Spiritual Badass

May 23, 2007

I was a block away from where Brian and I had arranged to meet when my phone rang. "Change of plans," said Brian. "I'm at a place with the best name for an Indian restaurant ever."

"And what might that be?"

"The Indian Curry Mahal."

"Okay."

"Not to be confused with the Pakistani Curry Mahal. It's on Second Avenue between 4th and 5th Streets. On the east side of the street. You'll see it. It has a maroon awning."

"Of course it does. Okay, I'm a block away, I'll be there in one minute."

When I walked in, Brian was sitting down, and a waiter was filling two water glasses. The waiter looked like a college Math professor. Thin hair, gray at the temples, horn-rimmed glasses, and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I pictured him figuring out the checks on a giant blackboard in the kitchen.

"Hello, sir," he said, and pulled a chair out for me. Then he walked to the back of the restaurant, sat at a table, and began sorting through receipts, punching numbers into a calculator. So much for the blackboard.

Brian had put on weight since the last time I'd seen him. That's a good thing.

"Are you keeping up with the vegetarianism?" I asked.

"No, dude, I've been eating bird. Lots of birds. Turkey sandwiches for lunch every day. I need it. I need to firm up." He patted himself on the stomach. "Once I do, I'll give it another go."

I wasn't exactly sure what he meant by "firm up," and I didn't ask. As far as I knew, he still had some lingering digestion issues from his trip to India a few months ago. I was actually kind of surprised he suggested meeting at an Indian restaurant. His stomach had been so screwed up that I didn't think he'd ever eat Indian food again. I suppose as long as he's not eating leftovers that were prepared under a house on stilts in 100-degree heat amidst live chickens, everything will be okay.

"Did I tell you I'm going to an ashram upstate?"

"I don't think so."

He told me the name of it and where it is, but I don't remember. He said he's going there for ten days of silent meditation. No talking.

"I'm getting a little stressed out about it," he said. "I was all gung-ho when I signed up, but now I don't know if I can do it."

"Ten days? It'll fly by like that," I said, trying to be encouraging.

"I don't know, dude. I did it at an ashram in India for a week, and after the fourth day, I was like, 'What the hell did I get myself into?' They told me that since I'm a little older than most of the other people going, I might get my own room to sleep in. I hope so. I don't want to share a room."

"Yeah, you don't want to share a room with some kid. He'll be whispering to you in the middle of the night, Psst, Psst, hey man, you wanna get high? "

"I know, right? I really only signed up because I thought it would look good on my resume with the ladies."

"Is that what the ladies are into?" I laughed. "And do you actually show them a resume?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then why can't you just lie? Isn't that what people do on their resumes?"

"It's a competition," he said.

"Huh?"

"Spirituality is a competition. And I'm out to be the biggest spiritual badass in town."

"Spiritual badass? You mean like Kung Fu?"

"Ha. Yeah. Something like that."

"Well, don't hurt yourself."