DOMINIC REJECTS THE neo-Buddhist recruiters before they even have the chance to convince us that they’re a couple of crackpots.
“Why are you dressed so nice?” He wants to know. “If you’re Buddhist and want nothing, then why are you wearing such nice shit?”
I want to know, too, but don’t say anything. These two women nod, smile and explain how wanting does add to our suffering. I try to understand how a person in a silk scarf and another in designer jeans has any right to tell me not to want things.
“Say this over and over.” One of them says. She gives each of us a little business card. “It’s a chant. Close your eyes. Say it again and again, thinking of what you want. Then it will come to you.”
Bronwyn says nothing. She seems hypnotized by the strange words printed on the card.
The women walk on, making their way to enlighten some other lost and vacant mall pests.
Dominic shakes his head and laughs. “Man, there’s always some fucking weirdos hanging out here.”
We pass by a transient asleep in a doorway. Dom leans down and slips his card into the front pocket of the man’s old, dingy jacket. “It’s a magical chant, dude.”
Bronwyn hasn’t stopped gawking at her card. Her eyebrows knit together, showing silent confusion.
“What does ‘Nam Myoho Renge Kyo’ even mean?”
“I dunno.” I shrug. “I don’t think they’re real Buddhists. Buddhists don’t walk around the mall looking for recruits, handing out business cards. Do they?”
“Mormons do,” Dom says. “You seen those guys in suits on bicycles going door to door? Mormon recruiters.”
“Those are Jehovah’s Witnesses, you jackass,” Bronwyn says.
“What’s the difference?”
“Remember those three kids in elementary school who always had to go home early when we had class parties for Christmas and Halloween and stuff?” I put the card in the pocket of my jeans. “Those kids were Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
“Uh-huh.” Dom skips around a trashcan to avoid running into it. “But, I still don’t get what the difference is.”
“I don’t get it either,” I say. “I don’t think there’s a way to tell a member of one group from another. They just have a different sales pitch or whatever.”
Bronwyn shakes her head and clicks her tongue in disgust. “You guys don’t know jack shit. They’re all different paths to finding peace.”
“Well, maybe they should all try to mix and match a little more,” Dom says.
“What does that mean?” I wonder.
“I’m just thinking, if they all shut the hell up and put their heads together, the Jehovahs or the whatevers could have cars instead of bicycles. Those kids could’ve had cupcakes in class at Christmas, that bum back there could wear fancy silk scarves and I wouldn’t have to get fucked with when I’m on the mall trying to score.”
“Wow. That's dumb.” Bronwyn laughs so hard she almost starts coughing, then slides the card into her back pocket, slow and careful as though it were a delicate thing that might shatter if handled too roughly.