The Next Chapter of the Not-Story

Wake a few minutes before the alarm, thanks to a mysterious internal clock. Reliable as the wife’s three bean salad. That’s the way it happens these days. Turn off the alarm, so it doesn’t disturb her. Slide out of bed and feel around for eyeglasses and slippers, and pad down the stairs to start coffee. Gobble a muffin. Shower, shave. Dress in the dark. Don’t forget the aspirin.    

The wife says, “Tell me again where you’re going?”  

“To the zendo for a sesshin. A short one. Twelve periods. I’ll be home for dinner,” Rudy says. 

“Isn’t that only for the monks?” she mumbles from under the covers. 

“Anyone can participate with some basic experience.” 

“Hey, just a thought,” she continues, “maybe you are experiencing a form of middle-aged-engineer-between-jobs crisis.”  

“One possibility,” Rudy admits. 

“Why else would otherwise mature adults want to sit cross-legged staring at the wall for hours, pretending to be little kids in time-out?” she asks. 

“Honey, look, you’re the one who told me to try this for stress relief,” Rudy says. 

“Okay. Good luck. Don’t fall asleep,” she says. 

That is a concern. Along with coughing and the pain in his knee from a loss of cartilage. Bundle up for a brisk walk. To the east, a violet dawn. To the west, along Central Avenue, a fat moon rides the horizon. Once upon a time, this used to be his daily routine as a paperboy delivering the morning edition of The Indianapolis Star on a bike. A red Schwinn, with two rusty baskets plus streamers hanging off of the handles. Walk fast, but not too fast, so as not to attract the attention of a passing police cruiser. Too late. 

“Where you going at this hour?” the cop asks, rolling down his window. 

“To the Zen Center,” Rudy says. 

“Say what?” 

“Couple blocks up and over, corner of Elm, for a meditation workshop.” 

“Say what again. Mediation?” 

“Yeah, a ‘mediation’ workshop.” 

The cop nods knowingly. He asks, “Where are you coming from?” 

“Walnut and Central.” 

“You see a guy in short sleeves with a shaved head and tattoos of birds on his arms?” 

“No, why?” 

“He tried to hold up the gas station on Walnut with a fire extinguisher. Keep an eye out.” 

“I’ll do that, officer.” 

“Have a good day.” 

Watch out for stray dogs too. A lot of complaints about them on the neighborhood LISTSERV. Cross the street to avoid a skunk rummaging in a garbage can. Arrive at the center in time to mingle in the mud room with the twelve other participants. All sizes and genders and colors, taking off coats and shoes. Nod and bow and smile. Supposedly, a silent retreat. Rudy discreetly swallows a couple aspirin, trying to stay ahead of the pain. Notice a guy in short sleeves with a shaved head and blurry tattoos on his biceps. His T-shirt says, “Discipline Equals Freedom.” 

There are a lot of shaved heads in the room. And that fire extinguisher has always been here, hasn’t it? Shuffle into the zendo. Bow at the door, bow to the mat. Choose the open spot in the far corner. Fewer distractions in the corner. Sit, spin, stretch. Adjust pant legs and loosen the belt a notch.  

Hoko, the gnarly vice abbot, dutifully discourses on a few matters of business, the lunch break and the clean-up routine, and she points out the new fire exit in back, required by code, which looks more like an escape hatch from a submarine. Pull the left ankle up in a half-lotus. Hoko asks for brief introductions. Rudy freezes and mumbles something about his old paper route and almost tears up. These days, Rudy cries at the silliest things.  

Ding, ding, ding. The gong officially announces the start of the long sit, along with Rudy’s internal jabber: “Pace yourself . . . this breath, this breath . . . don’t forget the wife’s birthday next week . . . Discipline Equals Freedom, my ass.” 

One down, eleven to go. Ten minutes of walking meditation between periods, kinhin, a slow ritual walk around the perimeter of the zendo. Fold hands across the belly, right hand on top. Roll and press each foot on the floor to refresh blood flow. Daylight starts to spill into the dim room. Step, step, step. One foot in front of the other.  

Some participants peel off and hurry to the bathroom for a quick pee. Rudy swallows another aspirin. A different chime rings to signal the fast walk, around and around, everyone moving in line back to their mat. Rudy shivers through a memory of musical chairs, inclusion and exclusion, always losing at musical chairs in grade school. 

Spend the next two periods pondering the repressed musical-chairs trauma, along with the concept of no-separation. Future, past, then and now. To itch or not to itch. Breathe through the heart. It passes the time, and time passes it. From outside, the sound of a lawnmower kicks up. Who would be mowing their yard at 7:30 a.m.? The same person who idles the machine to engage their neighbor in a shouted back-fence conversation about the stray dogs. 

“I don’t know which is worse, the dogs or the deer.” 

“Did you see where a pack took down a fawn in the park?” 

“That was messy.” 

“Turkey buzzards had a field day.” 

“Some ugly up close, aren’t they?” 

“Did the police stop by your house this morning to ask about the hold-up attempt on Walnut?” 

“They seem to think the robber fled this way along the alley.” 

“Probably somebody from the shelter.” 

Do not react to the sudden, spasmodic coughing from the tattooed guy. Admire the slow descent of sunlight on the wall—a bright, narrow stripe gradually revealing hundreds of miniscule granules in the surface of the pale-yellow paint.

Like the tiny particles of steam that affix themselves to the bathroom wall after a shower. Like peering through a microscope. The wall becomes a lens. Study the pretty microbes. Beautiful, really. Stunningly beautiful, but beware of narrative creep, as was discussed last Sunday at the dharma talk with Hoko: 

“Is it okay to enjoy those shadows on the wall?” Rudy asked. 

“What do you mean?” Hoko replied. 

“In the afternoons, when the sun is low and coming in through the trees in the side yard.” 

“And there’s a breeze,” she added. 

“Exactly—the breeze makes the leaves flutter, and the backlight casts this shadow play, a movie on the wall in front of us.” 

“What is your question?” 

“Is it okay to sit here and also admire the light show?” 

“Sure, just don’t make a story out of it,” Hoko advised. 

Sense the chime ringing before it actually sounds, like the alarm clock. Ding, ding, ding. At the next break, Rudy slips out to pee. A basic function, a simple, basic thing. Get in line for the bathroom behind the tattooed guy. Drink some water, take another aspirin. So far, so good with the knees. The tattooed guy is checking his phone. That is a forbidden. What is he checking, his social media sites or the police scanner? The guy turns and shares a knowing smile. Or a complicit smile. Of course, several other participants are poring over their phones too. Are those bird tattoos on his arms? Don’t make a story out of it. Ding, ding, ding. Arrive back at the mat just in time for the group bow. 

“Market alert. Pork belly futures down three percent. Soybeans lead the plunge,” says a mechanical voice from across the room. 

“Oh, darn, that’s my phone,” the tattooed guy apologizes. 

“Please, turn it off,” someone grumbles. 

“I thought I had, sorry,” the guy says. 

“Damn phones,” someone else adds. 

Hoko sounds the chime again. 

Take in a whiff of incense. Shift the right foot up onto the left calf. Bend slightly over each knee. Slowly rotate the neck. Who cares at this point if anyone sees? Be grateful for a spouse who brings home a steady paycheck. What now? The next chapter of the not-story. Rudy briefly considers applying for a newspaper route again. The incense smells like a smoldering leaf pile. Close the eyes, technically a no-no, but allows for two periods of cloistered consciousness teetering on a REM-like sleep state. Generate gauzy images of flying no-handed on the red bike along the towpath by the canal. Mallard ducks paddle near the shore. Outside the zendo’s bay window, two busy birdfeeders hanging from a pine bough produce hallucinatory avian dialogue. 

Lose count of the periods. And lunch. Did we eat lunch? Yes, the cold sesame noodles. Fantastic, best ever. At some point mid-afternoon, during kinhin, shift into an unexpectedly vast, warm, collective identification. We are walking. We are bowing. We are chowing at the birdfeeders. We are sitting now and breathing together as one being. Smile through a surge of compassion for the tattoo guy. If he is the gas station robber, surely he was acting from a desire to share the stolen cash and lottery scratch-offs with the huddled group of homeless folks always hanging out in the alley. 

Does that mean we tried to rob the gas station? Okay, so be it. Here we go. Hold on for the raw void when the little-me shell cracks open. Nothing blissful about it. No heavenly light. Rudy stifles a yawn.  

Flow through a period of clarifying silence. Open the eyes and keep them open. Rock forward, rock back. Concentrate on forming an exact circular handclasp of fingers in the lap. Squirrels scurry in the dry leaves of the window wells. Claws on bark. A door knocker clangs. From the residence quarters upstairs, the vice abbot’s partner talks in muffled tones to a gruff voice that sounds like the cop. 

“I’m sorry, not until six p.m. We are in the middle of an event now.” 

Mumble, mumble.  

“Sorry, it’s not possible. I know the law, being an attorney, in fact.” 

Mumble, mumble. 

“These premises are the same as a church. The same rules of sanctuary apply.” 

Ding, ding, ding. One more period, or maybe two. A gathering, heartfelt, evanescent silence. Late afternoon sunlight flickers. Struggle to re-acclimate to a near future. Anticipate this, anticipate that. The holiday schedule and the next job fair. Think of the walk home as an extended, linear kinhin. One foot in front of the other. Follow the breadcrumbs. How to describe it all to the wife? A tiny spider graces the final minutes, dangling on a filament of silk. Follow the thread.      

*          *          *

“Tell me again what happened in the closure part?” the wife asks over dinner, pasta with asparagus. 

“We were supposed to discuss our experience of the day,” Rudy says. 

“You were finally allowed to talk together,” she says, “but something else happened.”  

“Right, it goes off course because of the gas station robbery. When the cops come inside to interview us, the tattooed guy jumps up and bolts out the fire exit.”  

“I thought you said he wasn’t the gas station robber.”  

“That’s what he claimed. A very polite guy, actually. When the vice abbot informed us that the police are waiting outside to question us about the attempted robbery, the guy bows and, before his abrupt departure, thanks us and apologizes for having to leave. Hoko asks him, “‘So you did it?’’ And the guy says, ‘No, I wouldn’t rob a gas station, but I did something else felonious.’”  

The wife says, “Really, he used the word ‘felonious’?” 

“So we chatted up the police for a half hour while he got away.”  

“Because it seemed the natural thing to do.” 

“We were sort of rooting for him,” Rudy says. 

Eat on tray tables. Brew a pot of decaf green. Click on the television and watch the wife’s favorite show. Something about women in prison. Rudy leans over and asks if life with an unemployed husband feels like a prison. She smiles and kisses him on the chin. Wash the dishes together and dry them with a fresh towel. Drop a dessert plate and laugh at the fragmentation. Everything is so fragile. 

IAN WOOLLEN

Ian Woollen lives and works in Bloomington, Indiana. His short fiction has surfaced recently in North Dakota Quarterly, Five South, and Apeiron Review. A new novel, Sister City, is out from Coffeetown Press.