“You Can’t Go Home Again If You Have Never Been There Before”

“Tibetan School of Miracles,” August–Dec ’98

For some months we had no live-in pupils. Then it was light work. On Sundays Ralph gave lectures: Tuesday night was meditation class.

The time would approach, making us crabby. Ralph put on those clothes. Eddie hovered, advising:

“You give them echinacea food, only with addictive drugs. That’s the only way this thing is going to work.”

“No, I’ll bribe some small-time Rinpoche off the internet, cause the white-guy thing is going to sink us, promise.”

“Yeah, it’s doing okay now cause up to now you did my whole ideas.”

Jasper always came early, offering to help. He would smile and try to catch Ralph’s eye, red-faced. I always left setting up the tea and chairs to the last minute so that he’d look needed.

People came and we must greet them in delight. Lynn, Eddie’s ex, got 40 bucks a pop for just greeting. Finally I learned how from watching her, although I always felt ashamed if anyone could see me.

Ralph hid until a pivotal moment, then came out with ponderous grace, like a float. He spoke very slowly, and when he made a point, the audience inhaled sharply. His face preserved a hawkish exaltation, even afterward, when he just shook hands.

Ralph left and the people left, freed. Eddie and I stood watching the taillights diminish, outside in the dark, as if hand in hand. Remember ran out barking at the last minute.

“Well, that’s over.”

Ralph came down again in gym shorts. We drove to the video store, to Taco Bell, we were belligerently average.

On those nights, Ralph was never interested in sex.