Coattail Karma

by Verlin Darrow

  If New Zealanders used the Bay of Islands as their scenic benchmark, I could understand why they might take the estuary for granted. But from minute to minute, the outrageous beauty of the passing panoramas took my breath away. Thousands of birds dove in the water or glided through the cool, salty air. One green one looked like a giant parrot. It roosted on the ferry’s rail and successfully begged for snacks from commuters. There was an intelligence in its eyes that I wasn’t accustomed to seeing in a bird. I remembered what Marco had said to me in the rowboat about interspecies contact. That exact moment, the bird swiveled its head, looked me directly in the eye, and nodded.

  Life is not only becoming more loving and more beautiful, it’s also becoming very trippy. For the rest of the crossing, I avoided eye contact with other creatures and just watched the shoreline.

  Skyscrapers and a jumble of office and apartment buildings sat on a series of hills above the Auckland harbor. Below them were berths for ships of all sizes. I felt excitement building in my chest. Whether this was due to the anticipation of visiting a new place, seeing Sam, or attaining some resolution at the consulate, I wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter much, so I just got on with things.

  The sunlit stroll from the dock to the consulate brought me through a large plaza and a crowded shopping street. I enjoyed moving my body—however sore it was—and taking in the sights. I felt incredibly alive and happy by the time I neared the consulate. Apparently, the new me liked walking. I guessed I’d have to settle for that instead of continuous bliss for now.

  The US consulate was located on the third floor of an unimpressive-looking office building amidst all sorts of other businesses. It wasn’t anything like the stand-alone mansions that I saw on TV when some third-world country destabilized. Maybe that was only embassies.

  Sam sat in the spacious, modern waiting room, although I was fifteen minutes early. She looked great. A white mock turtleneck and tan corduroy jeans fit her perfectly. Brand new dark-brown hiking boots and a black fleece beret completed her outfit. She wore her blond hair in a braid.

  Sam rose and melted into my arms. “Hey there,” she said, hugging me gently. Her shirt was very soft.

  “Good morning.”

  We stood and held each other, and I quickly developed a fierce erection. If I broke our embrace, I might reveal it to the half a dozen other people in the room, so I held on to her. The more I held on, the more stimulated I became. I knew Sam could feel it against her leg.

  “It’s like I’m in seventh grade,” I said. “I’m not sure what to do.”

  “No one’s looking at you,” she said. “They’re all looking at me.”

  We stepped apart, and it was true. Everyone was looking at her. “Is this what it’s like to go through life as a beautiful woman?” I asked.

  “Yes. I’m offered free drinks everywhere too, but I don’t drink.” We sat close to one another on an upholstered loveseat facing a long, wooden reception counter across the carpeted room. “So what’s been going on?” Sam asked. “Why aren’t you in India?”

  I began to fill her in, but before I got all the way to Howick, a young American man in a gray suit emerged from a doorway and called out a name.

  “Louise Arthur?”

  “That’s me,” Sam said and hopped up to take care of her business.

  I walked up to the main desk and asked if I could talk to someone, too. The female receptionist was a young New Zealander, which surprised me. In the movies, these places always seemed to be staffed by Americans.

  “What would this be about?” she chirped.

  “I might be in trouble with the law here,” I said.

  “Uh oh,” she said. “Drugs?”

  “Suitcase.”

  A young man sitting at a desk farther behind the counter glanced up sharply.

  “Suitcase?” the woman repeated.

  “And I’m in the country illegally,” I added.

  “Uh oh,” she said again. “Did you overstay your visa?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Sid Menk?” the man called. “Are you Mr. Menk?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Call Bruce,” the man instructed the woman. “He’ll want to see him right away.”

  In fact, Bruce Campbell showed up immediately. A tall, slim African-American, maybe forty-five, he wore a gray suit too. His was more expensive than Sam’s guy. I couldn’t picture him in any movie, which struck me as odd.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Mr. Menk,” he said, extending his hand and introducing himself. “Let’s talk in my office.”

  “Sure.” I shook his hand and followed him back into a warren of cubicles and offices. A sign on his door told me that he was the vice-consul. A picture window behind his modern desk overlooked a busy street. I sat in a comfortable armchair and waited for him to speak first.

  “Well, there’s nothing but good news,” Bruce said. “You’re not a wanted man. Your suitcase is made of embossed water buffalo. When those get endangered, we might as well all move to Mars.”

  “The women could move to Venus,” I suggested.

  He showed me his teeth. “Very good. And Mr. Patariki—I believe he’s a friend of yours—has stepped forward and told the local authorities that he played a prank on you by bringing you here on his jet. He was at the airport last night and met with customs officials. You committed no crime in Kawakawa—where men attacked you and your companions. You committed no crime on the bay or in Tuaranoa. And we’ve worked since early this morning to smooth ruffled feathers at the airport. Needless to say, escaping from custody was not very wise. But clearly you were under a lot of stress. You’d almost drowned, you’d been attacked, and now you were being falsely accused. So we called in a favor, and your name has been cleared.”

  “Just like that? Before I even asked for help? How did you find out about me?”

  “The authorities here always contact us if a US national is mixed up in something. And in this case we also received a phone call from a…” He consulted his computer. “Mr. Dante. But the main thing is that we are ruthlessly efficient in my department. I’m on track to be an ambassador in an important country, and that’s based on this kind of performance.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” I paused and smiled. “I’m thinking Belgium or maybe Austria.”

  He smirked. “Those would do just fine.”

  “So my passport’s good? I can use it to leave the country?”

  “I think I can say in all honesty that New Zealand will be quite happy to see you go. But there is a customs official named Mr. Goric who refuses to return your suitcase unless you personally apologize to him. If it were me, I’d do it, but we’re two blocks from Queen Street if you’d rather just go shopping and fill up a new one.”

  “Is this how it works here? Apologizing to one another for things like this?”

  “Yes. It’s a lovely country. Inconsequential, but lovely. Everything is less institutional and friendlier.”

  “Okay. I’ll think about it,” I said.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” Bruce asked, spreading his hands as though he were already offering me something.

  “I don’t think so. You’ve already done so much,” I said.

  “In that case, let me ask you this. What’s Jason Patariki really like? Is he just a regular guy?”

  “How long have you been here?” I asked, surprised by his question. “Are you a rugby fan?”

  “Six years. Rugby grows on you. It’s like football without all the pads and helmets. You can see the sweat and the blood. I like that.” He grinned and showed his teeth again. Apparently, he didn’t know how to smile. I wouldn’t want to get on this guy’s bad side.

  “Well, to tell you the truth,” I said, “I have mixed feelings about Jason. Sometimes he acts like a colossal jerk, and then other times he does the right thing.”

  “Like everyone else,” Bruce said.

  “Yes, like everyone else,” I agreed. “We’re kind of a m
essy, bumbling species, aren’t we?”

  “Amen to that, brother,” Bruce said.

  When I returned to the waiting room, Sam was waiting. “I’m all set,” I told her.

  “Me too. Does your ‘all set’ mean the same thing as mine? Your passport’s good? No one wants to arrest you?”

  “Yup. It’s a miracle.” I sat down next to her. “What shall we do now?” I asked. “Head back to California?”

  “Let’s go to India,” Sam said. “I think it’s important to spend time in Meher Baba’s tomb.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. As soon as I heard her, I knew this was what we needed to do. Don’t ask me why.

  So we walked to Queen Street, which ran up the hill away from the water, and bought everything we thought we’d need, including an extremely smart phone. Apparently some of the Japanese brands debuted first in the Pacific Rim before they made it to the US. I was able to use my credit card and save Marco’s cash. I’d end up in considerable debt after the trip, but that didn’t matter.

  We also stopped at a cheesy-looking travel agency and Susie—our “personal travel consultant”—cashed in my first-class ticket and booked us two coach tickets from Auckland to Sydney to Mumbai to Pune the following day. Pune was a couple of hours from Meher Baba’s pilgrim center outside Ahmednagar.

  At the last store, I placed Justin Chow’s clothes in a box with two notes, and the clerk promised he’d send it for me. The first note thanked Justin profusely; the second was for his mother. I thought carefully about what to write.

  Lannie: don’t forget who you are and who you aren’t. When you need it, someone or something else will show up in your life, much as I did. Your spiritual momentum is past the point of no return. No worries. Good luck with your new job—go get one. Your English is more than sufficient now. Regards, Sid.

  On the bus ride to Sam’s B&B, I told her about Lannie and the samadhi experience. Occasionally, I became distracted by Sam’s eyes. I remembered them as a darker shade of blue, and several of her blond eyelashes were spiral-shape.

  “What do you think about all this stuff that keeps happening to me?” I asked when I was through reporting.

  “I think it’s an example of the benign conspiracy that underlies our lives. It’s always in our best interests, always unfathomable, always transcending all our worldly concerns—whether we realize it or not.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “That’s it.”

  For the remainder of the ride, Sam surveyed the passing scenery while I considered the upcoming trip. My “okay” to Sam’s suggestion that we travel to India had come so easily and felt so right that I hadn’t revisited the topic since. Perhaps it had been the same for her.

  Sam had traveled to India once before, for which I was grateful. I didn’t know what to expect. Beggars with leprosy? Dead animals in the street? Or perhaps I’d meet an amazing array of spiritual beings, unencumbered by materialism or Judeo-Christian conditioning. I discovered that I enjoyed not knowing what might happen, which was something new.

  ****

  We spent the rest of the day and most of the night in bed. Her B&B was as lovely as advertised, but it wouldn’t have mattered if it were overrun with rabid hogs.

  Our lovemaking was gentler now, with energy and feelings merging in the ever-decreasing space between us. As I gazed into Sam’s eyes, love welled up in me, intoxicating me, pulling me into a world of beauty and truth. Her tender gaze melted me—the me I’d known. I not only knew now that I loved her, I loved who I was with her, as well.

  At one point, lying in each other’s arms, we locked eyes for several minutes, tears streaming down both our faces. The loving feeling kept deepening and deepening until I almost couldn’t bear it. In the nick of time, Sam began laughing, and I joined her. We laughed for ten minutes. I don’t know why.

  For long stretches, we were silent. What was there to say? When we did speak, we shared without any qualms.

  I found out that Sam’s sister was a psychotherapist in Maryland. Her mother had been an Olympic equestrian. Sam herself had played the clarinet and kept snakes as a child.

  “It’s a good thing I’m not a Freudian therapist,” I told her. “That’s a double whammy.”

  She loved to dance, especially to early rhythm and blues. She’d surfed and played volleyball before becoming interested in martial arts. Marco’s school had been based on some obscure Chinese technique that, by tradition, no one ever named. Even the school was nameless, which explained why I couldn’t find it in my internet search back in Howick.

  She’d traveled extensively, at first with her family, then later as a spiritual seeker. Her favorite foods were pears and water chestnuts, her favorite color was white, and her favorite place was in bed next to me. Or so she said.

  I found it odd that the details of Sam’s life didn’t matter much to me. She could’ve worked in a sideshow biting the heads off squirrels, and I would’ve loved her the same. Her disclosures merely satisfied my curiosity.

  I told her about myself as well—the parts that she didn’t already know. Sam seemed surprised that I’d spent so much time in therapy, which I took as a compliment.

  “I was a mess,” I told her. “I had low self-esteem. Dead parents. And I picked really screwed-up partners.”

  “Let me guess. You tried to fix them.”

  “Yes. But it was a personnel issue. They weren’t fixable. In fact, they were perfectly satisfied being screwed up since I was apparently to blame for all their suffering.”

  “How did you work your way out of that?” Sam asked.

  “I’m not sure I have. How big a mess are you?”

  She laughed. “About as much as everyone else.” She held up a slender hand when I tried to protest. “It’s true, and it’s been a problem in relationships. My partners tend to put me up on a pedestal, and then I try to live up to that. It’s a lot of pressure. When I can own my humanness—all the nutty stuff—then I’m content. That’s hard to do in the midst of a partnership. It has to be safe to be vulnerable like that. If you know someone might use it against you in an argument one day, then you’ll keep it to yourself.” She smiled. “That’s what I’m appreciating about the time I’m spending with you, Sid. I feel safe. When I look at you and sense your energy, I have no doubt that I can trust you.”

  “Thank you. I feel the same—for the first time in my life.” I never thought I’d be able to say that.

  “I’d actually given up on relationships,” Sam said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, until quite recently,” Sam said, gazing at me softly. I nodded my acknowledgement of this compliment, and she continued. “It just seemed as though the odds were so low that I’d find anyone who matched up with who I’ve become, and my role in RGP is very time consuming.”

  “Is it like a job for you? Do they pay you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where does the money come from?”

  “I’m sorry, Sid. That’s all I can say on that topic. I’ve taken vows.”

  ****

  This time around, the airport experience was completely mundane. Our early morning flight was on time. I never saw Vlad Goric or my troublesome suitcase, and we weren’t treated any differently than the other travelers.

  This pattern continued all the way to Mumbai, where we finally arrived at about nine in the morning—on a different day, I guess. There was something wrong with the gate at the terminal, so we had to disembark via a stairway onto the hot, humid tarmac several hundred yards away. Stepping out of the plane kiboshed the ordinariness of our journey. I was immediately immersed in a high-frequency buzz that transformed everything into a ramped-up version of itself. Basically, India was on acid.

  Colors were brighter than anything I’d seen in New Zealand. The sky was bigger. Objects were even more three-dimensional. The steamy air tingled with energy, supercharging everything, imbuing it with life force.

  On Marco’s island, when he’d sent me energy and my senses had sharpened, it
had been a shock—a weird experience that I’d struggled to assimilate. Here in Mumbai, I merrily buzzed along with India’s energy. It felt like a power source, not a hindrance.

  I realized I was ignoring Sam. As we walked through the shimmering heat toward the terminal building, I turned and glanced at her.

  “It was the same for me when I first came,” she said, smiling broadly. “It’s remarkable, isn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  The airport was chaotic. Mobs of people pushed and shoved just to get to where they’d have to wait in line—which they didn’t. There were no lines at all.

  “It’s not considered rude here,” Sam told me. “It’s cultural.”

  Eventually, we found ourselves on the sidewalk, bags in hand, with about an hour to get from the international airport to the domestic one, which was supposed to be no more than twenty minutes away. Our prospective taxi driver spoke to me at the curb in Hindi, assuming I was Indian. Sam answered with a few Hindi phrases and then switched to English.

  “You are Americans,” the driver said in very fast, accented English. He was a bit shorter than me, with splotchy skin. His head was squarish, and it seemed as though it belonged to a much larger man. He wore a yellow, short-sleeved button-down shirt over light khaki pants, and a navy-blue New York Yankees baseball cap. His brown plastic sandals looked new. He could’ve played a taxi driver in virtually any movie.

  His cab was a small black and yellow box. It did not inspire confidence. While I didn’t think I could actually tip it over, I imagined it would fare poorly competing against the bumper cars at the Santa Cruz Boardwalk.

  “We’re from California,” I told him.

  “You will find that everyone will wish to steal from you,” he said. “You’re very lucky I am to be your transport today. I am a religious man. I steal from no man. Or woman.”

  “That’s good,” I said.

  “Are you a movie star?” he asked.

  “No,” I answered.

  “Not you. Her. You look like a movie star,” he said to Sam.

  “I am not,” she said. “How much to take us to the other airport?”

  “Where do you fly?”