Zen And The Art Of Faking It Part 4

"I know. I saw!"

"So, what if I don't impro-"

"You will, San. You will. Just give yourself over to me. And to, you know, the Force or whatever."

"Uh, Woody, the Force isn't actually a Zen concept."

"Yeah, I know. That was a joke. In case give yourself over to me give yourself over to me sounded too, um, intense or anything." sounded too, um, intense or anything."

"No, it didn't sound intense." I took a deep breath and released it slowly. Here was the big question: "Uh, should it have?"

She looked away as she spoke. "Did you want it to?"

Good G.o.d. This could go on forever, or until I had a heart attack. Plus, we were going to be late again, and Woody's heart was pledged to ELL anyway-so what was the use? "I try not to cultivate...uh...earthly attachments. Buddha said that releasing one's attachments is the key to attaining peace and enlightenment."

Woody turned her head sharply so that she was facing even farther away from me, and I heard an artificial-sounding laugh. "Right, of course. Let's go, San. We're going to be late." As I got up off the rock, she looked back at me. "San, there's some snow in your hair." She wiped it off with the backs of her fingers, then pulled them away like my eyebrows were on fire. And truthfully, I felt like they kinda were.

With weird unstated vibes floating all around, we trudged into school. And we were late anyway. I swear, if I ever write a book, I'm going to call it Zen in the Art of Almost Picking Up Girls, Then Blowing It Forever for No Good Reason. Zen in the Art of Almost Picking Up Girls, Then Blowing It Forever for No Good Reason.

I walked with Woody to her homeroom, but we weren't really together-just two people walking parallel to each other down an ugly green hallway. She did give me a little wave when we got to her locker, and I did give her a little wave back, but it wasn't like things had been back in the glory days of our relations.h.i.+p, fifteen minutes before.

You know those stupid triangle football things that sixth graders make out of aluminum foil so they can flick them across the lunch table? There was one of those on the floor in the hallway, and I kicked it over and over again, all the way to my locker. I'm lucky I didn't cut my toe-sandals aren't the traditional footwear of placekickers-but it felt good to just kick something really hard.

I opened my locker, which was a very Zen locker: nothing in it but three textbooks, all neatly covered. I'm not actually neat, but not owning anything has a way of uncluttering a kid's life. I hung my Astros jacket and pulled out the books. As I did, a note fell off of the top book; someone must have shoved it through the little vent slots in the locker door. It was folded over in fourths and typed on a piece of thick, expensive stationery, like the paper my dad had always used to print resumes on every time we moved. The font was one of those angular-looking fake-Asian ones: THE PURPOSE OF Z ZEN ISTHE PERFECTION OF CHARACTER.-YAMADA R ROs.h.i.+ Well, that was cryptic. And it was the very same quote I had used in my English journal. How did someone know that and why did they want to throw it back in my face? I had no time to think about it too hard. There was only about a minute left in homeroom, and I needed to skim the first chapter of The Tao of Pooh The Tao of Pooh really, really fast. Or, you know, check out the homeroom chicks and babes, now that Woody had ELL and I had no earthly attachments. There was this one girl named Stephanie who was pretty cute. She was tiny and red-haired, nothing like...well, nothing like some other girls I knew. And then there was this girl named Keisha, who had kind of a sophisticated hip-hop look going on. And she was really smart. But I bet she couldn't throw a s...o...b..ll like...She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. And over by the textbook shelves, there was Jenna, the official "it" girl of eighth grade. But I wasn't into the "it" girl type. I was into the "smells like oranges" type. really, really fast. Or, you know, check out the homeroom chicks and babes, now that Woody had ELL and I had no earthly attachments. There was this one girl named Stephanie who was pretty cute. She was tiny and red-haired, nothing like...well, nothing like some other girls I knew. And then there was this girl named Keisha, who had kind of a sophisticated hip-hop look going on. And she was really smart. But I bet she couldn't throw a s...o...b..ll like...She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. And over by the textbook shelves, there was Jenna, the official "it" girl of eighth grade. But I wasn't into the "it" girl type. I was into the "smells like oranges" type.

Like I always say, homeroom sucks. And then the bell rings.

I got through most of the day fine, though. Lunch was even OK; Woody played her guitar the whole time, so I didn't have to face her. Then, in social studies, we didn't meet with our partners. Instead, Dowd gave a lecture on how religious traditions get pa.s.sed down. He happened to mention that when Zen Buddhism first came to China, there were six successive leaders. The first guy, Bodhidharma, picked his replacement, who in turn picked his his replacement, et cetera. Dowd said they were kind of like popes, except that the system broke down after the sixth guy, and Zen split into several different schools. replacement, et cetera. Dowd said they were kind of like popes, except that the system broke down after the sixth guy, and Zen split into several different schools.

Big whoop, right? But as it turns out, you never notice the really important stuff until it comes back to bite you later.

When school let out, Woody sent Peter on his way, and then waited for me at the cla.s.sroom door. "So," she asked while staring at the gum on somebody's locker, "are we going to the shelter and volunteering?"

"Yeah, I guess so," I told my sandals. "If you're up for it."

"I'm up for it," Woody announced to the ceiling tiles.

"Excellent," I exclaimed to the antidrug poster on Dowd's door. "Let's go."

We went.

The shelter was about half a mile from the school, across several big streets with traffic lights, so we had a good, solid fifteen-minute walk together. We talked about homework (we were both against it), and teachers (we both thought they were strange alien beings that couldn't be trusted, although she thought Dowd was "interesting, at least"). But we stayed on the safe topics-nothing about our real lives, nothing about our real feelings.

Nothing about earthly attachments.

And then it was compa.s.sion time. We got to this old and decrepit-looking building with a line of maybe twenty-five people waiting in front. In the cold and the slush. Some of them looked like I'd expect people waiting in line for a soup kitchen meal to look: dirty, scraggly, old, pus.h.i.+ng shopping carts full of blankets and random junk. But others looked like regular working people. And there were two mothers there with little kids. Somehow it had never occurred to me that there might be little kids lining up in the snow for a meal, in America in the twenty-first century. What were they thinking as they saw all the other pedestrians walking in a wide arc to avoid coming anywhere near the line, like being poor was contagious?

Woody pulled me past the spectacle, around the corner of the building, and into a side door. As soon as we were inside the shelter, an elderly woman came scurrying up to Woody. "Emily, dear, it's wonderful to see you. And I see you've brought a friend. Are you bringing in your donation for the month?"

Emily? Who the heck was- "No, Sister Mary Clare. I'm here with my friend San Lee to volunteer. We want to help out with serving. Um, it's for a school project. Can we?"

Sister Mary Clare looked me up and down. "Well, he's not much in the wardrobe department, but then again, neither was our Lord and Savior. Can you wash dishes, Stanley?"

"Um, it's San Lee."

"Right, Stanley. That's what I said."

"No, I-"

Emily, the artist formerly known as Woody, stomped on my foot and cut me off. "Yes, San is an excellent dishwasher. He's quick and thorough. The trick is, you can't get too attached to any one dish-you just have to keep moving on to the next dish with no emotion. And that's San's specialty."

Ouch. Easy for Mrs. ELL to talk about how other people moved from dish to dish. I didn't have time to respond, though, because at that very instant Mildred Romberger came barreling out of a door marked PANTRY holding a wedge of cheese. "See?" she cackled. "You're the senile one, Mary Clare! Here's the Parmesan cheese you said we didn't have. Now we can make great garlic cheese bread with the b.u.t.ter you the senile one, Mary Clare! Here's the Parmesan cheese you said we didn't have. Now we can make great garlic cheese bread with the b.u.t.ter you also also said we didn't have. Oh, h.e.l.lo, San. How's my favorite Zen student today?" said we didn't have. Oh, h.e.l.lo, San. How's my favorite Zen student today?"

What was this, the Soup Kitchen of the Ancients? And was Mildred going to blow my cover? I had to change the topic. "I'm doing great, thank you. I'm here to wash dishes. But I'm wondering...umm...no offense, but aren't there any...uh...younger people helping out here?"

Sister Mary Clare answered that one: "Well, Stanley, far too many young people seem to be too busy to think about others. Not like your friend Emily here. When she came to me last year with her first donation, I thought, 'This will never happen again; she's just another little rich girl making herself feel good.' Then she showed up again a month later, and a month after that, and so on-thirteen months and counting. Our Emily is a rare girl. So, are the two of you an item, Stan? If so, we'll try not to leave you alone together in the dishwas.h.i.+ng area for too long! Right, Mildred?"

Then the two oldsters started cackling together uproariously. Oh, good lord. Or jumping Buddhas. This might have been the first recorded instance of a nun and a librarian trying to set a fake Buddhist up with a dentist's folksinger daughter for a hot soup-kitchen dishwas.h.i.+ng rendezvous. Too bad they didn't know that "Emily's" heart was already pledged to the mysterious ELL. Or that I was famous for my emotional detachment and lack of earthly desires. All that was going to happen in the dishwas.h.i.+ng room was the cleaning of dishes.

Darn it.

Sister Mary Clare gave us a quick tour of the dining room, pantry, and main kitchen area. Then she hustled us into the back of the kitchen, gave us ap.r.o.ns and rubber gloves, and taught us how to be dishwashers. First, these huge trays came through a little window in front of us on a conveyor belt. Then we'd stop the belt when a tray was over the huge sink, grab a handheld showerhead-type thing, and blast the dishes on the tray with the superhot water from the shower to rinse them. Next, we'd start the conveyor again, maneuver the tray into this stainless-steel box, and pull the WASH lever, which would start a five-minute cycle to get the dishes really clean. Finally we'd yank the lever back up, wait for a green light on the side of the box, turn the conveyor back on again, and shove the next tray into place.

It sounded easy, but that was before the action started. The trays were coming in maybe three at a time, and they were completely piled up with disgusting gooey dishes, plates, bowls, and silverware. But the silverware was supposed to be separate, so then one of us would have to reach in amid the tottering, muck-crusted piles on the moving tray and pluck it out. Also, you couldn't put napkins through the machine, so we'd have to check for those too. And if you've never tried to separate a soda-drenched napkin from a moving bowl of halfeaten chocolate pudding without causing a dish avalanche, you haven't really lived.

Plus the shower water was like a hundred-and-fifty degrees, and it splattered all over you if it bounced off a dish at the wrong angle. And you were constantly bouncing water off at the wrong angle, because you kept looking at your dishwas.h.i.+ng partner: -Was she looking at you?

-Darn it! She kind of was. Did she just catch you looking at her?

-Why was she trying to catch you looking at her anyway? Shouldn't she be concentrating on the dishes? Or on her stupid three-initials boyfriend? Or on- OWW! That water really was off the hizzook hizzook hot. hot.

By the end of the three-hour dinner s.h.i.+ft, we were totally soaked, and totally covered with grunge, and it was about ninety-five degrees in the dish room. We hadn't seen a single guest (that's what they called the people who came to eat) since we'd come in, but we'd seen enough plates to know that dinner had been a hit. And as the last tray rolled out of the washer, we were tired. Or at least I was. My arms were shaky from the unusual strain of slinging the trays and the hose around, my neck was stiff, and my feet hurt like a madman.

Mildred stuck her head into our little window and said, "That's it, kids! You can relax now." I took off my ap.r.o.n, threw it on the steaming pile of used dishrags, and hopped up to sit on the steel counter. As I flicked a strand of half-washed spaghetti off of my pant leg, Woody jumped up next to me. I waited for her to say something. She waited too. Just when the waiting was starting to feel like some strange Zen duel, Sister Mary Clare popped in with two plates of food.

"Here you go, kids! You did a great job of keeping up for first-timers. Why, I remember once in 1978, the chief of police lost a bet to Mildred and had to wash the dishes here for a week. On his first night, the trays were backed up five deep, and then his pistol got stuck in the conveyor and went through the pressure-wash unit. We were all diving to the floor-I thought the heat would make his bullets shoot all over the place! Oh, was that that a wild time!" She nodded happily. "Yes, a wild time. Anyway, we kept some food warm for you." a wild time!" She nodded happily. "Yes, a wild time. Anyway, we kept some food warm for you."

I hadn't thought about it, but I was starving. It was going on seven o'clock, and I hadn't eaten a thing since lunch-which, for me, was like a miracle and a half. Woody and I both dived into the food like we'd just spent eleven years as island castaways, and didn't come up for air until the last crumb was a fading memory. Then we started back in with the waiting contest until Mildred barged in.

"Aha!" she crowed. "What are you two youngsters still doing here, all alone together? In a church building, no less. And don't tell me you're just eating either. Your plates are empty, and I'm no fool. I know what it means when two young people look at each other like that!"

Strangely, we had been avoiding looking at each other for hours. But when she said that, of course, we both looked. I could feel the heat in my face, even above the general swelter of the dish room, as I turned back toward Mildred. "Uh, Mrs. Romberger? Now that we're done eating, what are we supposed to do next?"

She looked absolutely jolly. "You should know this one, Zen Boy: Wash your bowl!"

I did, while Woody left the room for a minute or two. So I washed her bowl too. Although I must have missed a footnote in a book somewhere, because I didn't know what was.h.i.+ng bowls had to do with Zen.

Woody came back in, and gave me the no-look look we'd been developing. "Uh, San, this was...umm...good. I mean, I'm glad we did it."

I no-looked right back at her. "Yeah, uh, me too. And, uh, I washed your bowl too. You know, it's a Zen practice."

She looked puzzled. "What does was.h.i.+ng a bowl have to do with Zen?"

"I'll tell you tomorrow, when we have more time. Right now, I have to get home fast."

"Oh, I just called my mom on my cell. Do you want a ride?"

I couldn't accept a ride from Woody's mom. Then Woody might see my mother or something. But then again, I couldn't say no gracefully either. Plus, it was cold and dark out, and I was wearing wet clothes and sandals.

I hesitated too long thinking about all this, and Woody started angrily yanking her coat on. "Yes," I blurted. "I'd love a ride."

As she walked out of the dish room and down the hall, her voice floated behind: "OK, San-if you don't think it's too much of an earthly attachment or anything."

Woody walked right over to a really expensive-looking car that was idling by the curb. She got in the backseat first, and as I slipped in next to her, I felt really awkward. I was sweating and dripping all over the leather seats, and probably smelled like a barnyard animal-if barnyard animals were ever allowed to roll around in troughs of Parmesan cheese. But the driver had great manners. Either that, or she enjoyed the smell of livestock and sharp cheese.

"Hi, Mom!" Woody chirped. Ah, they were a fake-cheerful family.

"Hi, Emily," the mom replied as she pulled away from the curb. "And you must be San. We've heard so much about you this week: 'San said this. San said that. San sits on a rock.' San, San, San. Truthfully, I think Emily's father and Peter are getting pretty sick of hearing it. No offense. But I think it's great that Emily is being exposed to such...diversity. We don't get much chance to meet, um, people like you in our little town."

Woody looked like she wanted to open her door and roll out onto the street, preferably into the path of an oncoming tractor trailer. I wasn't offended by Mrs. Long's awkward little salute to diversity; I was trying to make sense of the Peter thing.

"Peter?" I asked, rather intelligently.

"You know, Peter-from your school. Emily's brother."

"Brother?" Wow, this woman was going to think all Chinese people talked like cavemen.

"Well, stepbrother. When I married Emily's father, we each brought a child along. And now we're one big happy family."

I could have sworn that, even over the road noise and the blast of the heater, I could hear Woody snort. I ignored it and gave Mrs. Long directions to our apartment. When we got there, I thanked her, hopped out, and scrambled for the front door just in case my mom might be in the vicinity.

But I shouldn't have worried about that. Mom was sitting upstairs in the dark, waiting to kill me.

calls and misses

I walked up the stairs and into the apartment, feeling the ache in muscles I hadn't even known I had. My backpack felt like it weighed 300 pounds, and the soles of my sandals felt like wet sandpaper beneath my feet. This had been a weird day, and a day full of questions: Who put the Zen note in my locker? Why? Why did Woody have two names? Who was ELL? If Peter was Woody's stepbrother, why did he have a thing against me?

Would I smell like Parmesan cheese forever?

I opened the door with a sigh, feeling like a cross between the Hardy Boys and a galley slave. And there, sitting on the tacky rented recliner chair with a gla.s.s of wine, was my mom. The lights were all off, except for the dim little lamp over her chair. She sat in the little cone of yellow, like a police interrogator on TV. And from the look on her face, she wasn't playing the good cop.

Before the door could even click shut behind me, she started in. "Where were you, San? Where WERE you? I called your school, but it was already closed. I was going to call the police if you didn't get home soon. And you missed your father's call-again! Did you know he has to work extra hours shoveling sand and picking up garbage on the edge of the interstate just to earn the right to call? Do you care?"

She stopped to take a sip of wine, and in the faint half-light it looked like a tear was running down her right cheek. She looked at me and waited for the answer that would explain this all away.

"Mom, I'm sorry I kept you waiting. I went to this soup kitchen with a girl in my social studies cla.s.s-for our project, you know? The Zen thing? Anyway, they kept us was.h.i.+ng dishes nonstop, so I couldn't call. I didn't mention this to you? I thought I'd told you-"

WHAP! That was the sound of my mom's hand smacking me across the face. She had never, ever hit me before. I couldn't believe what had happened, so I just stood there, watching the wine from her overturned gla.s.s spill onto the carpet in slow motion. That was the sound of my mom's hand smacking me across the face. She had never, ever hit me before. I couldn't believe what had happened, so I just stood there, watching the wine from her overturned gla.s.s spill onto the carpet in slow motion.

"Great," she said. "Now the rug is ruined too." Then she started sobbing. I didn't know what to do in this situation: When someone slaps you and then cries, are you obligated to hug them? Do you ask what's wrong while defending your rib cage at the same time? Do you walk away? Clean up the spreading wine stain?

Stand there like an idiot?

Well, that last one was my choice. I just stood there, feeling the tears welling up in my eyes and the heat rus.h.i.+ng to what must have been a bright scarlet handprint on my face. It took my mom about a minute to get herself back under control. Finally she went to the kitchen counter, grabbed a tissue, and blew her nose. Then she said, "I will not have you lying to me, San. I've been lied to enough for this lifetime. You know you did NOT tell me anything about missing your father's call. I am ashamed of you. And you are grounded."

I was going to ask for how long, but I wanted to get out of there with my teeth intact. Instead, I just said, "I won't talk to him." Then I stopped to clear a sudden lump in my throat and blink the moisture out of my eyes before continuing shakily, "I don't care if I'm grounded until I'm a hundred, I won't talk to him."

She didn't look mad anymore, or even particularly sad. Just drained and kind of old. Defeated. "Oh, San," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

My cheek hurt. I didn't want to hear it. I said, "Whatever. Good night." Then I skulked away into my room, and closed the door. As I looked in the chipped mirror on the back of my door at my face-which looked exactly like it felt-I realized I had just doomed myself to stay in my room until bedtime. Which was hours away.

Looking around, I really felt like a Zen monk. I was in this little battles.h.i.+p-gray room, with no pictures on the walls, no furniture except the bed and a crummy old dresser that tilted to the left, and no electronic devices whatsoever. My dad probably had better access to TV and music than I did. All I had was the pile of books by the bed. And a whole lot of time.

They say, "Everything will look better in the morning." They're pretty much full of c.r.a.p, though. For one moment as I woke up in a little pool of sunlight, as well as a little pool of drool atop the library book under my head, I thought, Hey, this is a beautiful day. Hey, this is a beautiful day. Then I realized I was living a life of total deception, in total poverty, among total strangers. With a mom who was probably losing it. Then I realized I was living a life of total deception, in total poverty, among total strangers. With a mom who was probably losing it.

Stalked via stationery, two-timed by a girl with two names. Grounded and slapped.

Oh, well. I still had my health. As I eased my way out of bed and onto the icy linoleum floor, I realized I didn't quite have all of my health. I was incredibly sore all over, and the inside of my cheek was killing me. Apparently, I had bitten it in the process of getting smacked upside the head by my mom. I was almost afraid to look in the mirror, but you couldn't actually see any damage on the outside. At least I could go to school and pretend everything was Zen-normal. Oh, joy.

Have you ever attempted to drown your sorrows in sugared cereal? I have, often. I can't believe we've gotten this far without me mentioning it, but I am probably a Cap'n Crunch addict. In fact, when I was in first grade, this nutrition-expert lady came to our cla.s.s to teach us about healthy food and asked us to write down our favorite fruits on this little coloring work sheet. I raised my hand and asked, "How do you spell 'Crunch Berries' ?"

Anyhow, this was definitely a "date with the Cap'n" kind of morning. I got the milk, a bowl, a cheap-o spoon that my mom had bought in the dollar store, and the economy-sized cereal box, and set up my feasting station. But just as the first jet of cool and delicious milk hit the golden top of my crunch mountain, Mom walked in. She looked like she'd been run over by the b.u.m Truck-her hair was stringy, she was still in her bathrobe, her face was the color of congealed oatmeal, with reddish splotches on her nose and chin, and purplish bags under her eyes.

As though hitting me had beaten her her up. up.

She puttered around with her coffee things while I tried to enjoy digging into my sugar fortification rations. But somehow, having the wreck of your mom pacing back and forth around you in stony silence stomps on the sugar buzz. When she finally sat down across from me, she took a sip of coffee, grimaced, and sighed. Then she spoke.

"Look, San, I've never hit you before. I couldn't sleep all night thinking about it. You're my baby boy. You're all I have, you're the one thing I've got to show for my first thirty-nine years of life. You're the only person I'm sure of. And then when you you lied to me..." lied to me..."

Her eyes were starting to run over. "San, when you started making up some story last night...I know you're not genetically related to him, but for a second, you looked just like your father. I'm sorry, but you looked just like your father."

She was weeping freely, and suddenly I was bawling too. If I had ever been itching to try out the intriguing taste of Cap'n Crunch with Tear-Berries, this would have been my chance. Mom came around the table and put her arms around me, which gave me all the excuse I needed to collapse into her. We stayed like that until the cereal was even more of a soggy paste, and then finally got under control again. Mom got up to reheat her cold coffee, and I wiped my nose all over my sleeve while her head was turned. As she sat back down, I said, "I still can't believe you hit me, Mom."

She said, "I know. I don't think I was really even so mad at you. I really wanted to hit your father."

"Well, Mom, you missed."

She winced, and took a sip of her nuked coffee.

"By the way, I truly was feeding people at the soup kitchen last night."

She gave me the "And?" look.