Frank is Emptiness

September 26th, 2017

Karin and I had been in Jules’ house for maybe an hour. It was mid-afternoon when we had arrived at his home. All our stuff was still in our car. We had just been talking and relaxing around his living room table.

He asked us, “Do you want to go to a beach house on the Jersey shore?”

I asked him, “When were you thinking of doing this?”

Jules laughed and said, “Right now.”

“Oooooookay. Let’s go.”

Karin and I got our bags out of the Toyota and threw them into the back of Jules’ minivan. Jules collected some pillows and bedding for the beach house. He also gathered some stuff out of his refrigerator to cook us supper when we got to the Jersey shore. Jules’ van has some miles on it. He has a peace sign on the back along with a sticker that says “War is Terrorism with a Bigger Budget”. True.

Jules drove from Bergenfield through Teaneck to the New Jersey Turnpike. At the entrance to the turnpike is a long row of toll booths. Once you get though the toll, it’s game on. The New Jersey Turnpike is glorious in a Mad Max, post-apocalyptic sort of way. There are seven lanes of traffic going either direction. That is amazing. Chicago isn’t like that. Even Los Angeles isn’t like that. The turnpike is in a class all its own.

We drove southwest for a while, past the Meadowlands, past the cranes of Jersey City on our left and the towers of Newark on our right. Eventually, Jules got on to the Garden State Parkway, which runs through a rural setting near the coast, and does not seem nearly as intense as the turnpike.

We had been on the road for maybe ninety minutes when Jules pointed out some cars ahead of us.

“Those are commuters from the City.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh yeah. Housing is much cheaper when you get far from New York. If you want a nice house, you have to put on some miles. Some people commute to the City from Pennsylvania.”

I tried to imagine that commute. I visualized having a lovely home on the eastern edge of Pennsylvania, and driving all the way across New Jersey to some high stress job in Manhattan. At the end of a long and frustrating day, fighting traffic on the expressway all the way back across New Jersey. I just couldn’t wrap my head around that. There is nothing worth that kind of abuse.

The next day Jules drove us to the Buddhist gathering in Queens. Rose came with us. We left Bergenfield and made our way to the Lincoln Tunnel. There are many lanes of traffic that go toward the Lincoln Tunnel, but only two lanes actually enter it. At a distance from the tunnel, there is a funnel effect. The traffic slowly condensing from multiple lanes to two. That is a sight to behold.

Jules was engaged in the funneling process and Rose was actively encouraging him in his efforts.

She said, “Okay, you’re doing great. Just move to the left, and get in front of that car. There you go! We’re in!”

Rose turned to Karin and myself and said, “Now we wave and smile at the people in the other car!” I’m not sure that they smiled back.

Rose went on, “You have to be aggressive around here. I know that from riding the bike. If you you just wait, nobody will ever let you in.”

She paused for a moment and said, “Maybe ‘aggressive’ isn’t the right word.”

She turned to her dad, “We’re nonviolent, right?”

Jules nodded.

I suggested, “How about ‘assertive’?”

Rose smiled. “Yeah, that’s it! We’re being assertive!”

New York drivers are ruthless. They don’t often use the blinker because it is pointless. The blinker is just a tease. Nobody cares about it.

No, a New York driver gently and calmly nudges his car into the next lane, and then cuts off the poor bastard who has left him a foot of room. Then the lane-changing driver waves and smiles. It’s brutally courteous.

The driver who prefers not have his lane space violated also has options. Rose pointed out a guy in a van near us. “See this guy? He’s pretending that he can’t see us trying to get over. He won’t give us room. That’s kind of polite in a New York sort of way.”

Indeed.

People sometimes use their horns. That was obvious when we were trying merge on to a street from the Jackie Robinson Parkway in Queens. Traffic was completely stalled. No movement. Lots of noise.

On the other hand, I have seen people on streets in New Jersey stop so that somebody coming from the other direction can make a left turn. This is an act of both kindness and necessity. Traffic is often so dense that there is an endless stream of cars going both ways on a road. If somebody doesn’t cut another driver a break, then that other driver will never get to make a left turn.

Overall, the drivers I saw were all competent.

They were just assertive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

September 30th, 2017

Karin and the kids have ADD. They can never find their keys. They sometimes forget appointments. They start doing something, and then get sidetracked for hours with something else. For years I have served as the family memory. I can’t tell you how many times somebody in our house has asked me, “Can you remind of this?”

I never really understood ADD…until we went to Manhattan.

New York City is one enormous distraction. A visit there guarantees sensory overload. There is simply too much happening at once. I found it very difficult to focus when Jules gave us the nickel tour of Manhattan. Of course, some of that could have been the residual effects of the previous evening’s activities.

We had been in Queens at a party with the Buddhists. It went late. A little after 11:00 PM, Jules started shepherding us toward the door. We were saying our goodbyes when Devo rushed out of the kitchen and pleaded for us to stay.

“You guys can’t go yet! I’ve only had one beer! We need to hang out, and talk for a while!”

Jules firmly told Devo that we really needed to be getting home. We had plans to participate in a demonstration at Union Square the next morning. We couldn’t hang around.

I found Devo’s offer to be extremely enticing. I thought, “Oh, hell yeah!” I told Devo that I would be glad to suck his beer and talk shit all night, as long as he could get me to Manhattan in the morning for the protest.

Devo shook his head, “Hey Man, I can’t do that.”

“Then I gots to go.”

The trip from Queens to Manhattan was uneventful. We had to drop off Tracy, Jules’ lady friend, at her apartment before we could go back to New Jersey. Just for the record, Tracy is one of the gentlest and sweetest women I have ever met. She is a wonderful person.

The traffic in Manhattan at midnight had subsided a bit. Rose, Jules’ daughter, saw a couple well-dressed, young women crossing the street in front of us. Rose said,

“They’re ready to go clubbing.”

I asked, “They are starting now?”

Rose turned around in the van and looked at me. “Yeah, why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. Never mind.”

By the way, Rose is a very interesting woman. She is a petite lady, fifty-ish. Rose speaks with a husky voice in a staccato fashion. Rose used to work in her father’s bookstore, and now she works as a teacher’s aide for autistic kids. Rose is also a Harley rider. Seeing as Rose is both a Jersey girl and a biker, I suspect that she has no trouble taking care of herself. She is married to guy named Iggy. Somehow it all fits.

We turned down some side street. I noted the piles of garbage on the curb.

Jules said, “That’s not bad. They might be a little behind picking up. Wait a couple hours for the rats to come out.”

After we dropped off Tracy at her apartment, we only had ten blocks to go before we hit the Lincoln Tunnel that goes under the Hudson River to Jersey. Those ten blocks took two hours to cover. I dozed during most of that time. We arrived home at Jules’ house promptly at 3:00 AM. Sweet.

I woke up at 7:30 or so. I shaved, took a shower, and tried to gather my thoughts. I considered wearing a red t-shirt to match my eyes. Karin got up shortly after that, and we met Jules in his kitchen. Rose showed up at 9:30, and we walked down Main Street to catch the 167T bus to Manhattan.

Jules had instructed me to get the senior’s round trip ticket when we got on the bus. The 167T pulled up to the stop, and Jules got in first. He apparently didn’t trust me to follow his guidance, so he told the bus driver that Karin and I needed senior tickets. The driver gave me a hard stare as she took my money. She gave me that look that says, “You are a fucking liar. You ain’t no goddamn senior.” Well, she gave us our round trip tickets, and we all got over it.

The 167T makes its way slowly from Bergenfield, through Teaneck, and then to the New Jersey Turnpike. From there it goes through the Lincoln Tunnel, and ends up at the Port Authority bus terminal in mid-Manhattan. I have some history with Port Authority. When I was a cadet at West Point, some forty years ago, I used to take the Mohawk bus from the school to New York (I can still smell the diesel fumes). Most of my memories of the Port Authority involve avoiding Hari Krishnas, and stepping over sleeping winos in the bathrooms.

There had been some minor changes to the terminal since I last was in Port Authority. I was shocked to see armed soldiers in the building.

Jules chuckled and asked me, “Doesn’t it make you feel safer?”

“Actually, no.”

Port Authority is a transportation nexus. It is composed of multiple levels of buses, subways, and taxis. There various kiosks and shops. The entire structure is designed to disorient the stranger. Fortunately, Rose and Jules were there to lead Karin and myself through the labyrinth.

Before we embarked on our journey, Karin was adamant that I have my phone on, just in case she lost me in the shuffle. At the time, I didn’t think it was such a big deal. Once we arrived in Manhattan, and descended into the maelstrom of humanity, I could see that Karin had a legitimate concern. It would be so easy to lose somebody in the crowd. Everything and everybody competed for our attention. Even a momentary lapse of attention would result in us becoming separated.

Rose and Jules got us on to the subway train that took us to 14th Street. We climbed up to street level, and even Rose and Jules suffered a moment of confusion regarding our next move. Coming up from the subway is a lot like swimming under water, and then surfacing in an unfamiliar place. Rose got her bearings and we walked along 14th Street toward Union Square. En route, Rose pointed out the Freedom Tower to Karin. The building soared up in the distance.

Union Square is a tiny oasis of green amidst mountains of concrete and stone. As we walked toward it, the first thing I noticed were old black men playing chess and backgammon. Then I heard a Jimi Hendrix wannabe playing electric guitar somewhere in the background. There were numerous kiosks set up around the perimeter of the square. Near the center was a giant equestrian statue of George Washington. There were also some of those strange things called trees.

We got to the park just as the demonstration was starting. The event was organized by the local Catholic Workers, and it was to protest Saudi (and U.S.) involvement in the Yemen civil war. The conflict there has caused famine and a severe cholera epidemic.  A couple people were unfurling a huge banner that said: “Yemen is Starving!”

Jules pointed out an older woman who was holding the banner. He told us, “That’s Martha Hennessey, Dorothy Day’s granddaughter.” Martha didn’t look in any way extraordinary, and I don’t think she would want to look extraordinary. She was just doing her job, following the Gospel as best she can. She put on a costume that made her look like a grieving mother holding a dead child. She walked back and forth in front of the banner.

Jules opened up a flag for Veterans for Peace (Jules is a vet). He stood with some people he knew at the front of the protest line. I moved up and took a spot holding up the banner. It was windy and they needed more bodies to keep the banner steady. Rose went out front to take photos. Tracy met us at the square. Karin wandered through the kiosks and found a yarn seller. Karin has an uncanny ability to find yarn and fiber wherever we go. It’s like a sixth sense.

I felt comfortable just standing there and holding on to the banner. I felt like I was in the eye of hurricane. A swirling mass of people passed before me and around me. It was calming to be motionless in a sea of random motion. All sorts of folks walked past: all ages, all races, all genders. Many of them took pictures. Eventually there were photographers taking pictures of people taking pictures.

Across street was a building with sign that had a series of numbers on it. I think there were twelve digits on the sign. Some numbers changed slowly, some rapidly. It seemed confusing to me. I asked the young man next to me what that was.

He looked at me and replied, “It’s a clock.”

“A clock?”

He laughed, “Yes, a clock. Some people think it’s a Doomsday clock, but it’s just a clock.”

It was only then that I noticed that the digits represented hours, minutes, seconds, and fractions of seconds.

I asked, “What’s your name?”

“Basko.”

“How do you spell that?”

“B-A-S-K-O.”

Basko was from some place far away, but I couldn’t identify his accent. He was my height, with thick, black hair,and very dark eyes. He looked like he might be Indian, but not quite.

One of the Catholic Workers, Carmen, started talking to crowd standing in front of us. Carmen harangued the onlookers with facts about the Saudi bombing and blockade of Yemeni ports. He went on and on about the numerous civilian deaths from air attacks, lack of food, and lack of clean water. I’m not sure who was listening. I suspect that for many people we were just part of the show. We were a new distraction, a slightly different type of entertainment.

It was almost noon, and Karin wanted to get something to eat and drink. I left my post and walked with her to get a smoothie at a Walgreen’s. Then we stopped at one of the street side food stalls. These vendors were all over Manhattan. They all had a big sign on their carts that said, “Halal”. No pork products here. The vendor had kabobs, and he had sandwiches made with chicken or lamb. Karin wanted one of the humongous pretzels that the man was selling. They reminded me of the pretzels we bought many years ago in the Englischergarten of Munich.

When we got back to the banner, Carmen was still going strong. The man has enormous stamina. He was extremely hoarse at this point. People flowed past the banner. Carmen was talking to himself by then. At 1:00 PM the demonstration ended. Carmen gathered the various protesters together to thank everyone for their participation. We dispersed.

The five of us (Tracy, Rose, Jules, Karin, and myself) started walking south along Broadway. We were headed to Mary House, the original Catholic Worker House that sits on 3rd Street, not far from the Bowery. Basko walked with us. He told me that he sometimes helps out at the Catholic Worker House, but that he was going to be busy that afternoon. As we walked through town, we talked. I asked Basko where he was from.

“Nepal”, he replied.

“So, why are you here?”

“There was the civil war, and then the earthquake. We lost 30,000 people, and Nepal only has thirty million. I needed to go.”

I told Basko about how my wife’s father and his family had been refugees at the end of World War II. Basko then described the experience of his grandfather.  The man had been arrested in the Soviet Union back in 1944 for smuggling. Basko’s grandpa was then forced to serve in a penal battalion of the Soviet Army and fight against the Germans. At the end of the war, Basko’s grandfather was in Poland, and somehow he made his way back to Nepal.

Basko laughed, “He came home a dedicated Trotskyite.”

I asked him, “You have Maoists in Nepal, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“So, what exactly is a Maoist?”

Basko shook his head. “A few years ago, I probably would have given you a different answer, but Maoism is basically fascism with a socialist face.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. Look at where the Maoists are: Nepal, India, any place where the Chinese have a strategic interest. The Maoists are just an arm of Chinese ultra-nationalism.”

We came to a small open area. Basko said, “My girlfriend goes to school here”, as he pointed at a building on our left.

He went on, “My girlfriend is Ukrainian. She studies art here. This is the Coopertown Union.”

“How old is she?”

“Nineteen.”

“How old are you?”

He smiled and said, “Twenty.”

We stopped for a moment. Basko said, “I need to wait for her here. I will come to Mary House around 5:30. Will you still be there?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I kind of doubt it.”

We shook hands and said goodbye.

It is easy to miss Mary House. It has a small sign hanging in front of the door. It just looks like another brick building, surrounded by many other such buildings. We got there and tried the front door. It was locked. We found this to be more than a little disappointing.

A man opened the door for us. He wore a knit cap and a heavy coat. He totally had that homeless guy vibe. Apparently, he was the resident greeter/babbler. He spoke nonstop to us after we entered the house. At one point he started telling stories to Tracy, and he hung on to her like a leech.

Mary House looks like a dump. I am not being critical. This is just an observation. The paint is peeling. Everything is old and very well-used. It has a rundown appearance. However, when I think about it, how else should it look? This was Dorothy Day’s home base, and she identified completely with the poor and marginalized. She lived exactly like the people she served. The folks who work there now do the same thing. Mary House is a place that serves the destitute and the forgotten, day after day. It is a place where people live the Beatitudes.

We were escorted to the dining area. Martha was eating a quick lunch. She and Carmen had a meeting to attend in a few minutes. She greeted us and that was about it. Martha is a busy woman, and we showed up at an inopportune time.

Carmen was there too. He was also beginning to eat his meal. He told us to grab some coffee or cake or chocolate that they had on a side table. He decided that he had a few minutes available to show us around.

It was a quick tour. We got to see Dorothy Day’s office. It’s kind of working shrine. I think that people use the space, but it really has her energy there yet. The room has this cluttered appearance, kind of a barely controlled chaos. I suspect that some papers and books have been laying around for decades. For Karin and for me, this was like the end of a pilgrimage. We were in the home of a saint, a saint who was our contemporary.

Carmen also took to their chapel. It’s a small, windowless room. It has rough-looking furniture. The chapel has its own tabernacle for the Eucharist. Apparently, they received papal dispensation to keep it there. There are archives in the chapel. Carmen pulled out one of the original copies of the Catholic Worker newspaper from the 1930’s. It was literally crumbling in his hands as he showed it to us.

After we said goodbye to Carmen, we walked along 3rd Street toward 2nd Ave. There was a swap-and-shop going on nearby. Jules wanted to check it out. We also walked past the national headquarters of the Hell’s Angels. Jules joked with Rose about touching one of the bikes sitting at the curb. Rose told Jules, in no uncertain terms, that if he messed with their Harleys, he was on his own.

We wandered north on 2nd Avenue in search of food. It was mid-afternoon. Jules knew a place. It was the Ukraine East Village Restaurant. We went into a building and found the restaurant in a room partially hidden from view. The dining room had wood paneling all around, and was decorated with traditional, Ukrainian embroidered cloths. The tables and chairs were heavy and solid. It definitely had a European feel to it. The waitresses were dressed in black, and they looked like it would kill them to smile.

We sat down and browsed through the lunch menu. We made our selections, and a sturdy, middle-aged woman with black hair and narrow lips came to take our orders. She eyed us suspiciously. Then she proceeded to treat us to the very best of Soviet-style customer service.

“You, what do you want?” she said to Karin.

Karin said, “I would like the spinach pierogis.”

The waitress looked at Karin coldly, and asked, “Five or seven?”

“What?”

The waitress asked impatiently in her think accent, “Five or seven? Lunch or deener menu?”

Karin laughed nervously, “Oh, the lunch menu. Five.”

“Very guud”, replied the waitress.

She turned to stare at me.

“I’ll have the cheese blintzes.”

“Guud.”

“And you?” she asked Tracy.

“I’ll have the potato pancakes”.

The waitress sighed, and asked, “Five or seven?”

“Five”, answered Tracy quickly.

It went on like this through the rest of the meal. I think that Jules found it all somehow hilarious. I kept asking myself if this woman had learned her people skills in the gulag.

Now, I am myself a Slav. My people came from Slovenia, and I have inherited that dark moodiness that others find so attractive. It’s just weird to be on the receiving end of that.

To be honest, the food there was excellent, and efficiently served. I think that maybe I wouldn’t minded the harshness of the service if I had had a couple beers. There is a reason why Slavs drink.

Jules knew that Karin and I wanted to see St. Patrick’s Cathedral. He had originally suggested that we go there on Sunday. After lunch, he changed his mind and asked if wanted to go there on this excursion. Karin and I were good with that. Jules consulted with Tracy, and they found the subway to take us to 51st Street. The train was packed, absolutely packed full. We were shoe-horned into the car, and then we found out that this particular train was running late and would not stop at our destination. We got off at the next station and got on to the next overfilled train.

We were vomited forth from the train at the 51st Street terminal. We walked to Madison Avenue and entered the church. I will not spend time describing that experience now. Our time in St. Patrick’s deserves its very own essay. Suffice it to say that we attended the evening Mass and walked away from the cathedral in the New York twilight.

We worked our way south and west. We went past the New York Public Library, Bryant Park, and the diamond district. We made our way slowly toward Port Authority and the end of our tour.

But first we had to navigate Times Square. Holy fuck.

It was dark by the time we hit Times Square. We were greeted by three-story-tall images of Ryan Gosling and Harrison Ford, advertising Blade Runner 2049. Then it got weird. There were enough flashing lights to trigger an epileptic seizure. Mobs of people. Utter chaos. Madness.

Jules said, “It will be like this until 3:00 AM or so.”

Nice.

I was in Times Square once many years ago. It had that same extreme nervous energy. Spending time there is the equivalent of slamming a six pack of Monsters. And people like it there. They actually think it’s fun. People were taking selfies, and sending them back home to family and friends that probably live in sane environments.  I couldn’t get out of there soon enough.

We found Port Authority. We found our bus. We returned to the relative tranquility of northern New Jersey.

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

September 29th, 2017

“And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, “The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls,
And tenement halls”
And whispered in the sounds of silence.”

The final lyrics from “The Sounds of Silence” by Paul Simon

We were in Queens at the Nipponzan Myo Hoji Temple. The folks there were having a get together to welcome Ishi Bashi Shonin, a priest from Tokyo, to New York City. The priest seldom left Japan, so this was a time to celebrate. This was a time to party. Now, generally, Buddhist gatherings are sedate and sober affairs. Usually, there is a lot of bowing and chanting and weak tea and healthy snacks. Buddhist festivities often resemble AA meetings with an Asian flavor.

Not this time.

The first inkling I had that this gathering would be different was when I asked Jules what Karin and I should bring to the party. He told me to bring some beer. He was going to pick up a couple bottles of wine.

I asked Jules, “What kind should I get?”

Jules smiled and said, “Get the kind of beer that you like to drink.”

“Hmmmmmm”, I thought.

Karin and I walked to the main street in Bergenfield, and I picked up a six pack of some local Belgian-style beer. That was our contribution to the party.

The temple is in a beautiful, old, three story house in Queens. The place is just gorgeous. There were already a number of people there when we arrived at 7:30 PM, after a grueling three hour drive from New Jersey through Manhattan and into Queens. Ishi Bashi was there, looking all Zen and shit. He had a shaved head and huge eyebrows.  He smiled at us benevolently. An older Japanese gentleman was there too. He told me his name was Kingyo, which translates to “Goldfish”. Some people from Tibet/Nepal were there too. In the kitchen Devo was getting the food ready. Devo is a local man who lives at the temple. He’s black and he has massive dreadlocks. Cool guy.

After we arrived, we had an official greeting with Ishi Bashi. We pulled out some cushions and knelt down in the sanctuary. We all bowed and chanted, “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo!” The priest turned to face us, and we bowed to him, and he bowed to the Buddha in us. With the formalities completed, we ate and drank. There were low tables spread with food, and there were cushions for sitting.

Devo came out after a bit to check on the festivities. He said,

“All of you uncouth peoples, are you aware that there is a dish of virgin olive oil for you to dip your bread? Also, did you see the cooked eggplant?”

I asked him, “Is that baba ghanouzh?”

Devo shook his head. “No, not quite, but it’s good.”

Then he asked the room in general, “May I bring any of you some beer or wine, or perhaps a vodka-based beverage?”

Actually, we were all good.

A tall, young man entered the room. He wore glasses and a serious expression on his face. He found himself a place at one of the low tables. He seemed isolated, so I went over to greet him.

His name was Greg. He is a deaf-mute. Greg indicated to me that he could not read lips. However, he wanted to interact with me, so he pulled out a well-used notebook. We spent a couple hours conversing with each other.

I felt an immediate and strong connection with Greg. Maybe it was because we are both writers. Greg is a writer by necessity. I am a writer by choice. However, we both felt most comfortable scribbling our thoughts into his notebook.  We silently spoke of many things: family, books (Greg likes Kurt Vonnegut), hopes, and struggles.

I wrote to Greg, “You know, this is better than many of my spoken conversations.”

Greg smiled and wrote, “Others have told me the same thing.”

By conversing with Greg, I joined his peculiar sort of isolation. We could only talk to each other. We could not join in any of the wide-ranging conversations that surrounded us. We were forced to focus completely on the words of the other person. We had to be there.

One woman sat down near to me and tried to get my attention.

I said to her, “I don’t mean to blow you off, but I am talking with Greg, and that is all I can really do right now.”

The conversation with Greg was both intense and intimate. I could see his facial expressions and get his body language. The written words did the rest. I missed the vocal cues that normally are available. It was strange, but I liked it.

A written conversation requires a person to be concise and coherent. There is no room for small talk. As an introvert, I appreciate that. I suspect that Greg is also an introvert, perhaps due to his disability.

At one point, I wrote in his notebook, “I don’t know you at all, but I love you anyway.”

I’m not sure why I wrote that, and I don’t know how he took it. However, I meant it. I really did love him, like I love my sons.

I needed to get away for a while. I had drunk three beers, and the noise and commotion was getting to me. There is a shrine on the second floor of the house, so I went up there to pray for a while. I sat and thought and stared at the Buddha. I listened to the voices below. I grew calm.

Eventually, I went back down to the party. It was almost 11:00 PM. People had eaten. I went to Greg and asked if he wanted to meditate for a while. Greg shook his head, and he made signs to indicate that he wanted to go to bed. Greg lives at the temple. I told him that it was okay. I was just asking. He smiled. I made gassho (palms together), and so did he. We said goodbye.

I had given Greg my email address and my info on my blog. I don’t know if I will ever hear from him (in writing). It doesn’t matter. He has already taught me things.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

September 25th, 2017

After many years of unnecessary delay, I finally participated in a full Zen retreat. I can tell because today most of my muscles hurt. That’s part of the deal. There are a lot of Buddhist aerobics involved in a Zen retreat.

Now that I have made it through a Zen weekend, I can compare the experience with making a Catholic retreat. It’s a bit like comparing apples with oranges. The differences are obvious. However, apples and oranges are both fruits, and they are all healthful. Catholic and Buddhist retreats are kind of like that too.

A retreat, by definition, implies that a person is getting away from their day-to-day world. The person is planning to leave behind work, and family, and Donald Trump raving about whatever he’s raving about today. A person going on retreat is going to turn off the cell phone, ignore the Internet, and focus on something else. The person may not even know what that something else is, but, by God, he or she is going to focus on it.

This temporary flight from the ordinary world has great value. All religious traditions caution against getting obsessed with “the world”, however you might define that. It is necessary at times for a person to pull back and take a couple deep breaths. It is far too easy to get sucked into the system, and live a desperate and largely unconscious life.

The Zen perspective on a retreat is that is a time for “hard practice”. It is a time of severe discipline. It is almost athletic in its stance. At a Zen retreat we sit/walk for hours at a time, meditating and trying to break through to reality. The emphasis is on work. It is a struggle. A person enters a Zen retreat in a warrior state of mind.

Catholic retreats are often based on a very different set of assumptions. I have been to far more Catholic retreats than Zen retreats. Catholic retreats start with the idea that the person coming to the session is wounded. The person walking into a Catholic retreat house (whether it be Redemptorist, Franciscan, or Jesuit) has had his or her ass kicked by life. That is why they are there. The folks running the retreat center are mostly interested in stopping the spiritual bleeding. They want to patch up the poor souls that limp in through the doors.

I have was told that by a nun recently that the spiritual exercises of St. Ignatius (founder of the Jesuits) might bear more similarity to Zen practice than other types of Catholic retreats. My understanding is that these exercises are quite structured, and they usually take 30 days to complete. I have never gone on a retreat of that length, so I don’t know how much Ignation meditation actually resembles Zen practice. I can only speak from my own experiences.

Look at it this way: A Zen retreat center is a gymnasium. A Catholic retreat center is an emergency room.

I’ve spoken of the differences. Are there similarities? Of course, there are.

In a Catholic retreat there is a need to turn things over to Jesus. There is the requirement to let it all go. Well, what do we do in a Zen retreat? We try to let go of attachments.  What is the difference between giving it all to Jesus and opening our hearts to our essential Buddha nature? Not much. Actually, nothing at all.

The differences are mostly all words. Names. Concepts. Catholic and/or Buddhist, we all want freedom from suffering and we want a clear mind. We want healing. We might call that by different names, but we still all want the same thing.

Is there really a difference between striving and letting go? Are “hard practice” and finally “letting go” really the same? Do we all get to the same place?

 

 

 

September 22nd, 2017 (6:00 AM)

Stefan just spit into the kitchen sink.

This is nothing unusual.

We have a morning ritual. Actually, the process begins the previous evening. Karin owns a Nutribullet blender, solely designed for the purpose of making healthy, nutritious smoothies. Karin regularly puts together the ingredients for such a smoothie, and places the concoction into the refrigerator. When Stefan takes his shower in the morning, I dutifully blend the mixture with the Nutribullet, and place half of the contents into a Mason jar for Stefan’s consumption. Another jar is for Karin. Then I sit back and watch.

Healthy food and delicious food are not always the same thing. Stefan has discovered this fact. Karin likes to mix things that perhaps would best kept apart: strawberries and kale, ginger and bananas, peaches and spinach. Sometimes the end product actually tastes very good, but the texture is unpleasant. For instance, carrots give the drink a gritty feel. A gritty smoothie would seem to be an oxymoron. Stefan struggles to swallow any drink that is gritty or slimy. I do too.

Every morning Stefan picks up his jar and nervously smells the smoothie, like a dog sniffing road kill. He walks over to the sink. He starts sipping the smoothie, hoping that he won’t need to suppress the gag reflex. Usually, he gets through the ordeal, and occasionally he finds the experience to be pleasant. Sometimes not. I find those instances to be entertaining.

One time, Stefan spit forcefully into the sink, and I asked him, “So, how was the smoothie?”

He replied, “You’ll have to ask the drain.”

 

 

September 21st, 2017

“We have to be ready to die for the rights of others!”

Aaron Eick said that yesterday, or something very similar to it. This is not an exact quote.

Aaron is a teacher at Horlick High School in Racine, and he is a labor organizer. Aaron has dark, curly hair and dark, piercing eyes. He was speaking to us, a small group of people, standing in front of the office of Congressman Paul Ryan in Racine. We were all there with Voces de la Frontera, to demonstrate for the rights of DACA recipients. Aaron had started talking about DACA, and then he gave everybody a quick history of the struggle for workers/immigrants rights in the twentieth century. As he spoke, Aaron got increasingly passionate, and he ended at a fever pitch. That is when he suggested that we might have to sacrifice our lives for justice.

The immediate reaction in my mind to Aaron’s words was: “Who the fuck are we?!” I don’t remember signing up for for martyrdom.

In a way, Aaron’s words sounded a bit excessive. It is never wise to talk about death in a overly dramatic way. His comments seemed a little over the top because at this time, and in this place, we are not risking our lives for our beliefs. America isn’t Nazi Germany or Stalinist Russia. Not yet. 

I could be wrong. Remember Heather Heyer? She was the woman who died in Charlottesville last month when some right-wing fanatic ran her over with his car. She was a martyr. She died for her beliefs. It’s hard to tell if her death was a fluke or a harbinger of the future. Her death does bring up the question of what risks we run if we fight for our beliefs.

Valeria and Jose spoke before Aaron talked to us. Valeria and Jose are young people who are both DACA recipients, and they have justifiable fears about what might happen in six months when DACA is no more. These two came here to the United States from Mexico as very small children, and they do not know any other country besides the U.S. Because they are undocumented, they could possibly be deported back to Mexico, a land that is foreign to them. Their lives could be destroyed because of a draconian American immigration policy. This is scary stuff.

So, would I be willing to die for Valeria and Jose? That question ran through my head as Aaron spoke. I really don’t know. I’m not going to promise people something that I may not be able to deliver.

Being raised as a Catholic, I am familiar with the stories of the Christian martyrs. The stories all show the martyrs as being bold and fearless defenders of the faith. In stain glass windows, they always look noble and brave. I wonder if they were all like that. We only have the stories of the martyrs who had good PR. Were they all courageous to the end? Or did some go to their deaths in fear and trembling? Or did some of them look into the eyes of their killers, smirk, and say, “Fuck you, Asshole.” I don’t know what I would do, but I can imagine myself as being one of the smirkers.

There is no shortage of martyrs in our time. I don’t think that any of them sought out that particular career path. I don’t think that Martin Luther King or Malcolm X looked forward to stopping a bullet. I don’t think that Bishop Oscar Romero hoped for a martyr’s crown. I don’t think that Franz Jagerstatter or Dietrich Bonhoeffer ever dreamed of dying in a Nazi prison. They got caught up in events. They may have expected to die, but I don’t believe that they desired it.

Martyrs are by nature gamblers, risk takers. Even though the odds are against them, they still roll the dice and hope that they can live and work another day. They do it because the struggle is worth the risk. I think of Sophie Scholl and the Weisse Rose in Germany in 1942. They knew that they probably would die for fighting against the Nazis, but they also knew that they could do better work if they stayed alive. They didn’t want to get caught, but they pushed their luck as far as they could. Nobody wants to end up in a konzentrationslager or a gulag.

How does a person get to the point where they are willing to risk their lives for another person? I’m not sure. Maybe for some people it is intuitive, and it happens in a flash. I suspect that it might also be a slow, incremental process. A person may gradually become used to the idea of taking certain risks. Maybe, at some point the possibility of dying even becomes acceptable.

I look back on my own history of being an activist. I went to my first demonstration probably in 2001, when people were protesting against the execution of Timothy McVeigh. After that, I became more involved with protests. I wrote articles and letters.  I gradually got deeper and deeper into it. I went on peace walks that lasted two weeks. I tentatively stepped out of my comfort zone.

For many years I avoided getting arrested. I didn’t want to cross that line, not until this year. In April I took the plunge and I got busted for civil disobedience in Nevada. It was an in-the-moment decision. No prior planning there. It stung a little, but the experience didn’t actually cost me much. I saw and heard quite a bit. Did I learn my lesson? The cops would probably say “no”, because now I am more willing to be arrested for a cause. I crossed a threshold, and there really isn’t any turning back. I’m not a virgin any more.

Before I left home yesterday to go to the demonstration in Racine, I told my wife, Karin, that I was going. I told her about Voces and the DACA protest.

Karin nodded slowly. She was watching Netflix and knitting, and she didn’t even look up when I told her.

I put on my sandals and walked to the front door.

I yelled to her, “I’m going now!”

She replied from the bedroom, “Don’t get arrested!”

The new normal.

 

 

 

August 11th, 2017

Karin and I were making a “Stadtbummeln”. Roughly translated from the German, that means taking a “city stroll”, or in our case it meant “wandering around aimlessly in a strange town”. Karin and I were spending the morning slowly exploring the Uptown district of the north side of Chicago. We used to make a lot of “Stadtbummeln” back when we were dating in Germany. Now, on our 33rd wedding anniversary, it felt good to do it again.

Karin and I had stayed overnight at the home of Voices for Creative Non-violence. Voices rents the upper floor of a house on Argyle Street. They use most of it as an office for their peace activist work. There are three bedrooms on the floor. There is also a large attic loft, which has a couple more beds. Sometimes there are only a few people at Voices; sometimes the place is packed. The Veterans for Peace Conference was happening that week in Chicago, so the house was full of people who wanted to attend the meeting. Generally, there are only a few regulars staying on Argyle street. Kathy Kelly lives there, when she isn’t flying to Afghanistan, or attending a rally, or doing time some place. Otherwise, people tend to drift in and out. Voices has a large transient population.

Karin and I got up early that morning, and we walked from Argyle Street to our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church on the corner of Ashland and Wilson. We went to Mass there. Oddly enough, there was another couple in the church who were celebrating an anniversary. These two people had seventy-one years together. That was kind of overwhelming. I have trouble imagining living for seventy-one years, much less being married for that length of time.

The joy of making a Stadtbummeln lies in its inherent unpredictability.  A person tends to go places and do things that are unexpected. Karin and I had made tentative plans for our exploration of Chicago, but they changed as soon as we left the church. I had intended to show Karin the Vietnamese Buddhist Temple that was right across the street from the Our lady of Lourdes. Karin had asked to see it. However, once Mass was over, Karin realized that she was hungry and that we should find a coffee shop ASAP. We went in search of a cafe.

I told Karin about a nice, cozy coffee shop nearby. I had spent some time in there during my last visit to Chicago. We walked east for several blocks on Wilson and never found the place. Apparently, it was on a street running parallel to Wilson, but I couldn’t remember exactly where. Looking around, we spied another cafe on the other side of the street. We crossed Wilson and entered the Emerald City. It was kind of artsy, and obviously an independent operation. They had excellent breakfast burritos.

From the Emerald City we got back on Wilson and walked all the way to the lakefront. We came upon the heavy stones that make up the barrier wall near the beach. Karin went down to the water. I watched people running their dogs along the sand. Karin came back with the hem of her skirt soaked with water from Lake Michigan. She had waded in just a little too far.

We sat together on the stones for a while. We felt the sun and the wind. Karin said to me,

“It’s about seven o’clock in Germany. On our wedding day, we were having our first dance at this time during the reception in Markelsheim.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

Karin smiled. “Should we dance a waltz?”

I shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

We both got up and danced on the beach, something slow and melodic from Strauss playing in our heads and guiding our movements. I was never much of a dancer, and I had forgotten how to waltz. Karin helped me to remember. When the dance was over, we brushed the sand from our feet and walked through the park. Karin scored a coconut Popsicle from a Mexican vendor during our travels.

We walked from the park west to Broadway, and then we headed north. We were making our way back to Argyle Street. Where Broadway crosses Argyle is the Vietnamese neighborhood. The area has small, family-run groceries, Pho restaurants, Asian banks, and the ubiquitous nail shops. It seems like everybody smokes there.

Karin wanted to check out a Vietnamese supermarket. As we walked to the entrance, we were accosted by a Buddhist monk. The man was short and squat, with a shaved head. He smiled broadly. He wore saffron-colored jacket and pants, and he had an orange cloth draped over his shoulder. I am guessing that he was a monk from Southeast Asia, but I’m not sure. Buddhism has a lot of flavors.

He stopped me and asked, “Do you know Buddha?”

“I know a little about him.”

The man had a thick accent. “Do you want picture of Buddha?”

“No, not really, but thank you.”

He pointed at his van. “I have many pictures. You take one.”

The guy had an old van that was packed to the roof with pictures and posters. They all seemed to have Buddhist themes. They were also remarkably tacky. His pictures of the Buddha were the artistic equivalents of portraits of Jesus that are painted on black velvet backgrounds. I had trouble imagining us displaying one of his pictures in our home.

The guy got excited. “You must know the truth! We know that we all die soon! We have no time to lose!”

“Yeah, okay…”

“Drop your anger! Lose your desire and attachment! That is what Buddha say!”

“Yes, right, of course…”

“We must break free from suffering!”

“Hey, uh, my wife wants to look in the store. Thanks for sharing with us.”

Then I asked his name.

“You call me ‘Monk’!” My name not important. All things transient!”

I offered to shake his hand, but he said, “No! No! We don’t shake hands! We do THIS!”

He put his palms together and bowed slightly. Gassho. Karin and I did the same.

We walked swiftly into the store.

The store was full of the exotic: tiny Confucian shrines, oddly shaped pots and pans, unidentifiable types of seafood, an infinite variety of noodles, small mechanical cats that waved and smiled at me. Karin bought some dragon fruit and some soap. We got some incense for Stefan.

Karin and I exited the store. Karin turned to me and said,

“Look behind you.”

Bad vibes. I turned slowly to see Monk eagerly waving at me, beckoning me to return. We walked back toward him.

Monk held up a paper towel and smiled at me. He loudly blew his nose into the towel and dropped it on to the pavement.

“You see? You see what I do?! You must let go of your anger, just like I let go of the rag!”

“Cool.”

“Look! Look here! You see picture? You go do meditation?”

“Yes…”

He grinned. “You take picture to meditation hall! I make it just for you!”

“I don’t think so.”

Monk was perplexed, and appeared to be slightly hurt. “But, I make it just for you.”

“Sorry. I just can’t. Thank you.”

I put my hands together and made gassho. Karin quickly did the same. Monk bowed to us.

Karin and I walked away rapidly. We did not dare to take a backward glance. I had never experienced a Buddhist hard sell before. The guy was pushing the Dharma like he selling me a used Pontiac with high mileage. It was somehow deeply disturbing. It felt so wrong. We didn’t want to visit the temple any more. It would have been a let down.

 

 

 

 

 

Early December, 2017

This story is from almost fifteen years ago. Hans was twenty years old, and he had just recently moved to Texas to seek his fortune. Our girl was in the Milwaukee High School of the Arts. Stefan was an eighth grader at the Waldorf School. At this point, many things were still in the future and unknown. Hans had not yet gone to war. A girl we love had not yet attempted suicide. Stefan was dreaming of becoming a chef, rather than the welder that he is now. The people in this story may or may not even exist any more. If they do, they have changed. I have changed.

There was a feeling of innocence then. Perhaps, it is worth remembering…

Snow was falling outside of the classroom window; big, wet flakes swirling in the breeze. The classroom itself was very warm, and it smelt strongly of beeswax. There was a table set up in the middle of the classroom. It held several pots full of melted wax. Near the door was a rack full of strings to be used as wicks. The room was part of the Waldorf school’s holiday fair. I was there to help people make their own beeswax candles as part of the fundraiser. Anybody could come inside and make themselves a candle for two bucks a pop. The room was full of noisy children and harried parents.

The candlemaking took place at the Tamarack Waldorf School on Brady Street. Our youngest son, Stefan, was going to school there at the time. When Hans, our oldest son, was small he had also attended a Waldorf school for a while, and we had been part of the holiday fairs at that time. Our girl went to Tamarack too, and we went to fairs with her. The fairs tend to be big on magic, myth, and mystery. You have to be a bit of a dreamer to appreciate them. You also need a high tolerance for chaos.

As I looked around the room, I saw a little boy who seemed a bit forlorn. He had a shock of blond hair, and he had a string in his hand. He was clearly too small to reach the pots of molten wax, and he didn’t know what to do. I saw his mother sitting nearby, and I asked her if I could hold her son to help him make his candle.

The boy looked at me, and then he looked at his mother and asked, “Darf ich ?”. That is “May I?” in German. The mother replied to him, “Mach’ nur.” ( Go ahead ). I remembered years ago when Karin and I had spoken German with Hans. Hans was about the same age as this boy when we did that. The mother smiled at us, and I picked up the young man and set him on my right hip.

We walked around and around the table, repeatedly dipping the wick and watching the candle grow ever thicker. I spoke to the boy as we made our way from pot to pot.

“Wie heisst Du?” (What is you name?)

“Ich heisse Louis.” (I am called Louis.)

“Wie alt bist Du?” (How old are you?)

“Ich bin drei.” (I am three.) He said this as he held up three tiny fingers.

Louis grew tired as we walked and walked (candlemaking takes a while). He rested his head on my shoulder, and I could smell his hair. He had that “clean-little-boy” smell that told me that his mother had spent some time getting him ready for the fair. At last the candle was complete and Louis ran to his mother, proudly showing her his oddly-shaped candle.

I walked away and a moment later I felt a tug on my pants leg. Louis looked up at me with bright eyes and said, “Ich wille noch mal!” (I want to do it again!). So, I picked up the lad and we started again. I was out of practice holding little boys on my hip. Either Louis got heavier or I got tired, but eventually I had to put him down. He ran to his mother to show her his new candle.

I felt hollow as he ran off. I suddenly realized that I had been holding somebody else’s little boy. This was Louis, not Hans. My little boy was long gone, and he would never come back again. There was a young man in Texas using his name, and that young man was already thinking about joining the Army, although I didn’t know it yet.

I turned to look out the window. My eyes burned. It was still snowing, but the snowflakes were all blurry. The windows must have fogged up.

September 6th, 2017

“The extreme limit of wisdom, that’s what the public calls madness.” – Jean Cocteau

Another night at the VA hospital. I arrived there just before 6:30. Sister Ann Catherine and Brian were already there. So was Jim. He’s a retired Milwaukee cop, and an all-around decent guy. They had a wheelchair filled with food and drink. Sister A.C. pushed the wheelchair to the elevator and we went up to the third floor. We passed through the two sets of doors to the psych ward. (There are two sets of doors to prevent people eloping, i.e. escaping, from there). Once we signed in, we set up our snacks in the break room. I set out plates of grapes. Jim got the sodas and ice ready. Sister A.C. laid out boxes of doughnuts and cookies. Jim gave me some plastic bowls for popcorn.

Gradually, patients shuffled into to the room. That’s what they do: they shuffle. I don’t know if it’s because of age, or infirmity, or because they are all wearing socks, but that’s what they do. Nobody walks with a purpose, maybe because nobody really has one in this place. They come slowly into the break room, wearing their pajamas and white bathrobes. All dressed up with nowhere to go.

Somebody put the Brewers game on the TV.  The vets grabbed their snacks and sat down. Some of them sat at a table with Brian and Sister to play cards. I spied out a guy who sitting off by himself, and I went over to talk with him.

“Hi, I’m Frank,” and I held out my hand.

The vet looked up at me nervously, and shook my hand.

He said, “I’m Richard.” He paused for a moment, and said, “I have a drinking problem.”

This man was definitely in the right place.

We went through the usual introductory questions. I asked him, “What branch were you in?”, and “When did you serve?”. There is kind of ritual to it. We had to feel each other out.

Richard stared at me and asked, “So, are you a patient too?”

“Uh, no. I help bring the snacks.” This was not the first time that a veteran has asked me if I belonged in the psych ward. Apparently, I look like I should be there. I’m not quite sure how to feel about that.

Richard told me his story in great detail. I listened. He had been working a job with an abusive boss. Richard told me that he left the job over a year ago. It wasn’t clear to me how he left. I asked him,

“Did you get fired, or did you quit?”

Richard looked perplexed. “I didn’t really quit. I took some vacation, and I went to Aruba. I really didn’t want to work there any more. Then I went to Peru. My boss just wouldn’t leave me alone. He kept calling me, and nagging me about coming back. I went to Brazil.”

“That sounds to me like you quit.”

Richard shrugged. “I came back here from Thailand, and I was staying in a motel. I just wanted to drink. I decided that it wasn’t working with me drinking a bottle of whiskey and ten beers every day.”

“No, that’s not a good way to live long term. How long have you been here?”

Richard told me, “Today. I got into the hospital after noon, and I’ve been on this floor since five or so.”

“How long do you think you’ll stay?”

Richard looked at me and said, “I don’t know…maybe three or four days. Then I should get into the dom, you know, the domiciliary.”

The dom.  The guys in the ward talk about the domiciliary like it’s the Promised Land. I’ve never been in the place. I would be curious to see it. It’s a transitional living space on the VA campus. Richard spoke of it with wistfulness in his voice, like: “Once I get in the dom, things will be okay.” God, I hope so.

Jim, the retired cop, asked me about my girl. I told him about her having a relapse. We talked about drugs. We talked about depression. We talked about the fact that my girl had been clean for six months, and that it was impressive.

A voice interrupted our discussion.

“I could not help but to overhear your conversation about your girl. How old is she?”

“Twenty-six”, I replied.

The man who spoke was elderly. He was sitting alone at the next table. He had a short white beard, and longer white hair. He had full lips and a Roman nose. The man’s eyes were large and intense. He wore a black skullcap, which was slightly askew on his head. He wore a silver ring with a Star of David on his right hand. He had been nibbling on a chocolate cupcake.

The two of us talked for a while. He asked me more about my girl. He was genuinely concerned. He told me that he had a bipolar condition, and that he had recently experienced a manic episode. That was the reason for him being in the ward and sitting across from me at the table.  He gave me his history, and I told him about how Karin and I were dealing with our girl’s struggles. I listened to him explain what he had all learned over the years.

I said to the man, “I wonder why we have to suffer these things.”

He shrugged and said, “Sometimes God is angry with us.”

I replied, “That’s okay. Sometimes I’m angry with Him.”

The old man laughed. He straightened his yarmulke.

I told him, “Some weekends I go Lake Park Synagogue. You know where that is?”

He smiled and nodded.

“Do you ever go there?”

Still smiling, he shook his head and said, “No, I’m with Lubavitch!”

It was time to leave. I stood up and extended my hand to him, and said, “I have to go now. Thank you.”

He remained seated. He grasped my hand tightly in both of his. Then he gently kissed it.

I felt like crying. Why?

September 5th, 2017

Every Wednesday evening, after I teach a citizenship class at Voces de la Frontera, I get on to I-94 at the on ramp at the corner of 5th Street and Lapham on Milwaukee’s south side. There is a traffic light at the intersection, and I always have to wait for a green light. It’s a gritty part of town, and it houses a mostly working class, Latino population. St. Stanislaus Church is a block away. Its twin, golden steeples glow in the twilight. The church is a reminder of years gone by, when this neighborhood was completely Polish, and somewhat more prosperous.

There used to be a sign on the light pole at the corner that said, “No Panhandling”. There has almost always been somebody standing directly under that sign, doing exactly that. Some person stands there and hustles loose change from the drivers waiting at the light. I have to admire the chutzpah, and somehow I enjoy the irony.

The hustlers come in all shapes and sizes. Maybe they take turns. Sometimes there is a woman there, sometimes a guy. They might be white or black or Latino. Young or old. That corner is only empty if the weather is truly terrible.

They always carry a cardboard sign. Always. I don’t think that people ever really look at what is scrawled across the cardboard. Usually, it says something like: “Homeless vet”. It probably doesn’t matter what is written there. Somebody could write: “Please help! I am a lost Klingon!”, and the effect would be the same. Personally, I would like to see a sign that says, “Need money for vodka.” The honesty would be refreshing.

I try to have some cash with me on Wednesday nights. I know that there are all sorts of excellent arguments against giving money to panhandlers. I just look at these people, and I see suffering. Begging for money on a dirty street corner is a lousy gig. I don’t know how these folks got there, but they are hurting. It’s that simple.

Last Wednesday there was young man on crutches on the corner. His left leg was in a cast that went from his foot to his knee. He looked rough. He hadn’t shaved for a while, and he had bruises on his face. However, he had his cardboard sign.

The light turned red just as I pulled up to the intersection. I called to the guy. He limped slowly over to my car. I pulled some singles out of my wallet. I put the money into his hand, and asked him his name.

“Chris”, he said. He was grimacing as he tried to walk with the crutches.

“How are you?” I asked. I already knew the answer to that.

“Not good at all, Man.”

“What happened?”

“I got mugged last night. Some fucker hit me with a golf club. Then he broke into my car. He took my blankets and my clothes. Fuck. I got no place to stay now.” He didn’t look at me while he talked. He was staring into the distance.

A couple cars pulled behind me at the intersection. The light suddenly turned green.

“Hey, I got to go. Take care of yourself.”

He glanced at me. “Yeah, you too. Thanks.”

I shifted into first gear and took off.