Read Online Breakfast With Buddha by Roland Merullo - Free Book Online
Authors: Roland Merullo
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shoulder lightly, and his voice turned into a kindly grandfather’s voice. “Listen,” he said, “I wouldn’t send you down there for nothin’. You like your food, am I right?”
“Absolutely.”
“This place has the best food within fifty miles of here. You’re talking just a little ways off your route. Here.” He reached into his overalls and produced a folded up scrap of glossy paper. “Coupon. Ten percent off. You trust me now, okay. Show your friend here the very best of Pennsylvania.” He looked across at Rinpoche and winked again.
“Yes, I want to see this place,” Rinpoche said, and that sealed the matter.
I FOUND ROUTE 501 without any trouble, and headed south along it, relieved to be away from the interstate noise, the hurtling semis, and the insistent advice of old men in gas stations. This was an even prettier road, lined with sedate, perfectly manicured farms and neat white barns, some of them made with a pale stone or surrounded by walls of that stone. There were small ponds in these yards, straight rows of corn, smooth carpets of alfalfa and beans in the fields, and I supposed that the old guy had been right: It was worth it, after all, to lose a bit of time going south if the territory was prettier and the food better. I could always make up ground the next day. Along the side of the pavement an Amish family clop-clopped in their black buggy. Another calm, artificial life, I thought, another little world within a world, separate from reality. But then it occurred to me to wonder if these lives were in many ways harder than my own, not less but more real. Rinpoche had been in prison, after all, if he was telling the truth. There was nothing artificially nice about that.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand,” I said. “But, at some point, I’d like to know what that was like, the prison. I’d like to hear the story of your escape.”
He nodded. Nodded, then uttered this memorable line, as if he’d been pondering it while I navigated Pennsylvania’s country highways and took advice from its old men: “You are a good person, good soul.”
“What? For asking to hear about your escape from a Soviet prison?”
He reached across and patted me on the forearm, two firm slaps. There were two or three syllables of the famous chuckle, and then: “You are a clean soul.”
“I try to—”
“You are close to a major step.”
And you haven’t even looked at my palm, I thought.
“You don’t see,” he went on, “but you are now very close to a major step. You have the dreams about escaping, yes?”
Here it came then, the dreaded spiritual nonsense. “Listen,” I answered, as kindly as I could manage. “I’m not such a clean soul, as you put it. I try. I’m a good dad, good husband. I try to treat people decently. But I have to tell you that I am a Christian—not in the judgmental, hateful sense in which that word is lately thrown about, but an old-fashioned Christian. A Protestant, in fact. That’s my faith. That’s what I live by. I don’t go to church often, it’s true. Those rituals don’t do much for me anymore. But the basic principles—”
“You don’t see,” he said.
“No, I don’t.” And then, in another small fit of anger, I pulled the car over into a gravel driveway that led to some kind of metal storage building. I killed the engine, turned and gave the Rinpoche all my attention, then took a breath to calm down. “Look, I’m not fond of proselytizers.”
He raised his eyebrows and kept them raised, then dropped them.
“I’m not a big fan of the touchy-feely, the past lives, the chakras, the important steps someone who doesn’t know me tells me I am about to make. I’m an ordinary American man, with a wonderful wife and family, nice job. I try to be good. You’ll excuse me for being blunt, but, really, I don’t need anything—any words of encouragement from you or from any other spiritual teacher.”
He watched me. There was
“Absolutely.”
“This place has the best food within fifty miles of here. You’re talking just a little ways off your route. Here.” He reached into his overalls and produced a folded up scrap of glossy paper. “Coupon. Ten percent off. You trust me now, okay. Show your friend here the very best of Pennsylvania.” He looked across at Rinpoche and winked again.
“Yes, I want to see this place,” Rinpoche said, and that sealed the matter.
I FOUND ROUTE 501 without any trouble, and headed south along it, relieved to be away from the interstate noise, the hurtling semis, and the insistent advice of old men in gas stations. This was an even prettier road, lined with sedate, perfectly manicured farms and neat white barns, some of them made with a pale stone or surrounded by walls of that stone. There were small ponds in these yards, straight rows of corn, smooth carpets of alfalfa and beans in the fields, and I supposed that the old guy had been right: It was worth it, after all, to lose a bit of time going south if the territory was prettier and the food better. I could always make up ground the next day. Along the side of the pavement an Amish family clop-clopped in their black buggy. Another calm, artificial life, I thought, another little world within a world, separate from reality. But then it occurred to me to wonder if these lives were in many ways harder than my own, not less but more real. Rinpoche had been in prison, after all, if he was telling the truth. There was nothing artificially nice about that.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand,” I said. “But, at some point, I’d like to know what that was like, the prison. I’d like to hear the story of your escape.”
He nodded. Nodded, then uttered this memorable line, as if he’d been pondering it while I navigated Pennsylvania’s country highways and took advice from its old men: “You are a good person, good soul.”
“What? For asking to hear about your escape from a Soviet prison?”
He reached across and patted me on the forearm, two firm slaps. There were two or three syllables of the famous chuckle, and then: “You are a clean soul.”
“I try to—”
“You are close to a major step.”
And you haven’t even looked at my palm, I thought.
“You don’t see,” he went on, “but you are now very close to a major step. You have the dreams about escaping, yes?”
Here it came then, the dreaded spiritual nonsense. “Listen,” I answered, as kindly as I could manage. “I’m not such a clean soul, as you put it. I try. I’m a good dad, good husband. I try to treat people decently. But I have to tell you that I am a Christian—not in the judgmental, hateful sense in which that word is lately thrown about, but an old-fashioned Christian. A Protestant, in fact. That’s my faith. That’s what I live by. I don’t go to church often, it’s true. Those rituals don’t do much for me anymore. But the basic principles—”
“You don’t see,” he said.
“No, I don’t.” And then, in another small fit of anger, I pulled the car over into a gravel driveway that led to some kind of metal storage building. I killed the engine, turned and gave the Rinpoche all my attention, then took a breath to calm down. “Look, I’m not fond of proselytizers.”
He raised his eyebrows and kept them raised, then dropped them.
“I’m not a big fan of the touchy-feely, the past lives, the chakras, the important steps someone who doesn’t know me tells me I am about to make. I’m an ordinary American man, with a wonderful wife and family, nice job. I try to be good. You’ll excuse me for being blunt, but, really, I don’t need anything—any words of encouragement from you or from any other spiritual teacher.”
He watched me. There was
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