I didn’t go crazy at the monastery. But I didn’t attain enlightenment either. Didn’t even come close. And when my month was up I drove away feeling deeply discouraged. I had counted on attaining enlightenment. Then I wouldn’t have to worry any more about being a success or a failure. Imagine Buddha worrying about such a thing.
I drove around in the Catskill Mountains. It was beautiful there, especially now in the fall, but I wasn’t looking, I was staring straight ahead. I drove around for hours. I’m not exactly sure what I was trying to do. Just get lost, I guess. So lost I would disappear or something.
I did get lost. And by then I was getting low on gas, the sun was going down—was down whenever the road would dip a little—and I started thinking about bears. I didn’t want to run out of gas in the dark with bears around. I felt pretty certain about that.
I began looking for somewhere to stop and ask directions to the nearest town. But there wasn’t anything on either side of the road except woods—deep dark woods, where the bears lived.
I finally came on a big open barn near the road and pulled off and got out. There was an old stone house atop a hill on the other side of the road. I walked up to the barn. A handwritten cardboard sign hung over the entrance: Anteque Sale. It was very dim in there.
“Don’t be scared.”
I whipped around.
A fat middleaged woman with high hair and a lot of makeup, in a ratty fur coat and gold slippers, walked up holding a kerosene lamp.
“Let there be light,” she said, stepping past me into the barn, where she set the lamp down on the dirt floor. Then she turned around and spread her arms, indicating her wares: boxes of paperbacks, piles of old clothes, photo albums, plastic dolls, dirty vases, a stack of record albums, some rusty tools, an ironing board with a typewriter and toaster on it…
“Browse around,” she told me. “And if you have any questions—”
“Actually, I just stopped to ask for directions.”
She looked crushed. “Please buy something?” she asked. “All my friends are coming over for my birthday tomorrow and I can’t even afford a new dress. You look like a nice man. Are you visiting? I noticed your plates. I’ve never been to Illinois. I’ve never been anywhere. But you don’t want to hear my troubles. You want to look around. Do you enjoy the Tijuana Brass? I have all their records. They belonged to my husband. He would kill me if he knew. He went out to get a pack of cigarettes nine years ago and hasn’t come back. Maybe he stopped off somewhere. Please buy something? All my friends are coming over.” She was going to start crying.
I told her I would definitely buy something.
“You’re a very kind person. What’s your name? Mine’s Dolores. Where did you say you were staying?”
“Well, I was staying at a monastery, a Zen—”
“A monastery. What happened? Don’t tell me you gave up God for a woman. Please don’t tell me that old story.”
“No, I was just… basically visiting.”
“Did you find peace there?”
“Well…”
“Sometimes I pray and that’s what I ask for: peace of mind. ‘Dear Lord,’” she prayed, folding her hands and closing her eyes, “‘please bring me peace of mind. Please don’t let me go crazy.’” She opened her eyes. “I want to show you something I think you’ll appreciate, being a Catholic.”
She went over to a shaky-looking card table covered with small items and returned with a little plastic Virgin Mary. “Isn’t she cute?” She held it up to my face and tilted it side to side, speaking in a tiny voice: “Hi. My name is Mary. Won’t you take me home with you? Please? I’ve never been to Illinois. Pleeease?”
“How much.”
“One dollar. No, let’s say three.”
I pulled out my wallet and gave her three dollars, which she shoved in her coat pocket along with Mary.
I said to her, “The reason I stopped, I was wondering if you could direct me to the nearest—”
“Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“No, I’m just looking for—”
“Because I’m not about to help you escape from the police, if that’s what you’re thinking. You can stay here if you like, but I’m telling you right now, if the police come by wanting to know if I’ve seen a young—”
“I’m not in trouble, ma’am. I’m just trying to get to the nearest town. Really.”
“Don’t call me ‘ma’am’ like that. My name’s Dolores, for God sakes.”
“Dolores. Right. Sorry.”
“Well, don’t just stand there, look around. Help yourself. Anything you want, anything at all, you name it. That’s what I’m here for. Then we’ll talk about hideouts and God knows what. Go on, browse around. Please? Don’t make me beg. Don’t make me cry.”
I knew I couldn’t handle that, so I looked around, feeling very self-conscious with her standing there watching me.
“Both of those dolls are antiques,” she said. “They’re a pair. They belonged to my grandmother, who got them from her grandmother.”
“Really?”
They were Barbie and Ken, both naked.
“Yes, ‘really,’” she said, a little pissed off.
I moved on to a stack of photo albums. When I started opening one she said, “Please do not look through those unless you’re willing to buy. Those are very personal photographs and some of them are rather shocking. Not for the faint of heart, I’m afraid. Twenty-five dollars for the whole set.”
I moved on.
“Those books are very old and rare,” she said.
I looked through the box. They were paperback Harlequin Romances.
“Most of those authors you’ve probably never even heard of,” she added. “Twenty dollars for the entire box.”
I nodded and moved on.
“The Tijuana Brass is planning a comeback,” she said. “Did you read about that? Those are their actual original albums. Very hard to find. There’s also some Hawaiian music in there. Do you like Hawaiian music? My husband was crazy about it. That’s probably where he is right now, doing the hula with some slut in a grass skirt. I’m sorry. It’s none of your business.”
“That’s all right.”
“No, it is not all right.”
I moved on to the ironing board, with a small typewriter and toaster on it. There was a blank sheet of paper in the typewriter and I tapped out a sentence I remembered from typing class.
She came up beside me and read it out loud:
“‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.’”
She looked at me. “What a vivid description. Are you a writer? I could tell. The moment I saw you I thought to myself, He s either a serial killer or some kind of writer. Imagine my relief!”
“Actually—”
“So what do you write, nature books? I prefer fiction myself. I’ve read every one of those books you see over there, every single one, and I’ll tell you something, those people are as real to me as—well, as you are. More real, since I don’t know anything about you, except that you’re a writer, which I think is wonderful. Let’s say … ten dollars.”
“Pardon?”
“Ten. For the typewriter.”
“I don’t really need one.”
“What kind of writer doesn’t need a typewriter?”
“I’m not a writer.”
“Nonsense. Of course you are.”
“No, really. I’m not.”
“Then …” She brought her hand to her mouth.
“And I’m not a serial killer either. Honest to God, ma’am.”
“Dolores. The name’s Dolores. Is that asking so much?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not a serial killer, Dolores.”
“So what the hell are you then?”
I considered the question.
“I have no idea,” I told her, and laughed. It seemed wonderfully funny somehow. “Not a clue!” I said, and laughed some more.
“Please don’t laugh in front of me like that.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, then burst out laughing again. I needed to sit down. I found a stool.
“Mind telling me what’s so damn funny?”
I wiped my eyes. “Nothing. It’s just … I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Comfortable?”
“Pardon?”
“Is that stool comfortable?”
“How much.”
“Fifteen.”
I got off it. “I should be going,” I told her. “So could you tell me how to get to the nearest—”
“At least buy the typewriter, for God sakes. You have a gift. Don’t waste it.” She again read out loud, this time with feeling: “‘The quick … brown fox … jumps over … the lazy … dog.’ I can see that so clearly,” she said, closing her eyes. “See that quick little fox. See that lazy, lazy dog.”
“Ten, you said?”
“Fifteen, with the stool.”
“I don’t need a stool.”
“All right, fifteen without the stool.”
“Deal.” I gave her a ten and a five. “That’s all I can spend,” I told her. “I need the rest to get home.”
“Dear old Illinois. Is it nice there? People say how pretty it is out here in the mountains, but how would I know? I’ve never been anywhere else. And now all my friends are coming over and I have nothing to wear. If I just had two more dollars …”
“Here. Buy a nice dress.”
“What for?” she said, pocketing the bills. “So I can sit there looking beautiful all by myself?”
“My friends? What friends? I haven’t got any friends. Are you kidding? You think if I had any friends I’d be out here talking to you? Try to be serious. No offense but I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last man on the planet.” She shook her head. “Stick to nature writing, fella. Because I’ll tell you something. Just between you and me? You don’t know much about the real world. And you sure don’t know much about women.”
I nodded, agreeing.
“I have to be going now,” I told her, and once again asked directions to the nearest town.
She said there was one about a mile and a half up the road.
“You’re kidding.”
“I think I should know.”
I lifted the typewriter. “Well, Dolores …”
“Take me with you, take me with you,” she said in a tiny voice, holding out the plastic Mary. She put it in my coat pocket and patted the place.
We walked together out to my car.
“Would you do something for me?” she asked.
“If it’s money, I’m sorry but I really—”
“In one of the books you write? Even if it’s only about animals? Would you mention me? Just … say that I was here. That Dolores Van Buren was here. That you met me and … say that she had a lovely smile. ‘Dolores had a lovely smile.’ Would you say that in your book?”
We were at the car. She looked around at the sky, her arms folded closely. “Getting dark earlier and earlier,” she said quietly, and sighed. “How I hate that.”
I told her I understood.
She stepped closer. “You can kiss me, if you like, just here,” offering her cheek. “That’s it. Thank you. Whoops, now you’ve got powder on your mouth. Something to remember me by.”
I didn’t wipe it off. “Goodbye,” I said to her.
“Goodbye,” she said, and smiled.
Dolores had a lovely smile.