Magically, it was yet another day. I stayed in bed as long
as possible…’til the alcohol, the pot and the sleep wore
off….went down to the café. There were a few faces
there I had met. The Buddhists in town hated me because
I called them on their shaman worshipping trip. They
thought they were making “Mexican Buddhism” by
mixing two very different things, but they didn’t have
enough understanding of Buddhism in order to know
how to do that…but that’s common down here: lots
of people that claimed to be professional, but are
untrained or poorly trained. There are also some highly
trained people…
Mexico is a nation of children, as opposed to the USA,
a nation of ruling psychopaths, their sociopath managers,
and the neurotic horde of the proletariat…a perfect order.
What did Krishnamurti say? “It’s no measure of health to
be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.”
****
I was back in New York, or, I had never left. There was
a guy across the street sitting on a bench, playing an
accordion. He had on a black winter coat and wore a
kind of pork pie hat…it too was black. He was playing
folk tunes. A few people walked by, but they didn’t
stop. I had the impression he wasn’t really playing for
anyone.
Joni Mitchell did a song about a man playing clarinet
on a street cornet in New York…hauntingly beautiful.
The man took out a cigar and lit it. He retrieved a bag
of nuts from his coat and gave some to some birds. He
reached inside his jacket and pulled out a bottle of some-
thing in a paper bag and took a few good pulls. With
the bottle between his legs, he played some more. What-
ever song he was playing was making him start to laugh.
He put his instrument down and his body shook and he
had to wipe his eyes a couple of times. Must have been
a good one. He reached inside his coat and pulled out
a large sheet of paper. From his pocket, he took out what
seemed to be a magic marker. He wrote something in
large letters on the paper. He held it up towards my
building, and I could see what he had written. In green
letters was written: “What’s your favorite color?”
The man held up the paper for only a minute,
then, got up quickly and walked away.
****
I put the key in the locker at the train station…it fit. The
door opened and inside was a leather bag. It felt about
half full…or, maybe, half empty. This was not a time for
internal debate…I had to get out of there and lost quickly.
I couldn’t tell if the place was staked out of not. I moved
towards the exit…dropped the key into a waste basket.
When I got outside, I walked to the corner and took a right…
then I walked to the next corner and turned left…walked half
a block to the alley and turned down it, walking to the back
door of a pub, went in, out the front, and into a taxi. The taxi
driver said he was from Haiti…lost family in the quake. It
might have been true. I gave him a nice tip.
I got out five blocks from my place, in the middle of a block.
scooted down the alley, hopped a fence, ran between two buildings,
opened a basement window and slid in…up the
stairs and out the front…I looked around cautiously...there
were no signs of pursuit… I kept to the alleys as I walked
the last couple of blocks….up the fire escape in back to my
back porch….through the door into the kitchen. I turned on
the light, lit a joint, and breathed a sigh of relief.
The living room was dark. I mixed my drink and went in,
turned on the pole lamp in the corner….jumped back and
almost fell over!! Natricia was sitting there on my couch,
a wicked little automatic pointing straight at me.
“WOAH!! Uh, Can I fix you a drink?”
“Pretty good comeback, Frank…I knew you had potential…
Sure, I’ll have what you’re having…but first, bring me the
bag please.”
“What bag?”
“The one you left in the kitchen.”
Woah…how did she know about the bag, or, that I would
bring it here? The situation was quickly getting out of control.
“How did you know about the bag?”
“Frank, you’re a sweet guy, but if you notice I have a gun pointed at you…..soooo….just do what I say and don’t ask any more questions…understand?” As she said that last word,
Frank saw clearly that she really did want to know if he
understood…her face had hardened in that instant to a cudgel…
“Yes.”
“Good…now, bring me the bag”
Rock in a hard place? Irresistible force/ immovable object?
Quantum paradox?