call•me•jonah

How unexpected. He was sitting there on the back porch, keeping the dog from whining. Keeping her from running inside and spoiling everyone’s fun with her muddy paws and dripping tongue. He had left his drink inside. He had mixed cranberry and orange and vodka. It looked like dilluted mud. He left it inside because he had to use both hands to lift the dog through the broken screen door. He was sitting on her leash thinking. The day was spent. So much had happened already. He had spent the afternoon eating turkey at his aunt’s house in nowhere East Texas, the evening in Dallas at an art show, and the early morning in Fort Worth listening to music. He had listened to his uncle tell stories of his world travels as they drove into the night, 5 little cousin’s children asleep in the back, he had met four enviable artists, he had listened to Travis Millard talk to him about pitching a television series to Fox, he listened to two friends’ bands perform before two different crowds in two different clubs, he had drunk liquid fire in a wooden chair and listened to a crowd of friends chanting his name, he’d reaquainted himself with old friends, and made a couple new friends. It was almost three a.m.

All this was so much and not enough, so he was sitting outside with the dog. Relishing the cold. Relishing being at a party and being away from the party. There was nobody else outside. People only go outside to piss and smoke. And there weren’t any smokers at the party. The door opened. Jonah did not turn. Two men exited the house.

One pulled up a lawn chair in front of Jonah, the other stood aloof leaning on a pole of the carport. Jonah knew most everyone at the party, but these guys he’d never seen before in his life. They must be friends of Nathan’s. Or maybe frat daddies crashing in on a bumping party. We had gotten a lot of attention. The cops had come by twice.

The sitting one had dark combed hair and a dark complexion and was wearing a black peacoat. He was lighting up a cigarette. The standing one was tall with glasses and had a duckhunting cap on his head. Earflaps and all.

“What’s your name?” The standing one asked, taking the cigarettes.

“Jonah.”

“I’m Mike.”

The sitting one blew a solid stream of smoke out the side of his mouth, “Michael,” and shook my hand.

“Mike and Michael?”

“We like to keep it simple.”

“Y’all friends of Nathan’s?”

“Think I met him once.”

Mike went inside. Jonah called through the open door, “Could you grab my drink?” “The one that looks like coffee?” “That’s the one.”

Michael turned to Jonah, “Have you ever read that book by Hermann...”

His ears peaked, his eyes got wide. “Hesse?” He was one of Jonah’s favorite authors.

“Yeah.”

Mike returned and handed Jonah his odd mixture.

“Yeah, have you read that book Siddhartha?”

So this is how it started. That long conversation spinning derelict into the night. Two strangers with like names. Enter the stage from nowhere. And later disappear likewise to nowhere. Weaving discourse and philosophy. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are surely not dead. Turns out they’re Buddhist.

At a Christian ex-fraternity party near the campus of Texas Christian University. These two fellows suddenly seemed like frogs in fish bowl.

They used words like dig and cat. Like the beats used to. They spoke with intensity and calm. They believed strongly in everything they said. And disputed with one another openly and earnestly the efficacy of the details of their individual journeys. As if the true debate was among themselves and I was just a witness.

“Homeboy doesn’t need to know that yet.”
“Yes he does. He will understand.”
“I’m curious about what you mean by meditative state.”
“Will you let me tell my story?”
“You will confuse him.” To me. “There are many levels of understanding.”
To me. “Are you confused? Are you turned off by what I’m saying?” Jonah shook his head no. “Actually, I’m fascinated.” “See.”
“Your drunk. This is not the time to impart the profound teachings of the Buddha.”

It was Michael who was describing to me his experience receiving a blessing from a Danish Llama. I think Mike was right, Jonah couldn’t understand he could only listen.

The conversation continued deep into the early morning. Deeper into Buddhism. It was the last thing Jonah had expected that night. He thought perhaps they were inebriated Buddhist angels from a Kevin Smith movie. Or wandering souls, popping in and out of parties like electrons.

It would be futile to write a transcript of their conversation. Of words on meditation and Christiandom, of Buddha and kindness and purpose and self. Of reincarnation. Of the three jems. For I did not wholly understand as I listened in the shadows. What is potent is that these words, each one of them, resonated deeply within Jonah’s cage. Each entered his ear and found harmony inside his mind. He will contemplate what was spoken for many days. These words spoken from strangers lips will stay with him for a long time, and return to him when he has long forgotten the faces that uttered them.

And when it was late. Later than late. When the sun threatened to ignite the horizon. When Mike and Michael parted ways with Jonah. Mike smiled big and hugged Jonah, and hugged him again. And Jonah said, Man this is the last thing I had expected, I live right there in the garage and I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to come home tonight.

Mike laughed.
“It’s karma man. It’s karma.”

Labels: buddha, buddhism, christianity, karma, philosophy