5

MICKEY HAD A VAGUE IDEA WHERE THEY COULD find a women’s store catering to plus sizes, but he wasn’t concentrating on that.

“Am I ever going to be on again?” he asked.

“We’ll see,” said Francisco. “Right now, you’re taking a vacation from being Mickey Fellows.”

“But that’s how I earn my living,” Mickey said, trying not to sound panicked.

“Yes, but he’s just a role you’ve taken on. That’s okay as long as you realize that you’re playing a part. The real you isn’t about roles.”

The car had pulled up to a stoplight at a busy corner of Santa Monica Boulevard. Francisco pointed to half a dozen pedestrians waiting on the curb.

“Those people are as trapped in their roles as you are.”

He nodded toward a teenager waiting for the light with a skateboard under his arm; he was standing next to a middle-aged man in a gray business suit.

“That kid thinks of himself as a rebel. In his eyes the businessman is a sell-out. But if you look at it from the businessman’s perspective, the kid is an irresponsible slacker who refuses to grow up. All of that is ego talk. The ego wants to feel superior. In reality, those two people are completely equal.”

The Walk sign came on, and the pedestrians stepped off the curb, crossing in front of Mickey’s car. “I want you to see them as equal,” Francisco said. “It would change everything.” He glanced over at Mickey. “You don’t believe me.”

“I just see a bunch of strangers. They probably have nothing in common.”

“They’re all souls,” said Francisco. “To me, nothing else matters. Either you’re a person wondering if you have a soul, or you’re a soul who knows that being a person isn’t real.”

Mickey watched as the teenager jumped on his skateboard. He saw the dirty glances the kid was getting when he scooted too close to other people. The skater remained oblivious, lost in his own world. Before reaching the opposite side of the street, he veered off and shot down a lane of traffic. Horns blared at him before he swerved again and jumped the curb.

“Those cars aren’t honking at a soul,” Mickey pointed out.

“You say that because you buy into role-playing, which makes your ego happy. It’s got a lot invested in your self-image. Everything, in fact.”

The light turned green; Mickey pulled the Escalade away. “I don’t want to be the same as everyone else,” he said. “You call that ego. I call it being myself. What’s the big problem?”

For the moment Francisco didn’t explain. He was paying attention to the strip malls and shops that lined the street.

“There’s a convenience store. Pull in,” he said.

“I thought you wanted a dress shop,” Mickey said, but he turned in at the opening in the curb.

“This is more important for now,” said Francisco, getting out of the car. He led Mickey to the door of the convenience store.

“What I want you to do is stand here,” he said. “Open the door for anyone going in or out. Catch their attention, and when they notice you, hold your hand out for spare change.”

“What?” Mickey couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less.

Francisco said, “You think you’re going to be humiliated again. Try not to assume anything. I’ll be back.”

He turned and walked away, leaving Mickey to his ordeal. Customers were coming in and out of the store in a steady stream, so there was no time to debate the issue with himself. Mickey gave in. An older black woman was approaching the store. Mickey walked quickly to beat her to the door, then held it open. He smiled nervously. The woman nodded and gave him a quick look but nothing else. Her lack of reaction was a relief.

Half a minute later two kids who could have been in college were coming out of the store. When Mickey opened the door for them, they smirked and walked away without looking back. A deliveryman double-parked his van and ran into the store. Mickey watched as he bought a hot dog and a Coke, all the while keeping his eye on the van. He rushed back to it without giving Mickey a second glance.

Barely five minutes had passed, and Mickey was starting to calm down. He hadn’t worked up the nerve to hold out his hand for change. Holding the door open was no more than an offhand courtesy, a little odd, but nothing like the annoyance of panhandling.

Are you going to do this thing or not? he asked himself.

A woman was approaching who looked better dressed than most, and she was talking into her cell phone. As he opened the door, Mickey held out his hand. She glanced down at it.

“Get a job.”

The fact that she had interrupted her call to say this, and the snarl in her voice, made Mickey turn red. He almost ran away, but two more arrivals came up fast. Mickey opened the door and held out his hand. The couple burst out laughing and went past him. For a second he thought they had recognized him. That must be it—they had run into a famous comedian who was pulling some kind of stunt. But a minute later when they came out, the man handed him a quarter.

“You don’t look like you need this,” he said. “I hope it’s not for drugs.”

The man gave him a dead-serious look, and then the couple walked on. Suddenly Mickey caught on. Not a single person had recognized him, and therefore Francisco must be right. It was like taking a vacation from being Mickey Fellows. The thought sank in as he kept opening the door. People came and went. A few were hostile; most were indifferent. He was given another quarter, two dimes, and four pennies. Nobody knew who he was.

Mickey began to find this strangely liberating. After half an hour he stopped caring how the customers reacted. He’d turned into an impartial observer, a watcher of the passing parade. This was a novel experience. It amused him when the occasional person glanced down at his handmade Italian shoes, which cost a fortune, and looked puzzled by the sight of a panhandler in designer footwear. A grizzled old black man regarded him resentfully, as if Mickey had stolen his job. A woman who got out of a Lexus eyed him up and down as if he might be dating material.

“In the world but not of it.”

Mickey turned around when he heard Francisco’s voice.

“I think you’re right,” he said. “I’m a floater. Nobody cares who I am. Is that what you wanted me to feel?”

“Something like that.”

Francisco was carrying a shopping bag, Mickey noticed before he turned back to the door and opened it for an old lady coming out with her pet dachshund.

“Nice dog,” he said. “Spare change?”

The old lady scowled. “Creep.”

Mickey grinned at Francisco. “Isn’t that great? Even when they throw rocks, I don’t feel it.”

“Fun’s over. Let’s get some lunch.”

When they got back to the car, Francisco threw his bag into the backseat. Once Mickey got in, he said, “How long did it take before you stopped feeling humiliated?”

“Not long. Fifteen minutes,” Mickey said.

“Congratulations.” Francisco seemed genuinely pleased. They were both in good spirits, in fact. For two days Mickey had felt manipulated. A stranger was foisting himself off as someone magical and mysterious. Mickey had been in show business too long to believe in magic, and this led him to reject mystery as well. Yet unwittingly, he had let both creep back into his life.

They drove around as he thought about this.

“When you first walked up to me on the beach,” he said, “you didn’t think much of me, did you?”

“I saw potential,” said Francisco.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“You were just a person to me,” said Francisco.

“So in your scheme of things I was a nobody.” Mickey surprised himself with a burst of laughter. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to be a somebody.”

“Did you feel like a somebody back there?” Francisco asked.

“No. I was on vacation, just as you said. And I liked it. That’s what I can’t get over.”

“You’re starting to see through the tricks of your ego. It’s deeply relaxing to get out from under the constant demands of ‘I, me, and mine.’ You breathe easier,” said Francisco.

“So the big secret is to be a nobody all the time?” Mickey said.

“It’s not that simple. Nobodies have egos, too. Theirs happen to be crushed, while yours is on the rampage.”

Mickey could have been offended, but he grinned instead. “I’m lucky you’re fixing me.”

He had the feeling that this remark didn’t sit well with Francisco, who went quiet and stared out the passenger window. But all he said was, “Tell me a joke.”

“I can’t,” said Mickey. “You’ve done something to my brain.”

“Try anyway.”

Reluctantly Mickey went inside to the place where he found his material, a place that felt oddly empty now. A joke came to him, however.

An evil wizard captures a beautiful princess and imprisons her in his tower. She begs piteously to be released, and the wizard says, “I will let any knight try to save you, but on one condition.”

He points to the filthy burlap his dog used as a bed. “You must make a dress from that burlap and wear it night and day.”

The princess agrees. Every day a different knight in shining armor comes to her tower, but after one glance they all ride away.

The princess is baffled. “What’s wrong with me?” she asks the wizard. “Am I not beautiful?”

“That’s not it,” the wizard says. “Knights won’t rescue a damsel in this dress.”

“No good,” Mickey said. Why wasn’t he more bothered? An hour ago the prospect of being off had caused acute anxiety. Now it was almost a relief.

“What’s happening to me?” he asked.

“You are standing at the doorway,” said Francisco. “Behind you is the world you know, a world that hides from fear and obeys the desires of the ego. In front of you is the unknown. The question is, will you step through the door?”

“Do you know the answer?” Mickey asked.

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“I can’t. But I can let you peek over the threshold. Stop the car anywhere,” said Francisco.

Mickey pulled over on a side street lined with bungalows and palm trees. If he was on a spiritual journey—and it seemed undeniable that he was—it certainly involved a lot of driving and parking.

Francisco turned the rearview mirror toward Mickey. “Look at yourself,” he said. “I want you to see what’s in the mirror. Don’t assume you know.”

“But I do know,” said Mickey.

“No, there’s someone you haven’t met yet. He’s on the other side of the threshold.” Mickey looked at his reflection. Francisco went on. “See somebody who isn’t funny, who isn’t rich and famous. Forget that you know his name.”

“It’s not working,” said Mickey.

“Concentrate on the eyes.”

The rearview mirror was narrow enough so that if Mickey leaned in close, all he could see was his eyes. He’d never given them a second thought. Women had told him they were large. Whenever he was performing, he felt that they lit up onstage.

They weren’t lit up now. The eyes gazing back at him were flat. Like chips of gray-blue marble. Mickey squinted, trying to make them sparkle with amusement. Nothing changed. He widened them, trying to look surprised. He glanced out of the corners of his eyes, trying to look sly. It was uncanny, but whatever he did, nobody was at home. Behind his irises was empty space. Blankness.

Mickey sat back. “That’s enough.”

“What did you see?” asked Francisco.

“Nothing. Is there supposed to be a right answer here?” said Mickey, suddenly feeling nervous.

“Maybe ‘nothing’ is the right answer. It could be another name for the unknown. I think you caught a glimpse of a stranger. Don’t back off that. He’s the one you were meant to meet.”

“Why? He didn’t say anything. He didn’t show me anything.”

Mickey felt resentful. The morning had been going well. He felt good about what had happened at the convenience store, but glancing in the mirror had spoiled it somehow. If he had met the person he was supposed to meet, it had sure left him with a hollow feeling afterwards.

Without warning his mind clicked into gear.

“Hold on,” he said. “There was this Indian doctor who had just come to America. He was invited to a fancy cocktail party with his wife, who didn’t speak English. The host came up and said, ‘Do you have children?’

“‘Oh no,’ the doctor replied. ‘My wife here is unbearable.’ The host looked confused. The Indian doctor grew nervous. ‘I mean to say, she is inconceivable.’

“Now the host was totally baffled. In frustration the Indian doctor cried, ‘Don’t you understand? My wife is impregnable!’”

Mickey laughed at his joke, and when he glanced over at Francisco, he was laughing, too.

“My vacation’s over, isn’t it?” he said. Francisco nodded. Mickey was on again. Should he be grateful for that? At that very moment he couldn’t make up his mind.

 

WHEN FRANCISCO SAID they should have lunch, Mickey didn’t imagine that he meant at the Bel-Air Hotel. But they were pulling up to it now, across expanses of expensive greenery and doormen in equally expensive cutaway coats.

“You’re sure about this?” Mickey asked. A uniformed valet was approaching.

“Yes. Just let me do something first,” Francisco said.

The valet opened the driver’s door and handed Mickey a ticket. At a glance he recognized him. “Welcome back, Mr. Fellows,” he murmured, in the gentle tones used to soothe a celebrity. Without warning, this was followed by a raised eyebrow. Mickey glanced over his shoulder.

Francisco had pulled the shopping bag from the backseat and opened it, extracting a shoe box. Now he was holding up a pair of red high heels. They were enormous.

“You’re not going to wear those,” said Mickey.

“Only the right one.” Calmly, as if the valet wasn’t gawking, Francisco took off the beach sandal he was wearing on his right foot and replaced it with a red high heel.

“Tight,” he said. “But close enough.” He put the other shoe back in the box.

Mickey was too flummoxed to speak. Francisco opened his door and got out. He took a step and almost fell over. “You’re going to have to help me,” he said.

Mickey reached into his pocket, found a twenty-dollar bill, and shoved it into the valet’s hand. The valet wiped the astonishment off his face. “Just go,” Mickey said.

When the car had been whisked away, he went up to Francisco. “You’re not going to do this. You look ridiculous.”

Francisco grabbed on to Mickey’s arm and started tottering toward the front door. “What do you care?” he said. “I’m the one who has to manage a stiletto. You should try it sometime.”

He was clearly enjoying himself. Mickey ducked his head, avoiding the looks they were getting from the two doormen ahead of them. Like the valet, they murmured, “Nice to see you again, Mr. Fellows.”

Hobbling on his one high heel, Francisco made it to the dining room, a sumptuous retreat full of crystal and plush. “Table in the middle,” he told the maitre d’, who shot a baffled glance at Mickey.

Mickey nodded grimly. They were shown to a large table in full view of the whole room. The sight of a tall man with a spade beard wobbling on one red high heel was hard to ignore. There were titters.

Francisco winced as he sat down. “This really pinches.” He took the shoe off and set it on an empty chair beside him. It glowed like a stop sign. The titters grew louder.

“They’re laughing,” he pointed out. “Maybe you should put this bit in your act.”

“There’s good laughing and there’s bad laughing,” Mickey growled. He waved away the menu offered by the waiter. “Just bring me a piece of fish. We’re in a hurry.” He noticed Francisco studying his menu, which was pages long. “Don’t prolong this,” he said sourly.

Francisco ignored him and ordered two courses with a glass of Chardonnay. “You love good laughing and hate bad laughing, is that it?” he said after the waiter was gone.

“Get to the point,” Mickey snapped.

“Your ego tries to build you up. It makes you feel special and protected. But what’s really happening? You wind up being incredibly insecure.” He indicated the tables around the room. “Perfect strangers laugh at you, and suddenly the whole facade collapses. There was never any protection. You were never safe.”

By the time the waiter returned with a plate of poached salmon, Mickey had lost his appetite. “You’re right. I am insecure,” he admitted. “But you scare me. If I listen to you, everything I’ve built up could collapse. Then what would I do?”

“There’s nothing wrong with what you do,” said Francisco. “You tell jokes. Jokes catch people off guard and make them laugh. That’s not real happiness, but at least it provides a clue.”

“What is real happiness?” asked Mickey.

“Being at one with your soul,” Francisco said without hesitation.

“Okay, then what’s a soul?”

“Everything that the ego is not.”

Mickey shook his head. “How do you know all this?”

Francisco was amused. “You’ve been asking yourself that for a while.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ll tell you my secret. Are you ready? I’m not a person.”

“What kind of secret is that?” Mickey asked.

“A very important one. When we walked into this restaurant I was playing the fool. People started laughing. To you it was the bad kind of laughing, because they were laughing at me. Just to be around me made you feel embarrassed. You became a fool by proximity.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I know. You’re a person who thinks he might have a soul. I’m a soul who knows he’s playing the role of a person. Those people weren’t laughing at me. They were laughing at my performance.”

This explanation made sense to Mickey. “At the convenience store I was playing the part of a panhandler. I’m not really one. So after a while I could separate myself from it.”

“See?” said Francisco.

Mickey’s spirits had risen enough that he could actually eat. The food was delicious, and it gave him space to think. After a moment he said, “So you don’t play any roles at all?”

“Not unless I choose to. And when I play a role, I know that the real me isn’t performing. It’s watching, a bit involved but essentially keeping to itself.”

Mickey thought back to the people who had insulted him when he opened the door for them and held out his hand for spare change. One called him a creep, one told him to get a job. The barbs didn’t sting, and now he knew why. He could be completely detached. Playing a part made him safe when he didn’t identify with it.

“I think the process is working,” he said. “But I have to be honest. I still don’t know what the process is.”

“I’ll show you here and now,” Francisco said. Sitting in front of him were two glasses, one filled with water and the other with wine. “I ordered white wine for a reason. Watch.”

He picked up the two glasses and carefully poured one into the other, then back again, until wine and water were completely mixed. “You can’t tell the two apart now,” he said. “So what if I wanted to separate them again? How can I get water back into one glass and wine into the other?”

Mickey shook his head. “You can’t.”

“Right. But the process can. Your soul and your ego are as invisibly mixed as white wine and water. That’s why people are so confused. They wander through life searching for the soul when it’s right there all the time. They talk about losing their soul when that’s totally impossible. They believe their soul will go to Heaven after they die, but the soul is everywhere already.

“In other words, the soul is a mystery. It can’t be lost or found. It is neither here nor there. It belongs to you and yet it belongs to God. Without a process, no one would ever get to the bottom of it.”

These words made a deep impression on Mickey. Not for the first time he wanted to grab Francisco’s arm and say, “Who are you?” Seeing the look of wonder on his face, Francisco grinned. “Don’t get freaked out. I’m not the Second Coming, or whatever you think I am.”

They finished their food in silence. Walking out of the hotel back to the valet stand, Mickey felt different. There was no precise term for what was happening to him. Francisco picked up on it.

“You’re searching for a label,” he said. “Don’t. The process can’t be named. It’s invisible and yet all-powerful. It alters everything you say and do, yet nothing you say and do is part of it.”

At that moment, what he was hearing matched Mickey’s ineffable feeling. He was floating inside a mystery. But once they had retrieved his car and were driving down Sunset toward the shore, Mickey lost his sense of wonder. It was like gossamer, too ethereal to hold on to. Francisco picked up on this, too.

“You can’t own the process,” he said. “You can’t cling to it, any more than you could hold on to the smell of the ocean. The process happens entirely in the present. It’s here one second and gone the next. Anyway, I have a joke for you.

“A little girl is taken to a restaurant by her parents. The waiter stands by while they read the menu. The little girl says, ‘I want a hamburger.’

“The mother looks over at the father. ‘How does a Greek salad sound?’

“‘Fine,’ he replies.

“‘We’ll have three Greek salads,’ the mother tells the waiter.

“Turning to the kitchen, the waiter shouts, ‘Two Greek salads and a hamburger.’

“‘Look, Mommy,’ the little girl exclaims. ‘He thinks I’m real!’”

After a moment, Mickey said, “So you think I’m real?”

“Yes, even if you don’t.”

The thought made Mickey feel better. The sun was warm on his face. The sky was cloudless and bright. He had enjoyed laughing at Francisco’s joke, and for a fleeting instant it seemed as if everything around him was laughing, too.