Just then, the song, “Smells Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana began playing. I suddenly had the suspicion that each time the music grabbed my attention, a Holy One would appear. It was as if, whether for drama, theatrics, or just heavenly fun, the gods all had their own entrance song when they arrived.
I turned to face the door. Sure enough, the Great Sage, the Awakened One, the man who attained Nirvana while still of earthly body and mind, walked in.
If he was dressed like a monk in a baggy brown robe, tweed rope belt and wooden sandals, I would understand. Even a white toga would have seemed more appropriate, easy to accept. Instead, The Enlightened One walked in from the chill of the Wyoming night dressed like a gaudy American tourist making his first visit to Honolulu.
He was wearing Bermuda shorts and an unbuttoned yellow Hawaiian shirt, revealing a portly belly which he made no obvious attempt to hide. On his shirt was a bounty of colorful patterns: green coconut trees, brown pineapples, tropical birds in a whirlwind of vivid colors, and dancing hula girls with hair of red, blonde and brown. Concealing what appeared to be a bald or cleanly-shaven head was a straw hat. He wasn’t wearing shoes, but covering his feet were long white tube socks pulled high to his knees.
Slowly, he waddled through the bar like a mellowed penguin, rubbing his belly with his right hand, seemingly proud of the protrusion, as if it were a badge of honor or a definitive physical proof of enlightenment. A large grin stretched from ear to ear, suggesting he was happy and at peace. He strolled past us without acknowledgement, slid out a chair, used it to prop himself atop the table behind us, then sat and crossed his legs. His back was to us and he faced directly into the wall. He began meditating.
“He looks like the maitre d’ at Trader Vic’s,” snickered Freud. “Now there is someone who has completely lost touch.”
“I beg to differ,” I said with confidence. “I believe the Buddha would say just the opposite.” I studied Buddhism only briefly in college, but still I felt my words were backed with assurance.
Sigmund Freud turned to me with a scowling look on his face. “Don’t argue with me, young man. You are new here.”
I thought Freud was about to launch a vicious diatribe at me. The Holy Ones chuckled, sensing my unease. Thankfully, Freud turned his attention back to Buddha. He studied his subject for a minute or so, rolling his cigar ever so softly in his right hand, then rose from his chair and approached him.
“This should be entertaining!” said Jesus after he left.
Freud rolled his sleeves up as he approached Buddha, like a vigilant detective ready to interrogate a suspect in the holding cell at police headquarters. Then he sat down in a chair against the wall, opposite Buddha, directly in the Enlightened One’s line of vision. Buddha opened his eyes. He neither smirked nor smiled.
“Good evening, Siddhartha,” said Freud. ”Or do you prefer I call you Mr. Gautama?”
“Yes,” replied Buddha in a calm, gentle voice.
“Mr. Gautama? Or Siddhartha?”
“Yes.”
“Well, which do you prefer?” Freud continued.
“I have no preference,” answered Buddha.
For a moment, Freud seemed befuddled. Then with a sternness of voice he continued his query.
“I would like to have a serious talk with you. May I start by offering to buy you a drink?”
“I desire nothing, I refuse nothing.”
Freud scrutinized Buddha’s attire.
“Judging by your ridiculous outfit, may I suggest a tropical Mai Tai?” Then laminating his words with a snide veneer and delivering them with a condescending enunciation, he added, “with a little, pretty umbrella in it, too?”
“I desire nothing. I refuse nothing,” Buddha repeated.
Freud snapped his fingers loudly to get the waitress’ attention. When she came to their table he ordered a pitcher of beer for himself and a Mai Tai for Buddha.
“Extra rum!” added Buddha, as he discretely sneaked a wink at Jesus.
I was surprised by his acceptance of Sigmund Freud’s offer of an alcoholic beverage. In my studies, I learned that Buddhist monks adhere to a strict regimen of discipline. They do not indulge in any forms of entertainment that can be viewed as secular. They eat only at appointed times. And drinking alcoholic beverages was not permitted. Nor were the use of any forms of intoxicants for that matter.
“Do not judge,” said Jesus. “Tonight, haven’t you witnessed that all is not as it seems?”
“He’s just playing with Siggy, anyway,” Muhammad informed me with a knowing smile.
“God, I wish I had Buddy’s tolerance,” lamented Moses, shaking his head. “That Crazy Quack always gets under my skin.”
“Perhaps you would do well then to meditate, Mose, or study the Buddha’s doctrines,” suggested Jesus. “They are quite remarkable.”
“They most certainly are,” agreed Muhammad. “I think his followers are onto something, that peaceful lot. Amazing how they have spread the beliefs of their religion with overwhelming pacifism. Islam spread through large-scale military conquest; Christianity has spurred innumerous wars of violence and bloodshed; acts of hatred and violence between Hindus and Muslims have plagued India for centuries. Somehow, the Buddha’s great spiritual message has spread peacefully and without bloodshed.”
The words Muhammad spoke echoed in my head. Religion and Peace: they seem always to be at odds. From my brief studies of Buddhism I remembered that its teachings of divine love and transcendent purpose were translated into a benign pacifism that impacted humanity on a very large scale. Indeed, pacifism and nonviolence were both characteristic of countries where Buddhism flourished.
Freud sat straight up in his seat when the waitress returned with the beverages. He blew a cloud of smoke in Buddha’s direction. The Enlightened One didn’t seem to mind. Freud took a gulp of beer directly from his pitcher, then began his interrogation.
“I have done some extensive research on you as well, Siddhartha. There are some questions I would like to ask. Please, for your own good, give me honest answers. The truth will set you free.”
“Truth is good,” replied Buddha.
“Is it not true that you were born the son of a powerful and wealthy ruler of a small kingdom?”
“It is true.”
“And that your father afforded you a life of supreme luxury, living as a monarch with three beautiful palaces, wearing clothes made of only the finest silks, dining on exquisite food and drink, being serenaded by music that was played by only the most beautiful of women?”
“It is all true.”
“Then why did you rebel against him, refuse all he had given, and run away from home?”
“I didn’t run.”
“Be honest, Siddhartha.”
“I am honest. I didn’t run.”
“You didn’t run?”
“No. I walked.”
Freud pounded his fist on the table. “Don’t get smart with me, Hula Boy!”
“I walked away because the luxurious life I was afforded was an empty and useless existence. It was all illusory. The lifestyle offered no solution to the problem of human suffering. So, I walked, and found the path. The path to Awareness. The path to Non-Attachment. The path to Non-Self. I let go of my identity.”
“So, you have an identity crisis?”
“Not at all.”
“Answer me this: how do you see yourself?”
“I cannot attach a label to it.”
“Why not?”
“Labels are meaningless.”
“Work with me, Siddhartha. I’m trying to help.”
“Well, in words you might understand, perhaps you can classify me as the ‘Anti-Freud’.”
Freud seemed offended by Buddha’s choice of words. “The ‘Anti-Freud’?” he asked. “Explain, you heretic!”
“I have released any notion of Ego. I have tamed the Id. Therefore, I have no use for the Superego. Hence, I found Enlightenment.”
“Ah yes, enlightenment. Speaking of which, is it true that you found so-called ‘enlightenment’ while sitting on a straw mat beneath a Bodhi tree atop a mountaintop in western India?”
“That is true.”
“After seven days of not eating or drinking?”
“That, too, is true.”
“Did it ever occur to you that your so-called ‘enlightenment’ might actually have been a grand hallucination, a vision of delirium, produced by the body’s adverse reaction to extreme dehydration and food deprivation?”
“That is not true.”
“How do you know?”
“I am Enlightened. I know.”
