Ep. 16: Sid Avoids Getting Tied up in Knots.

(Peace Is Every Other Step. Part 2 of 4.)

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The Man Who Woke up the Buddha is the story of a guy named Sid who wakes up from a stroke and realizes he's the Buddha, even though he knows almost nothing about Buddhism.

Previously: While doing research at the local library, Sid and the Buddha discovered that they hadn’t been given credit for many of the books they wrote; were almost run over by an oblivious teenager pushing a cart full of books; tried to determine the difference between "Idiots" and "Dummies"; and eventually deconstructed and reconstructed four of the famous Eight Realizations.

Sid sat down on the bench in front of the library.

To all appearances, he was just your typical tired, old, cancer-riddled, 21^st century, forcibly retired businessman, who happened also to be a 2500-year-old wise man.

Everywhere he turned, the world was creating realities faster than he could possibly deconstruct them. Books he’d written without his name on the cover? Libraries without card catalogs? What’s next? Computers you can shoot the breeze with? Oh yeah…Jake’s insufferable brother-in-law Terry was always talking about that artificial intelligence thing. But isn’t all intelligence artificial? And isn’t everything sufferable?

All those thoughts made him smile. But it was a wry smile. Even rueful.

Because suddenly, something was missing in his life. And that something was the Buddha.

Sid was used to characters coming and going. But, since his stroke, the Buddha had kind of been a constant. It wasn’t like he was aware of being the Buddha 24/7. But anytime he checked, there he was. Now he wasn’t.

Maybe he should have taken the warning about disrespecting the book more seriously. Maybe it was like Superman and kryptonite.

That thought also made him smile. But it was a forced smile.

While watching Sid wrestle with a rare bout of self-doubt—be good for him, the Buddha thought compassionately—good old Gautama was reflecting on how his sutras had evolved or devolved over the years.

In those days, of course, he hadn’t had to write them down. He just gave talks which his memory-challenged nephew Ananda transcribed with enthusiasm and transmitted as relentlessly as a mosquito-borne disease.

Somehow, Ananda had managed to take “The Eight Fun Things to Ponder in Your Spare Time” and turned them into yet another long slow slog through the illusion of illusion. Before the Buddha knew it, they’d been cast in stone as “The Eight Realizations.” Or, if not in stone, at least on some ancient parchment or other. And, more recently online. Meanwhile, he’d moved on to different incarnations and couldn’t be bothered with going back to set things straight.

All that stuff about impermanence and desire and suffering? Ugh. Don’t they know when a guy is just kidding? I mean the stuff was true, but the way Ananda put it out there was such a downer.

Maybe it was time for him to realize new things, like Sid’s realization that naps were a spiritual practice. But should they make it the ninth realization? Or would it be better to un-sutra the eight Realizations first and start from scratch? And, if he did that, he might as well un-sutra all the sutras, right? Sounded like a lot of work. Of course, he had all the time in the world. Or, actually, cosmos. Still, evolution was about moving forward, not about going back and starting over.

Hmmm, the Buddha thought. Which in the past had been mistranslated as “Om.” And was itself a bastardization of “Huh…?” the sound that penetrates all creation.

While this sophisticated ontological exegesis was going on in the imperceptible (to him) etheric recesses of Sid’s consciousness, he continued sitting on the bench wondering what had happened to himself.

“Come out come out wherever you are!” Sid said to no one.

The Buddha stayed hidden.

“All-y all-y all's in free!”

The Buddha stayed hidden.

As a last resort, Sid decided to try the peace-is-every-step thing. He stood up and began walking, instinctively holding the book reverently with two hands against his chest.

“Peace. Peace. Peace. Peace.

Peace. Peace. Peace. Peace.

Peace - two - three - four…

We don’t want your f—ing war.

Peace - two - three - four.

War, what’s it good for?

War - two - three- four.

We don’t want no war no more.

Peace. Peace. Peace. Peace.

No more blood and no more gore.

Kick war out and close the door.

That’s what we are asking for.”

Sid walked right into a parking meter.

Fortunately, he was able to grab it and hold on, but he ended up with one foot off the curb, the wind knocked out of him, and perhaps a lower rebirth because he had dropped the book.

The Buddha stifled a laugh.

“Y’OK, Sid?” He was in front of the best hardware store on the planet—maybe in the universe. Fortunately, as he clung to the parking meter like a sailor to a life raft, Woody, one of the owners, came out the front door and looked both ways before crossing the sidewalk and helping right Sid’s ship.

“Just got a screw loose…” Sid explained. “Sorry, how many times a day you hear that?”

“Half dozen or so, but it's different when you ask it," Woody smiled. He was wearing his official uniform: red vest with a lot of pockets and pens over a well-starched white shirt that showed the remains of innumerable encounters with pens, markers, chalk, and the occasional decade’s-old smear of cash-register ink. He had a whole collection of apologetic tags from dry cleaners saying they’d tried everything except napalm to get the stains out but had failed miserably.

“I do have screws up there you know,” Sid said with evident pride. “Titanium. They usually take them back ‘cause they’re so valuable but I’m going to buy them. Give one to each of the kids to remember me by.”

Woody shook his head. He smiled as best he could, but his face had a perpetual look of helpful concern that extended up past his forehead to the top of his increasingly bald head.

Talk about Bodhisattvas, the Buddha thought quietly, making sure Sid couldn’t hear him.

“You coming in?” Woody asked unnecessarily, keeping his hand on Sid’s shoulder.

“I guess so.”

“Need anything?”

“No,” they said in unison.

Come sickness or health, rain, snow, sleet, or brilliant sunshine, Sid couldn’t pass by Woody’s store without walking in. It was like Disneyland for do-it-your-selfers. They didn’t just have Phillips head screws, they had Phillips II, Phillips round, round-pan, countersunk, and raised counter sunk; Phillips square, hex head, square supa drive, and slot individual. All housed, along with a never-before-seen-or-probably-needed collection of corks, 0-rings, linch pins, gaskets, pop rivets, and what looked like industrial strength rubber bands, ideal for a medieval inquisitor who wanted a little more flexibility in the tension setting on his rack.

Where did that thought come from? And who the hell was Phillip? Sid thought.

This entire collection of esoteric hardware was housed in apothecary drawers with labels that had seemingly been written out by one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence.

“Still proud of that little piece of writing,” a voice piped up. “People still follow it?”

“You don’t want to know,” Sid thought sympathetically to whomever it was who had stepped out from behind the curtain had returned from wherever he came.

That was fast, Sid thought.

Sometimes that’s all they need, the Buddha thought quietly, so Sid couldn’t hear him.

Thomas Jefferson? Sid wondered.

Him and Thomas Paine. What can I say…it’s complicated, the Buddha thought a little louder than he’d intended.

Hey, I’m back! Sid thought happily. I can hear myself think again! I must have just been playing hide-and-go-seek with myself.

A few moments later, Sid and the Buddha were gazing at the spools of rope on the way down to the chain saw and weed-whacker department. He didn’t need a chain saw or weed-whacker but wanted to buy one badly and was trying to think of an excuse to do so. Maybe he could donate it to some ladies’ garden club. Were there still ladies’ garden clubs? He wondered. They were probably co-ed now. Maybe he should join one and give them the weed whacker or chain saw instead of annual dues.

He was thinking about all the projects he could use some nice clean rope for: hanging plants…hanging the kayak from the rafters of the garage…he could even make a new special rope leash for Bieça. She hated leashes. She’d shake her head back and forth vociferously as if she were being choked. But maybe if it was stylish enough…

He couldn’t believe how many kinds of ropes there were to choose from! Cotton rope. Sisal rope. Hemp rope. Nylon rope. A whole rainbow of colors! Bet they didn’t have those in the old days. What old days?

The Inquisitor was also thinking about what ropes could be used for. And how misunderstood he’d been. And how it had gotten so much worse over the years. “Those Jews,” he thought, shaking his head—kindly, almost with admiration— “wherever suffering is coin, there they are. Of course they do pay the price. And then some.”

“Not him again,” Sid thought, recognizing the voice. That same Tork-something guy who, decades before, had crashed a family dinner big time.

If so, at least it seemed to be a kinder-and-gentler Tork-something-or-other.

See Episode 9.

“Listen to me,” the Inquisitor continued calmly. “My job was to purify the kingdom of Spain in the name of Christ. I told the Jews and Muslims they could leave or accept Christ as their Savior. Many of them did and with them we lived peacefully.

“But the ones who pretended… who continued their practices in secret… that could not be tolerated. I didn’t care what heathen beliefs they had. I just didn’t want them in my Christian country. People like you!” he continued, laughing, as if he and Sid were two old friends sharing stories about how they used to play practical jokes on each other.

Actually yes, the Buddha thought. He was pleasantly surprised to hear how the Inquisitor seemed to have gotten somewhat free of his self-justification schtick.

“People like me?” Sid wondered.

Indeed, Sid was half Jewish. And he’d once promised Di he’d convert to Catholicism, but the circumstances under which she extracted this promise were somewhat questionable considering they were both naked and—while he was eager to perform the sacrament—she made it perfectly clear that she wouldn’t be ready until he promised.

They did get married in a Catholic Church which Sid agreed to, even though he knew his Jewish grandmother wouldn’t come. It helped that she’d been dead almost a decade by then, but she probably wouldn’t even come in spirit and, if she did, only to make him feel guilty.

Ah…the dharma of Jewish grandmothers, the Buddha thought, referring to the laws that allegedly govern the universe. That one transcends space and time.

“Need any help there, Sid?” Woody’s wife Renée asked, coming down the stairs behind him. He dropped the rope and turned to give her a big hug. There was a lot of Renée to hug…in a Rubenesque way.

“No, just thinking about fall projects.” Stepping back, Sid saw that her vast brown eyes were watering.

“How are you doing, honey,” she said stroking his cheek.

He smiled and shrugged. If Sid had an ounce of self-pity, Renée would be able to dredge it up. For a moment he felt, well, human. Although the plural would probably be more accurate.

“You done with chemo, baby?”

“Haven’t even started yet. Still got some of those crazy mutant cells up there to slice and dice, but then I get radiation, Renée! I might turn into the Incredible Hulk!”

She shook her head sadly. “It’s OK to cry you know, Sid.”

That made Sid want to cry. Not so much for himself but to make Renée feel better. He nodded and gave her another hug.

“Well, Di knows to call us if you need anything. Lord knows you won’t.”

“I’ll make sure she knows.”

“Sure you will, Sid” Renée said. “Not.” She laughed, stepping back from the brink of the maudlin and started up the stairs.

“Just don’t want you putting me in that dying-of-cancer box, Renée!” Sid said, looking at her sternly.

“Or that evil torturer box,” the Inquisitor thought.

Or that holier-than-thou box, the Buddha thought.

Renée turned around and, seeing his expression, smiled and said, “That’s why we carry box cutters, Sid! Aisle Six.”

Sid cracked up. The Buddha cracked up. Even Torquemada smiled.

Sid and the Inquisitor reached for the big shears that were hanging above the rolls of rope, cut off a 6’ piece, coiled it around, and took it up to the front counter.

They’d find something to do with it.

---

Next Episode: Sid continues his peace-is-every-step practice in spite of the unexpected obstacles that fate puts in his way.