Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Buddha and His Mood Indicator




Sunday night, and it must have been later, about ten, ten-thirty. 

I had crossed the Brooklyn Bridge back to the city on foot. Grid squares of mild yellow and hard white ahead. To the right the Empire State boasted Italian tricolor. I was enjoying the walk, so that it seemed to be leading me. September too, so the night was newly cool. Mostly though I was thinking on too many things, like when you cram too many wet clothes in the drier, and they tumble around noisily and nothing comes out crisp.

I wove my way out of the Feast of San Gennaro on Mulberry. The booths were collapsing in an orderly way. Grills were being scraped of flesh and grease. Rows of flashing bulbs up and died. The trash cans had long since been force-fed to bursting, and the brooms were out. 


Near the end was a Chinese lady selling trinkets and icons and statues. Why I let myself pause, I'm unsure, but I did. Maybe it was that she was so intent on arranging the pieces just so. Maybe it was that we project a mysticism on dingy little dragon figures. Maybe I'm overeager for the weird


I guess that makes me a mark, but a willing one.

I spotted a lump of silver about the size of a baseball. It seemed to be hiding. It had strange contours to it, I could see them, peeking from behind the sooty brass and jade.

When I lifted it out, the silver lump was four faces of Buddha, each to a side and of sharply contrasting moods. I'd heard of these.

At first there was cozy contentment. Then a twist and there was laughing joy, mouth open, deep dimples alongside. Another twist and the face was drooping, heavy with sorrow, brows merging in center. A final twist and the face was surging with rage, eyes wide with beady pinpoints, lips knotted.

There were many 'Four Faces of Buddha' offered on the table. Some were copper, some were bone powder and formed in molds. Cow bone. I asked. The one I held was silver-plated and hand-carved, she said. I believed her only because this one's features were less even than the others. Underneath was a square of writing. Someone's name I suppose. Maybe the artist? A former owner?

Some of them were quite big, more the size of a large grapefruit. Or a real shrunken head. Could you palm a shrunken head? (Privately I called myself an idiot.)


Some of the copper ones had been dipped in acid to lend the proper 'ancient' effect. These were corroded nearly black, and the grooves in the faces highlighted by sickly green. It looked like someone telling a ghost story with a flashlight under his face. I put it back. Some of the bone powder ones were crimson and smooth as satin.

I still liked my imperfect silver head best. Small enough to sit on a desk and catch the lamplight in a certain way. I could picture now and then upending it and wondering what the hell was written beneath. I'd never ask a friend who could read Chinese. Where was the fun in that? They'd only tell me something dull, ordinary, and never what I wanted to hear. Secret map, or whispered prophecy. Something tingling. If I never knew, I could still pretend.

Then I thought of a practical use. It could be a fair warning to all visitors. Anyone who came to my apartment could tell what my mood was that day by which Face was turned outward.

That made me smirk.

A 'mood indicator'. I could use one. Or rather, others could use one where I was concerned. That sealed it for me. The Chinese lady and I haggled only for a minute, and each with an amicable shrug. It ended up costing me twenty-eight dollars, down from thirty-three. The Chinese lady wrapped it in newspaper that only she could read, between the two of us anyway. She dropped the bundle in a red plastic bag.


She tapped my forearm with her finger and leaned in to reveal I'd picked her favorite. It could have been a line, but there were others pricier than the one I chose. The Chinese lady told me that she liked that mine best because of the 'silver color, silver color'. She made its gleam sound like something confided.

I thanked her, she nodded and turned a lean face back to her treasures.

As I walked away I felt the silver head bottom out in the red plastic bag. I wondered why Buddha had moods. I know nothing about Buddhism, but I'd always figured he was a pretty even guy. He always seemed to be laughing, or easing back in a pleasant lounge, his belly spilling out. Sometimes he even had his hands thrown way up over his head in roaring good cheer. But I'd never seen him heartbroken, let alone succumb to fury.

What was strange was that it sort of bothered me. Not for long. By the time I reached Lafayette, I was choosing which mood would stare out from my desk once I got home. Who knew? My mood on Lafayette might be different from my mood in Harlem. Actually, I'd bet on it.

Still. Buddha and his moods. I know I'm mercurial as hell. But I thought he was above all that.





© Eric Yves Garcia 2013

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

The Power Lunch

 
 
 
Just now, chatting with a friend, I remembered a day from at least ten years ago, but feels like a hundred.

This was while I was still hiding in NJ, out of college and too scared to define what the hell I wanted, and then to scared to chase after it. I hid in plain sight. It was a gray-faced time.

To earn a few dollars, I was temping in a squat brick building by the railroad tracks in Allenhurst. That's a dimple of a little shore town, where everyday is 1956 and a cicada chirping causes the police to investigate.

The company's business was to scan zoning laws for cities all over the country, from old hard copy pages into digital. My job was to proof read these zoning laws. The only thing it had going for it was that unlike a lobotomy, this job didn't leave a scar on my forehead.

Beyond my computer screen was a window that gave onto one sight: the railroad tracks. All day, I'd watch trains blur left, blur right. All day, I'd watch them whisk to someplace, anyplace, other than where I was. I drank coffee all day until my stomach hurt. Sometimes just to feel something, and sometimes just for the walk across the room to the brewer.

This was late spring, maybe early summer. My sole uplift came from buying a sandwich in a little deli up the street. I'd take the white-paper wrapped bundle, then I'd walk the few blocks due east, to the boardwalk.

I'd chew slowly, savor it, even if the sandwich wasn't that great. Children splashed and kicked around in the small pool of a beach club. Beyond, on the sand, chocolate-brown retirees would plop into low chairs with striped parasols open and shading nobody. Sometimes I'd finish the sandwich and crumble the paper, ball it up, lob it from palm to palm, and wonder if the office noticed that one of it's cogs hadn't returned to the machinery. I doubted they did. It didn't hurt my feelings. It meant I could stay away an extra minute or three.

Then one day, on my lunch bench, something went wrong.

I felt like a coward. No, worse than that. As if I was living like an invalid who has nothing wrong with him. I wanted to throw up without feeling nauseous. I was disgusted. Not with the temp job. With me. I could blame them, but it'd be bullshit.

So I did something I never did before, and never since. I chucked the white paper ball into the trash, put my hands in my pockets and walked back to the parking lot. Then I got in my car and I drove away. Never collected my check, never called, and never got called. Not by them, not by the temp company.

It was as if I hadn't set foot in there weeks ago. No one batted an eye, myself included.

I drove away from the squat brick building in Allenhurst and went to a different beach. I didn't have a bathing suit obviously, so I just enjoyed the sun, took a long walk, and breathed to fill my lungs. I felt as tall as if you'd stacked me six times.

Thinking of that just now, I realize that whatever else I gripe about now, well it's not half as wilting as that job and those days of hiding. Whatever I've got now is on my terms, I live by my wits and I chose it.

And so my lunches now may still be as modest, but at least they're no longer a dodge. To tell you the truth, the sandwiches taste better. Sometimes I even shovel them down, because there's somewhere I want to be.
 
 
© Eric Yves Garcia 2013