The Buddha and the Novelist
“Did you feel that?” he asked in a gravelly voice that revealed a lifetime’s association with cigarettes.
I marked my place in the book I was reading with my finger. “Did I feel what?”
“The cosmic pull between us?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said examining his eyes for signs of madness.
“I think you felt it.”
When I’d looked up and saw him staring at me from a neighboring table, I'd made the mistake of smiling at him.
“It was of course inevitable that we would meet.”
“I guess so,” I said, clearing the tension out of my throat with a laugh.
“You have a pleasant sounding laugh.”
“Thank you.”
“Very pleasant.”
“Thanks.”
Hoping he would realize I was there to read and not to connect on a cosmic level with a stranger, I looked back down at the sentence my finger was pointing to and pretended to resume reading, forming the words on my lips the way children do to further get my message across. I was reading a book about metaphysics by Aristotle. Earlier in the week I’d had a conversation at a backyard barbeque in Venice Beach with a wilting flower child who had translated the devastation of a recent break up into metaphysical terms. Not only could I not carry on a conversation about metaphysics, and comprehend what the drugs were telling her to say, but if asked, I couldn’t provide an adequate definition of the word. I don’t like getting caught being ignorant, even in front of those who are too busy hallucinating to notice.
The destitute man continued to try and draw me into a conversation.
“I’m a Buddha,” he said.
“Really? I’ve never met a Buddhist before.”
“Not a Buddhist, a Buddha.”
“Oh…I’m sorry.”
“A Buddhist is trying to find his way, but I’ve already found mine, so I’m a Buddha.”
“Okay.”
“What are you doing right now?” he asked, shifting his eyes down to my book.
“Just doing a little reading.”
I held up the book so he could see the title.
“And what do you do for a living?”
“I do a lot of things, but mostly I'm a writer.”
“Have you written a novel?”
“No. Not yet.”
“No. I knew you hadn’t.”
“You did?”
“Of course.”
“How did you know I hadn’t written a novel?” I asked, taking a sip of my coffee to fortify myself against his growing intrusiveness.
“I knew because I’m a writer, too. I’m currently writing a trilogy that has several major motion picture stars attached to it. We’re going to begin filming next fall at a destination yet to be determined.”
He was definitely out of his mind, but well educated, and still armed with hope against whatever torments he was facing.
“Well, you must be very excited,” I said, allowing myself to indulge a bit in a conversation I thought might have the legs to travel in several imaginative directions.
“I don’t get excited. Excitement doesn’t exist for me.”
“No?”
“No. Of course not. I don’t need excitement to enjoy life.”
As we continued to talk, I tried to study him without giving myself away. He was highly perceptive, and as on guard as a boxer in the ring, and I didn’t want him to feel threatened, and get angry, and put on an embarrassing display. The first thing I'd noticed was that one of his front teeth was encased in gold. It flashed from his mouth and drew my eyes towards it every time he spoke. I figured he must have had some money at some point in the past to be able to afford that gold tooth. His blue eyes, aflame with intensity, were further set off by patches of gray whiskers sprouting unevenly from his gaunt, deeply lined face. A sweat-stained yellow bandana with paisley designs on it was tied around his narrow head giving him an edge that helped to negate his small, bony frame. But the thing that struck me most about him were his hands. They were large and handsomely shaped with long thick fingers, the quality of which were tainted only by the black dirt underneath his fingernails. They looked like the strong, capable hands of a surgeon, and other than his blue eyes, were his most attractive physical trait. He was definitely down for the count, but there had been potential there. Potential he had most likely washed away with alcohol.
“I’m going outside to smoke a cigarette. You should join me…” he said.
I had been peacefully reading for over an hour, and the caffeine that had propelled me into the depths of the incomprehensible subject of metaphysics was beginning to wear off, and leave me feeling drained and tired. So I decided to get some air and humor this poor, lonely guy, who seemed to be trying his best to convince me that he was omnipotent, one of the fortunate ones, instead of one of the unfortunate ones. He was strange and intense, but seemed harmless.
“Sure. Why not?” I said, closing my book. “My eyes are getting tired, I could use a break.”
“There are no breaks. There is only what is happening right now. There are no breaks in time.”
I followed him to the front entrance, and as he held the door open, he looked up at me and said, “Are you ready to begin our journey?”
My startled look was not lost on him or the others inside Abbot's Habit, who had been observing our interaction through peripheral glances, and were glad they had not been the chosen ones.
We went outside and sat down on either side of a wooden table framed by the large front window. The Buddha placed a cigarette between his dried, cracked lips, lit a match, and with his surprisingly steady surgeon’s hands held the small flame to the tip. He then shook out the match and flicked it onto the sidewalk at the feet of an attractive, middle-aged woman passing by. She gave him an angry look, but didn’t dare stop to confront him. Amused, the destitute man took two casual puffs from his fresh cigarette, and then, as if suddenly remembering I was sitting across from him, turned sharply towards me, looked into my eyes, and said: “I can read your soul and I know your destiny.”
I sat up straight and pushed back my shoulders, adopting an appropriate pose for a conversation about my destiny.
“Is it good destiny or a bad destiny?”
He didn’t like my question. “There are no good or bad destinies. There is only what will be. And that is where the truth lies. And I can see the truth, your truth, waiting for you out there in the future.”
“Cool,” I said. I was beginning to realize that no matter what I said he was going to respond in a contradictory way that made me feel spiritually inferior to him.
Just then a 300-pound man, dressed in a rainbow colored cardigan, came out the door holding a steaming cup of coffee. The Buddha watched him veer off to the right along the sidewalk, heading towards the stoplight on California Avenue.
“I like your sweater!” he called out to the man.
The man turned around, but kept his legs in motion, back peddling away from us, embarrassed by the compliment and its source.
“Thank you. I like it, too,” the man said.
“Where’d you get it?” the Buddha asked, raising his voice in proportion to the growing distance between him and the man.
The man continued backing away across the street, not wanting to get pulled into a conversation with what appeared to be a homeless person.
“My wife got it in Mexico!”
“Good for her! She has excellent taste! And what do you do for a living?!”
The man was now more than twenty feet away -- still back peddling.
“I’m a producer!”
“Really?! What do you produce?!”
“Films!”
The Buddha quickly got to his feet.
“Oh, that’s interesting, because I’m currently writing a trilogy about…”
“I gotta go! Have a great night!” the producer yelled, turning his massive frame forward, and hurrying up the sidewalk, passed the glowing lights of the storefronts.
The Buddha moved up the sidewalk a few steps, and shouted: “Wait a minute! I’ve got three major motion picture stars attached to my movies!”
The producer disappeared around the next corner. The Buddha turned and looked at me with a flustered expression on his face, pathetic in contrast to his previously dignified, all-knowing countenance that I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Well, that was interesting,” I said.
“What was interesting about it?” he said, sitting back down at the table.
“I don’t know, I guess he didn’t feel like talking.”
“He said everything he needed to say.”
“He did?”
“Yes. And what he didn’t say, I already knew. More words between us would have been wasteful. I already knew all the answers to all the questions I could have asked him.”
“Cool.”
The Buddha stared at me again. Unnerved by his glaring, hypnotic eyes, I turned away from him, and watched the cars driving past us on Abbot Kinney Boulevard. Several tense moments passed with me staring at traffic and him staring at me. Finally to break the silence I got him to return to the topic of my destiny. Because even though I knew he was delusional, I was still interested to hear what predictions he might make. I’ll listen to anything a friend, stranger, or even a crazy person has to say about my life, as long as they make the future sound promising.
“So, you were about to tell me about my destiny.”
“No. I wasn’t about to tell you anything. Because if I had been about to tell you something, I would have already told it to you.”
“Okay. But I was hoping that maybe you would...”
“If you wish for me to speak now of your destiny I can do so.”
“That would be great.”
He shifted his eyes to the back of a small Latino man, fastening an apron behind his back, as he charged up the sidewalk, apparently late for work.
“You’re going to write a great novel,” the Buddha said.
“Really? Wow.”
Realizing the value of his forecast was somewhere below a palm reader’s, I still couldn’t help but allow myself to enjoy his prediction.
“Do you really think so?”
“I don’t think. I don’t have to think. Because I know,” he said.
I studied his face again, this time looking for signs of clairvoyance.
“Don’t you think you will?” he asked.
“Well, maybe. It’s just that I’ve never thought of myself as being destined to write the next great American novel. I write plays mostly. But, you know, if my destiny is to write novels, then, what am I going to do, that’s my destiny.”
“You will write a novel that is brilliantly conceived and heartbreakingly…(he couldn’t think of another word) and it will be the literary highlight of the century.”
At that moment, a silver Porsche screeched to a halt on the street in front of us, narrowly missing a white Prius pulling out in front of him. The angry driver honked his horn four times at the Prius. The Buddha looked at me and held up four fingers.
“Four?” I said, thinking he was still referring to my destiny and greedily hoping he meant I would write four great novels, instead of just one.
He held up four fingers again and motioned with his head towards the car that had honked its horn.
“Oh you mean that car honked its horn four times? Is that what you mean?”
He nodded his head.
“Do you see some sort of significance in that?”
“There is significance in everything.”
We turned and watched the traffic again. A few moments later, a man on a yellow racing bike pulled up to the curb in front of us. Dressed in full racing gear, he slid off his motorcycle, and walked into the pizza shop next door to the coffee house. The Buddha and I studied his racing bike for a moment. It had the number 04 painted on the side of it. He pointed at the number, turned, and looked at me.
“Four,” I said. “The number four again.”
He narrowed his eyes and nodded his head, as if this proved once and for all that he was in direct communication with the higher powers.
“It’s like metaphysics,” I said, taking advantage of a chance to use the word in a sentence, even though I wasn’t sure I was using it properly.
“It’s not like metaphysics. It is metaphysics,” he said. He paused a moment and then asked: “And what do you know about metaphysics?”
“Not too much. I’ve just started reading about it. Why? Do you know a lot about it?”
“Of course. I know everything there is to know about metaphysics.”
He extinguished his cigarette, flicked the stub into an oily puddle in the street, got to his feet, and peered down at me with his deep set, haunted eyes.
“We should leave now and begin our journey together.”
“Our journey together?”
“Do you own an automobile?”
“Uh…yeah.”
“Is it parked close by?”
“Uh…no.”
“Where is it parked?”
“Over...that way,” I said, gesturing in the opposite direction of where my car was parked.
“Well, if you’ll take me to your car, drive me to an acceptable hotel for the night, and pay for my room, we can begin our journey first thing in the morning.”
I reached across the table for my book.
“Or,” he continued, “Perhaps we can begin our journey later this evening in the hotel dining room, if you’re anxious to get started right away.”
It appeared that in his mind he was Socrates and I was Crito, one of his disciples. I had let him take it too far, believing that I believed in him and his special powers. An immediate escape was necessary.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tonight. I've already got plans.”
“Well, luckily there’s an inexpensive hotel right up the street. It’s only a mile from here. Perhaps you can drop me off there and join me in the morning.”
“I’m sorry. I have to go right away. I have a date,” I said, looking at my watch, and getting to my feet. “But it was a great pleasure meeting you. I really enjoyed our talk.”
“Wait. Where are you going?” he said, his eyes looking panicked and deceived, the way salesman’s do when you break the line just before he can reel you into the boat.
“My girlfriend’s waiting for me,” I said, hurrying off down the sidewalk towards California Avenue.
“Hey! Wait a minute! Hold on a second! Don’t you want me to reveal the mysteries of the universe to you?!”
“Maybe some other time!” I said, turning and back peddling away from him.
“Well, could you at least give me a couple dollars, so I can get something to eat?! I haven’t eaten in two days!”
“Of course,” I said, walking back to him, and taking out my wallet.
He held out his large, capable, surgeon’s hand, and I pressed a five dollar bill into it's palm.
“Thank you…” he said, his fingers snapping closed around the money.
“You’re welcome. It was wonderful--”
“…FOR WASTING MY FUCKING TIME!” he said, getting to his feet and prancing away up the sidewalk and into the pizza shop.
\
“Did you feel that?” he asked in a gravelly voice that revealed a lifetime’s association with cigarettes.
I marked my place in the book I was reading with my finger. “Did I feel what?”
“The cosmic pull between us?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said examining his eyes for signs of madness.
“I think you felt it.”
When I’d looked up and saw him staring at me from a neighboring table, I'd made the mistake of smiling at him.
“It was of course inevitable that we would meet.”
“I guess so,” I said, clearing the tension out of my throat with a laugh.
“You have a pleasant sounding laugh.”
“Thank you.”
“Very pleasant.”
“Thanks.”
Hoping he would realize I was there to read and not to connect on a cosmic level with a stranger, I looked back down at the sentence my finger was pointing to and pretended to resume reading, forming the words on my lips the way children do to further get my message across. I was reading a book about metaphysics by Aristotle. Earlier in the week I’d had a conversation at a backyard barbeque in Venice Beach with a wilting flower child who had translated the devastation of a recent break up into metaphysical terms. Not only could I not carry on a conversation about metaphysics, and comprehend what the drugs were telling her to say, but if asked, I couldn’t provide an adequate definition of the word. I don’t like getting caught being ignorant, even in front of those who are too busy hallucinating to notice.
The destitute man continued to try and draw me into a conversation.
“I’m a Buddha,” he said.
“Really? I’ve never met a Buddhist before.”
“Not a Buddhist, a Buddha.”
“Oh…I’m sorry.”
“A Buddhist is trying to find his way, but I’ve already found mine, so I’m a Buddha.”
“Okay.”
“What are you doing right now?” he asked, shifting his eyes down to my book.
“Just doing a little reading.”
I held up the book so he could see the title.
“And what do you do for a living?”
“I do a lot of things, but mostly I'm a writer.”
“Have you written a novel?”
“No. Not yet.”
“No. I knew you hadn’t.”
“You did?”
“Of course.”
“How did you know I hadn’t written a novel?” I asked, taking a sip of my coffee to fortify myself against his growing intrusiveness.
“I knew because I’m a writer, too. I’m currently writing a trilogy that has several major motion picture stars attached to it. We’re going to begin filming next fall at a destination yet to be determined.”
He was definitely out of his mind, but well educated, and still armed with hope against whatever torments he was facing.
“Well, you must be very excited,” I said, allowing myself to indulge a bit in a conversation I thought might have the legs to travel in several imaginative directions.
“I don’t get excited. Excitement doesn’t exist for me.”
“No?”
“No. Of course not. I don’t need excitement to enjoy life.”
As we continued to talk, I tried to study him without giving myself away. He was highly perceptive, and as on guard as a boxer in the ring, and I didn’t want him to feel threatened, and get angry, and put on an embarrassing display. The first thing I'd noticed was that one of his front teeth was encased in gold. It flashed from his mouth and drew my eyes towards it every time he spoke. I figured he must have had some money at some point in the past to be able to afford that gold tooth. His blue eyes, aflame with intensity, were further set off by patches of gray whiskers sprouting unevenly from his gaunt, deeply lined face. A sweat-stained yellow bandana with paisley designs on it was tied around his narrow head giving him an edge that helped to negate his small, bony frame. But the thing that struck me most about him were his hands. They were large and handsomely shaped with long thick fingers, the quality of which were tainted only by the black dirt underneath his fingernails. They looked like the strong, capable hands of a surgeon, and other than his blue eyes, were his most attractive physical trait. He was definitely down for the count, but there had been potential there. Potential he had most likely washed away with alcohol.
“I’m going outside to smoke a cigarette. You should join me…” he said.
I had been peacefully reading for over an hour, and the caffeine that had propelled me into the depths of the incomprehensible subject of metaphysics was beginning to wear off, and leave me feeling drained and tired. So I decided to get some air and humor this poor, lonely guy, who seemed to be trying his best to convince me that he was omnipotent, one of the fortunate ones, instead of one of the unfortunate ones. He was strange and intense, but seemed harmless.
“Sure. Why not?” I said, closing my book. “My eyes are getting tired, I could use a break.”
“There are no breaks. There is only what is happening right now. There are no breaks in time.”
I followed him to the front entrance, and as he held the door open, he looked up at me and said, “Are you ready to begin our journey?”
My startled look was not lost on him or the others inside Abbot's Habit, who had been observing our interaction through peripheral glances, and were glad they had not been the chosen ones.
We went outside and sat down on either side of a wooden table framed by the large front window. The Buddha placed a cigarette between his dried, cracked lips, lit a match, and with his surprisingly steady surgeon’s hands held the small flame to the tip. He then shook out the match and flicked it onto the sidewalk at the feet of an attractive, middle-aged woman passing by. She gave him an angry look, but didn’t dare stop to confront him. Amused, the destitute man took two casual puffs from his fresh cigarette, and then, as if suddenly remembering I was sitting across from him, turned sharply towards me, looked into my eyes, and said: “I can read your soul and I know your destiny.”
I sat up straight and pushed back my shoulders, adopting an appropriate pose for a conversation about my destiny.
“Is it good destiny or a bad destiny?”
He didn’t like my question. “There are no good or bad destinies. There is only what will be. And that is where the truth lies. And I can see the truth, your truth, waiting for you out there in the future.”
“Cool,” I said. I was beginning to realize that no matter what I said he was going to respond in a contradictory way that made me feel spiritually inferior to him.
Just then a 300-pound man, dressed in a rainbow colored cardigan, came out the door holding a steaming cup of coffee. The Buddha watched him veer off to the right along the sidewalk, heading towards the stoplight on California Avenue.
“I like your sweater!” he called out to the man.
The man turned around, but kept his legs in motion, back peddling away from us, embarrassed by the compliment and its source.
“Thank you. I like it, too,” the man said.
“Where’d you get it?” the Buddha asked, raising his voice in proportion to the growing distance between him and the man.
The man continued backing away across the street, not wanting to get pulled into a conversation with what appeared to be a homeless person.
“My wife got it in Mexico!”
“Good for her! She has excellent taste! And what do you do for a living?!”
The man was now more than twenty feet away -- still back peddling.
“I’m a producer!”
“Really?! What do you produce?!”
“Films!”
The Buddha quickly got to his feet.
“Oh, that’s interesting, because I’m currently writing a trilogy about…”
“I gotta go! Have a great night!” the producer yelled, turning his massive frame forward, and hurrying up the sidewalk, passed the glowing lights of the storefronts.
The Buddha moved up the sidewalk a few steps, and shouted: “Wait a minute! I’ve got three major motion picture stars attached to my movies!”
The producer disappeared around the next corner. The Buddha turned and looked at me with a flustered expression on his face, pathetic in contrast to his previously dignified, all-knowing countenance that I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Well, that was interesting,” I said.
“What was interesting about it?” he said, sitting back down at the table.
“I don’t know, I guess he didn’t feel like talking.”
“He said everything he needed to say.”
“He did?”
“Yes. And what he didn’t say, I already knew. More words between us would have been wasteful. I already knew all the answers to all the questions I could have asked him.”
“Cool.”
The Buddha stared at me again. Unnerved by his glaring, hypnotic eyes, I turned away from him, and watched the cars driving past us on Abbot Kinney Boulevard. Several tense moments passed with me staring at traffic and him staring at me. Finally to break the silence I got him to return to the topic of my destiny. Because even though I knew he was delusional, I was still interested to hear what predictions he might make. I’ll listen to anything a friend, stranger, or even a crazy person has to say about my life, as long as they make the future sound promising.
“So, you were about to tell me about my destiny.”
“No. I wasn’t about to tell you anything. Because if I had been about to tell you something, I would have already told it to you.”
“Okay. But I was hoping that maybe you would...”
“If you wish for me to speak now of your destiny I can do so.”
“That would be great.”
He shifted his eyes to the back of a small Latino man, fastening an apron behind his back, as he charged up the sidewalk, apparently late for work.
“You’re going to write a great novel,” the Buddha said.
“Really? Wow.”
Realizing the value of his forecast was somewhere below a palm reader’s, I still couldn’t help but allow myself to enjoy his prediction.
“Do you really think so?”
“I don’t think. I don’t have to think. Because I know,” he said.
I studied his face again, this time looking for signs of clairvoyance.
“Don’t you think you will?” he asked.
“Well, maybe. It’s just that I’ve never thought of myself as being destined to write the next great American novel. I write plays mostly. But, you know, if my destiny is to write novels, then, what am I going to do, that’s my destiny.”
“You will write a novel that is brilliantly conceived and heartbreakingly…(he couldn’t think of another word) and it will be the literary highlight of the century.”
At that moment, a silver Porsche screeched to a halt on the street in front of us, narrowly missing a white Prius pulling out in front of him. The angry driver honked his horn four times at the Prius. The Buddha looked at me and held up four fingers.
“Four?” I said, thinking he was still referring to my destiny and greedily hoping he meant I would write four great novels, instead of just one.
He held up four fingers again and motioned with his head towards the car that had honked its horn.
“Oh you mean that car honked its horn four times? Is that what you mean?”
He nodded his head.
“Do you see some sort of significance in that?”
“There is significance in everything.”
We turned and watched the traffic again. A few moments later, a man on a yellow racing bike pulled up to the curb in front of us. Dressed in full racing gear, he slid off his motorcycle, and walked into the pizza shop next door to the coffee house. The Buddha and I studied his racing bike for a moment. It had the number 04 painted on the side of it. He pointed at the number, turned, and looked at me.
“Four,” I said. “The number four again.”
He narrowed his eyes and nodded his head, as if this proved once and for all that he was in direct communication with the higher powers.
“It’s like metaphysics,” I said, taking advantage of a chance to use the word in a sentence, even though I wasn’t sure I was using it properly.
“It’s not like metaphysics. It is metaphysics,” he said. He paused a moment and then asked: “And what do you know about metaphysics?”
“Not too much. I’ve just started reading about it. Why? Do you know a lot about it?”
“Of course. I know everything there is to know about metaphysics.”
He extinguished his cigarette, flicked the stub into an oily puddle in the street, got to his feet, and peered down at me with his deep set, haunted eyes.
“We should leave now and begin our journey together.”
“Our journey together?”
“Do you own an automobile?”
“Uh…yeah.”
“Is it parked close by?”
“Uh…no.”
“Where is it parked?”
“Over...that way,” I said, gesturing in the opposite direction of where my car was parked.
“Well, if you’ll take me to your car, drive me to an acceptable hotel for the night, and pay for my room, we can begin our journey first thing in the morning.”
I reached across the table for my book.
“Or,” he continued, “Perhaps we can begin our journey later this evening in the hotel dining room, if you’re anxious to get started right away.”
It appeared that in his mind he was Socrates and I was Crito, one of his disciples. I had let him take it too far, believing that I believed in him and his special powers. An immediate escape was necessary.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tonight. I've already got plans.”
“Well, luckily there’s an inexpensive hotel right up the street. It’s only a mile from here. Perhaps you can drop me off there and join me in the morning.”
“I’m sorry. I have to go right away. I have a date,” I said, looking at my watch, and getting to my feet. “But it was a great pleasure meeting you. I really enjoyed our talk.”
“Wait. Where are you going?” he said, his eyes looking panicked and deceived, the way salesman’s do when you break the line just before he can reel you into the boat.
“My girlfriend’s waiting for me,” I said, hurrying off down the sidewalk towards California Avenue.
“Hey! Wait a minute! Hold on a second! Don’t you want me to reveal the mysteries of the universe to you?!”
“Maybe some other time!” I said, turning and back peddling away from him.
“Well, could you at least give me a couple dollars, so I can get something to eat?! I haven’t eaten in two days!”
“Of course,” I said, walking back to him, and taking out my wallet.
He held out his large, capable, surgeon’s hand, and I pressed a five dollar bill into it's palm.
“Thank you…” he said, his fingers snapping closed around the money.
“You’re welcome. It was wonderful--”
“…FOR WASTING MY FUCKING TIME!” he said, getting to his feet and prancing away up the sidewalk and into the pizza shop.
\
