's other novels,
Steppenwolf
and
Demian,
but this was surely his best, an absolute goldmine of metaphysical insight. The book was loosely based on the story of the real Siddhartha, an Indian prince who'd gone on a spiritual quest and eventually become The Buddha. In Hesse's version, Siddhartha first becomes a wanderer, then a world-renouncing ascetic, then a successful lover (taught by the beautiful courtesan, Kamala), businessman, and father. Finally he renounces worldly success to become a simple ferryman who converses with stones and chats with the river. In this last, humble station he finally attains enlightenment by detaching from Samsara, the illusory world of suffering and striving. The Truths of the novel struck me as profound and indisputable. I could scarcely believe I'd ever been so juvenile as to adopt Jesus and Jonathan Livingston Seagull as my spiritual gurus. I was a Buddhist, no ifs, ands, or buts.

Of course, I'd known about Buddhism before, but I'd never found it appealing due to a statue that sat in the corner of my family's favorite Chinese restaurant. It depicted a morbidly obese Buddha with his face contorted into an idiot grin as his bloated stomach poured out of an open robe – how Santa Claus might look at a swingers' party after a few too many highballs. Hesse's Siddhartha, by contrast, was slim and serene. The book's cover showed a statue of him sitting in a lotus position (something I'd never mastered on account of my chubby thighs) with an expression of heavy-lidded tranquility.

I briefly considered changing my name to Govinda after Siddhartha's trusted companion. The name, to my ears, conjured images of a mystically slender and dusky-hued Indian lad with a winsome smile and huge doe eyes brimming with compassion. Being plump and pale as tapioca pudding, I didn't really look like a Govinda, but spiritually it certainly fit me better than Leonard. Leonards lived in suburbs and sold real estate, while Govindas wandered through forests and experienced transcendental unity with the cosmos. Such a rechristening would never fly at school or home, but I could almost just imagine introducing myself that way at the Inner Peace Metaphysical Bookstore. Perhaps the next time I made a purchase, I'd finish the transaction with a casual, “Hey, I'm Govinda. Nice shop you have here.” Or should I be more solemn? “Namaste. I am Govinda. I thank you for this book.”

Of course, I could never really say either. The three clerks, the older man with the interesting vest and the two preternaturally calm young women, were intimidatingly aloof. No matter how long I spent in their store, they never chatted and they certainly never asked my name. In fact, nobody ever asked my name. Perhaps there was a spiritual possibility lurking in that. I could be nameless, a boy with no name. I envisioned the scene: I ride my chestnut-colored horse into a dusty town. A grizzled prospector type with a sawed-off shotgun barks at me from the weather-beaten porch of a trading post. “Who goes there?” He sees that I am but a boy. “What's your name, son?” I stare back with guileless eyes. “I have no name.”

Before I could expand my fantasy, the intercity bus I was riding pulled into the terminal, an enormous gray cement monstrosity teeming with pigeons and harried commuters. I got off and made my way to the street exit. There, I paused. I'd been to the city before, of course, but it had always been with my parents on a visit to a specific destination like a museum or department store. My intention that day was different: I would wander amongst Humanity, just as Siddhartha had, beginning my epic quest for Enlightenment. I'd brought no map – I was a spiritual pilgrim, not a tourist – and would trust The Universe to guide me. This could well be the most momentous day of my life!

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 exchanged 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.