I was meeting with my editor in that sad
café near the theatre district…the one where
those going up start out and those coming
down wind up. It was any other night. I had
an advance on a piece I was writing, and he
wanted to check on the progress. Hell…even
writers need a prod now and then…lazy bunch
of sots…
So, we were meeting and we both knew why
and we both knew the routine. We’d managed
to crank out several volumes together, so, why
should tonight be any different? But, it was…
it was very different.
“I don’t get it, Frank….we’ve been through
this so many times. Why is it so difficult this
time?”
“Because I can’t write what you want me to.”
“What? You can’t find the words? What is it?”
“No…it’s because it would be wrong to put it
into words…because words cannot recreate
experience….because an oral culture…oral
learning…can only happen in person. A
description in words could only be a travesty”
“Words do the best they can. You’re a writer.
Why can’t you do the best you can?”
“Because I was told not to.”
The evening lingered, Our table became a confluence
of conversation, congruence and coincidence…
…it was like all the other evenings.
My editor….that sturdy intellect of steel…ambition
of purpose beyond personal gain looked across the
table at me and asked: “What is it?”
I looked at him. I saw a man looking into a mirror
for his reflection. As I was ready to leave, I turned to
him and said: “And never use the term ‘unpack’
in my presence again!”
“Look, Frank, just think about what I said.”
“I will…but I’ve had enough of this for one night.”
I went to one of my favorite after hours joints…
“Save The Robot” I didn’t need any more advice…
I just needed to add more vice.
The joint was down by the docks, but not where
the sailors and other local traffic would find it easily…
those that knew where it was knew about “the door”.
There was something new on the door every day…
paint, chicken blood, (sometimes the whole chicken),
motor oil, grease paint, makeup, Crisco…you just
didn’t know what would be on the door, but you
knew that that door was the one you had to
go through. Made them hesitate every time.
It was late or early, depending on your point of view.
There were a few customers…regulars, although
no one there would admit to being one. The place
had the usual stockpile of booze on the walls…it’s
what you couldn’t see there that was interesting.
Manny was on that night. He was one of my favorites.
Great sense of humor and impeccable timing when he
thought somebody needed a taxi. And he could
work the crowd. I looked around the room. It was
decorated in anonymity…a perfect place to sort ones
thoughts. …and I had an assortment.
How could I write about what had happened to me
in that prison? I’m not even sure that’s what that
place was, though it sure felt like one. No….this was
going to take some time to sort out.
“Heavy thoughts tonight, Frank? What’ll it be?”
“Hey, Man…. Give me a half carafe of dirty martini
with a shot of absinthe and infusion of opium.” (I had
things to think about, but I didn’t want my brain to
work too hard. We had a deal.)
“Sure, Frank….”
“Have you heard from the Skipper?”
“A postcard from Montauk is all…
not much info.”
Manny made the drink….the place was
so quiet…he brought me the drink, nodded,
and went back to his station.
Joel was a great friend as well as being a
top notched editor. I never would have been
a writer except for him. I got by with style
and humor….but there were some subjects
I never told Joel about…I never wanted to
touch them…until last week….until I realized
I had to.
****
I was sitting at the bar on the beach….a wooden
table and stools under palm trees…another perfect
day. People walking in the sand or swimming dotted
the landscape. My Crown Rum and coke was
strong. The Miami Herald I was looking at had no
headline….the space where it should have been was
blank. It was obviously a misprint….but when I
saw it, it had a curious effect: all the news was there,
the main stories, the sports, foreign news…but no
headline…as if nothing that had happened that day
was of any significance…just some things had
happened. I looked out at the horizon of blue on aqua.
I was going back to New York to a promotion and
a corner office. I didn’t want to go.
****
I was driving along in a car with my father when
I was eighteen. I made a big choice, or, rather, a big
choice came over me, like, I knew what I had to do,
that I would succeed, but that I also had no idea how
it would happen. A peace came over me.
****
“I had a course in college my senior year led by
a Buddhist monk and scholar from Tokyo
University. We’d meditate every morning for an hour,
the teacher would tell a funny story…and that was it.
The only academic requirement was that we kept a
Journal….yes, it was a piece of cake, but I was really
interested in meditation and what a so-called Buddhist
Teacher was like. I observed him pretty closely. Well,
the crescendo of that was his going away party at the
end of the trimester, to which his students were invited.
Sensei got really drunk. He gave a rambling, tear filled
oration in which he expressed, among other sentiments,
that he had only hoped in his time at our college that he
had been of some benefit to everyone. The Midwesterners
and sturdy Americans of Norwegian ancestry were stunned,
not knowing how to react.
My reaction to that scene changed over the years, and,
ultimately, it became a profound teaching lesson for me.
Sensei had completely confronted, in an outrageous yet
completely kind way in which only he could be blamed
for a lack of skill, the very frozen fabric of the American
established middle class. When it happened, it shocked
me…but years later I realized the skill. And that’s just
one story on my spiritual path, How could I possibly
explain the complexity of working with one enlightened
teacher for fifteen years?”
Joel nodded and sighed. He raised his glass and we
toasted.
“Just tell me more stories.” He said.
“Imagine that you are the straight man….in fact, you
are one of many straight men of one comedian. Now this
comedian is helping you by showing your foibles with
humor and sarcasm. And anything you say is likely to be
the straight line for another one of his jokes, which hurt
because they make you feel, rightly so, like a fool. And
this comedian does this only because of great compassion,
but, after a while, you know what’s coming, and you try to
avoid it as much as you can, even though you greatly
appreciate it, see it’s value, and have only respect for the
comedian.”
“OK….so?”
“That’s what it’s like working with an enlightened
teacher.”
“Well….that wasn’t so hard to put into
words, was it?”
“Look, that’s finger painting, not
photography!”
“Just get it on paper or put it into electrons
and send it to me!”