The Manhattan Prophet

by Jake Packard

  While his prep school friends back home in the cold at M.I.T. and Harvard and Yale, studied Nietzsche and Einstein and Freud, he woke up to the sunrise on the Bay of Bengal, played music, hung out, got high, and often times got some. He slept at night under the stars on the beach. Each day it repeated.

  Bullmoose had arrived at the other side of the planet to become a divine cosmic dancer, like Shiva, infused with the reality and joy of creation. When he moved through the several manifestations of divinity, he too could experience the truth, the good, and the beauty that is Creation, as long as he held onto that return ticket back to Boston in case his money completely ran out.

  One morning he awoke on a beach where the tides of alcohol and cannabis on which he nightly sailed dropped him like driftwood. He knew he had not been there before, because all around came this clink-clink-clinking sound, like metal striking stone. Towering above him, at the convergence of sea, sky and land, as if it were a sandcastle made by giants, an ornate and ancient structure stood guard, its gopuram reaching for the heavens. He had found the ancient temple.

  With nothing better to do, Bullmoose sat on the beach and strummed his guitar at this juncture of the endless motion of the earth, and jammed to the melodies of life.

  Upon hearing the Bullmoose music, an old man emerged from inside the temple, wearing the traditional orange of the Hari Krishna. He entered close into Bullmoose’s personal body space. The orange man then stretched his arms, his legs gyrated, and he mumbled in an ancient language that sounded like praying. He spun his body in circles occasionally bending over to pick up sand and then letting it flow gently through his fingers into the wind. The singing and jumble of invocations all sounded convincing to Bullmoose.

  The orange man reached into his pockets and pulled out things he had collected along the way. He sorted through the riffraff with great concern, throwing aside cocktail napkins, buttons, matchbooks, broken beads, bottle tops, a ripped notepad, leather strings. Finally he found it, a thin ring made from a single strand of copper, wrapped in such a clever way that even under close inspection one could not tell where the wire began or ended.

  With grand ceremony and gesticulation, the orange man placed the ring on the fourth finger of Bullmoose’s right hand.

  “Hey, careful dude,” Bullmoose cautioned him, “That’s my picking hand, ya know? I will need that as a rock star.”

  The orange man giggled and stepped back to admire the King Bullmoose. After a couple of pious and profound moments he extended his outstretched palm in front of Bullmoose’s face. “Waddaya want? Some money for this thing?” Bullmoose asked him.

  With that the old man jumped into action, bending, postulating and pointing to the ring. He cried out in broken English, “It’s for you. It’s for you. It’s for you!”

  When Bullmoose looked back at him with a blank and confused expression, the orange man became excited in an almost insulted, over-animated way. “It’s for you. It’s for you. It’s for you!” He literally spat the words out again into Bullmoose’s face.

  “Yes, sir, I know it’s for me and it is very nice.” Bullmoose did not want to hurt the orange man’s feelings, but he did not reach into his pocket and offer him some money.

  However, the little orange man would not to be denied. And he did not go away. He stood in Bullmoose’s face and repeated over and over, “It’s for you. It’s for you. It’s for you.”

  Exasperated, Bullmoose pulled out his last money. The fifty rupee note would not buy much, but he knew it would be too much to give a beggar, even one who acted like a holy man. Before Bullmoose asked where he could get some change, the old man grabbed the bill and stuffed it down into his pocket with all the other trash. He grabbed Bullmoose in a big bear hug of gratitude, giving him a first-hand chance to discover the orange man’s mighty body odor that had been gathering for years.

  Before Bullmoose could extricate himself, the orange man pushed him aside and ran towards the temple from where he came, patting his treasure pocket where he stored his fifty-rupee reward from heaven. It would last him all year long down by the taverns in town near the lagoon. He turned just before entering the temple, under the tower at the juncture of all the churning earthly elements, and gave another supplication to the sun, the wind, and the sea on Bullmoose’s behalf. He disappeared back inside.

  Bullmoose stood in silence, except for the constant clink-clink-clink stone-like sound. He liked this place. So, he turned up the beach, walked a hundred yards, and found a spot in the brush where the sand met the jungle to call his own. He settled down in the shadows of the ancient gopuram in Mahabalipuram, a major milestone in his soulful sojourn.

  That afternoon Bullmoose strummed his Martin guitar and sang a few songs in the Mahabalipuram main square, the intersection of a few dirt roads and a couple of very shabby-by-western-standards hotels. The guitar case lay open at his feet for handouts from German and Japanese tourists, whose parents had lost World War II but they still had all the money they needed to travel. He started to make back a few of the rupees he had sacrificed to the gods through the orange man, and soon made enough spare change to eat that night. Clink-clink-clink.

  After dinner and a few shots, he headed back to the beach. On the dirt road he heard a rowdy and coughing car creep up behind him. He hadn’t heard the sound of an engine all day. The old Indian-made Ambassador’s engine had the horsepower of most American’s lawn mowers, but Bullmoose stuck his thumb out for a ride and the car stopped to pick him up.

  The only car in town turned out to be a taxi driven by an enterprising young man Bullmoose’s age named Pranan, who told Bullmoose right away that he was a Muslim, as if Bullmoose should understand that Muslims were, of course, far superior, more intelligent, and more worldly, than his neighbor Hindus in the jungle. Pranan had listened to Bullmoose play his guitar earlier in the day in the town square and knew at first sight they should be great friends, so he followed him.

  Pranan gave Bullmoose a ride to introduce him to Sivan, who owned a little restaurant down by the beach. Like all the cafes in town, it consisted of a small thatched hut with simple cast-iron furniture strewn about in the sand. Pranan told Sivan that Bullmoose would be playing his guitar there later that night. Sivan just shook his head side to side, which in America means no, but in India means yes.

  In a few days all the cafes in Mahabalipuram wanted Bullmoose. After he played a few tunes for their happy guests, they invited him into their kitchens to select his favorite catch of the day, caught by the tribe of local fishermen who lived near him on the beach. Every morning Bullmoose watched the tribe stride out of the jungle, defecate into holes they dug in the sand, and then paddle out to their dinghies docked on the tide. They caught the fish in the ocean that they ate at night to keep them alive. Everything everywhere is interconnected. Clink-clink-clink.

  It took Bullmoose a few days to figure it out. Not only did he stumble onto the holy, exotic Hindu shrine of Mahabalipuram, but he landed in the center of the statue-making industry in India, Durga Works.

  Old man Durga rode the tiger. He had the monopoly. Every statue of Shiva, Vishnu, or Brahma, that hundreds of street people tried to sell to tourists everywhere in India, originated right here in Mahabalipuram, pounded out by a small army of apprentice sculptors. Durga conscripted the kids from the neighborhood, mistreated them like his slaves, and forced them to work sixteen-hour shifts in abysmal conditions for hardly any pay.

  The Durga Gestapo ran deep. Rumors had it that street vendors selling statues not bearing the Durga logo would be found later in compromising positions, dead, with their non-Durga statues protruding from various orifices.

  Durga kept tight control over everything he owned and kept his kids working round the clock, chiseling away at lumps of rock. The loud sound competed with the surf. Clink-clink-clink, there goes a Shiva for a tabletop in Tokyo.

  Regardless, Bullmoose had found himself in Brahmaloka, with all the splendors of earth at hand. Great weather, plenty o
f beaches, lots of tourists who threw plenty of coins in his guitar case, and an occasional fraulein or geisha daughter mixed in with the Hindu ladies. He felt like an avatar who prancing in shit. But, number one: nothing ever stays the same.

  # # #

  He first sighted the little Gypsy on the beach, as a silhouette in front of the rising moon. Waves pounded on the jetties that guarded the temple, sending fountains of spray into the sky refracting moonbeams like fireworks. He could feel her sharp eyes staring at him. They burned through her veil.

  People walked this part of the beach at all times of day and night, but this felt different. The shimmering moonlight reflecting off the ocean’s incessant motion sent his blood flowing rapidly through his body, ending up in his groin. Shock waves of desire rippled through him. The consequences would change his life forever.

  A couple of nights later he saw the little Gypsy as he played guitar at Cudalore Cathy’s Cafe. Birdlike, like the most delicate of beauties, the little Gypsy had fiery brown eyes set deep into a petite round face, garlanded by a bounty of lustrous black hair. She smiled at him like the ageless Shakti, the mother goddess, the energy that powers the universe. He stood to invite her to sit, but she had disappeared as if by magic. He had turned his head for only one instant and she had dissolved into the palm-shadowed Mahabalipuram night.

  Later, when the German tourists left their wives snoring and came to Cathy’s to get drunk, Bullmoose swore he could feel her watching him. There from behind a palm frond, no, there near the screen door to the kitchen, but no. He wondered if his mind played tricks with his eyes, Her game of hide-and-seek aroused him.

  Clink-clink-clink. Another new Vishnu for a mantel in Düsseldorf.

  He hung around later than usual that night, hoping she’d come back, but no. Eventually all the patrons stumbled away to sleep it off in expensive mosquito-netted rooms. Alone, Bullmoose sat at a wrought-iron table in the sand amongst the sounds of the sea and the sounds of the stones. Cathy sidled up alongside him, rubbing him on his leg high up on his thigh to see if he wanted to buy something that didn’t come from her kitchen. But no thanks, Cathy, and no insult suggested. None taken by Cudalore Cathy.

  He packed up his guitar and headed off to the ocean. He trudged along on the beach past the temple. Disheartened, he laid out his sleeping bag on his spot twixt two flowering hibiscus at the point where the jungle brush gave way to the sand. He lay down and gazed into the unfathomable, voluminous universe. Just him, the rhythm of the waves, and clink-clink-clink . . .

  . . . he found himself in a large purple room playing chess with an attractive woman with a baldhead. She looked bored as she played chess with Bullmoose. They sat on a thick rug with a low cocktail table of ornate chess pieces between them as she progressed to kick his wimpy ass. The pieces did not look like the conventional sort, but something more like those gimmicky chess sets where the pieces resembled figurines of the Revolutionary War, or the Rockettes, or dinosaurs or, as in this case, the New York Yankees. And of course on the other side of the board stood the Boston Red Sox.

  The bald woman moved her knight and placed it near Bullmoose’s king, which looked exactly like Carl Yastrzemski, which made sense since he batted clean-up hitter for the Red Sox. Her face blossomed into a wicked smile. “Check.”

  At that moment, a huge man, maybe nine feet tall, broke through a brick wall and demanded that everyone stay still while he searched the room for hidden recording devices. Bullmoose realized he sat in a very fancy living room with an avante garde party in full swing. Loud, but cool, jazz modulated through the buzz of the partygoers. Behind him on the circular staircase, two gay people engaged in an oddly balanced oral sex situation.

  The giant brought with him agents who began ripping the place apart, checking for concealed bugs that might be tapping the room. They sliced open couch cushions and slashed behind picture frames. One of them lay on the floor getting head from a bimbo who thought it remarkable that his thing was so long, and blue, and covered with sharp and prickly thorns like a rosebush. “That sure will hurt a lot,” Bullmoose heard her say.

  Bullmoose moved Yaz one square over to his left and smiled at the bald woman who looked exactly like Grandma. Before Bullmoose had a chance to figure out why he played with the hated Red Sox as his pieces , Grandma immediately slid Mel Stottlemyre into position on a square protected by Thurman Munson, who looked funny dressed in drag. “Checkmate.”

  “Nobody leave!” The giant boomed in a menacing deep bass that echoed off the brick walls. Instead, the party grew ever more frenzied. People snorted drugs on the fire escape and then some jumped off and flew away. Others smashed their glasses and other breakable objects into the fireplace spraying glass chips and glowing embers all over Bullmoose. Grandma just sat there and laughed.

  People began undressing. Some exhibited mixed gender body parts while others looked simply exquisite with large and divine proportions. The giant bellowed again. “Nobody can leave until we figure this out. Somewhere in here is the piece we need.”

  Grandma looked over to Bullmoose from in the midst of a roomful of naked people now engaged in an orgy of lust, booze, and drugs. She smiled and purred, “You can’t be too careful with the ones you love”.

  The giant grabbed him by the neck. He hauled him outside onto the fire escape and dangled him over the railing. People around him started pouring cocaine down his nose and Bullmoose started choking and fighting for breath. He inhaled so much white powder he couldn’t breathe and he thought he was going to suffocate and die . . .

  . . . the crashing of the waves, clink-clink-clink, and a girlish laugh. She sat next to him and dripped a stream of sand onto his face. Bullmoose sat up spitting out the sand from his nose and mouth, but she jumped on him and pushed him back down. She sat on his chest, giggling. Her hair glistened in the balmy Tamil breeze. The fragrances of jungle flowers, sea salt, and Hindu pheromones blew into his nostrils, stimulating his gonads. Blood poured into his manhood. Even totally asleep and unprepared, Bullmoose had a way of handling every situation with the same course of action.

  The little Gypsy sensed his dick growing full speed towards her so with one coordinated coy move bounced herself back off from his chest, and sat on the sand next to him. She lightly teased his dick, now at full attention under his jeans, with playful brushings of her fingertips over his zipper, more with fascination than cock-teasing flirtation.

  She talked to him in flowing rivulets of tantalizing Indian English, about the sand, the sea, and the stars. She told him she had followed him home that night to see where he slept and then went back home with her friends. Later, she slipped out after her father went to sleep because he would kill anyone, especially a white guitar playing hippie like Bullmoose, if he knew she visited him alone in the night.

  Bullmoose felt a grand déjà vu, much greater than the feeling of just being here once before, or knowing her from a past life. It seemed like he remembered her from a future life spiraling back onto him, reversing time and splaying it open to all avenues and feasibilities.

  He could barely answer her back, because of his infatuation with her sensuous youthful face ripe with wisdom, and her intelligent voice lush with passion, but mostly, because his boner screamed to rip out of his jeans. She sensed the discomfort he felt from his desire. “No, I don’t think we can do that. I hardly know you,” she murmured into his ear. Waves of sumptuous jet-black hair fell onto his face.

  Clink-clink-clink, another Ganesh for a bookcase in Gyoza.

  They went on like that for some time, Bullmoose barely able to communicate while in full combat against an unruly ejaculation. Sometime in the dead of night she stopped talking, laid her head on his shoulder and fell asleep with her arms wrapped around him, which slowly gave him respite without unmanly embarrassment.

  He woke up several hours later as the sun tickled the night with its first turquoise light. “You’ve been such a good boy all night and I feel so bad that I have to go.” She unzipped h
is fly. Before he knew it, she had pulled his pants down to his knees. Her mouth began to work, and before too long he exploded. She giggled, and then left him on the sand, disappearing back into the jungle.

  * * * * *

  Danielle

  According to Herbie, most people don’t really touch when they sleep together. During the sex part, okay, the sleeping part, nah. It’s not that they don’t want to; it’s that they probably just can’t. But, not Danielle, the only woman in Herbie’s past who could, and did. Every night for the last thirteen years he mourned his constant loss of this one principal comfort robbed from him when the world went completely insane.

  He couldn’t allow himself a relationship. He felt incapable of having one, any type or kind; intimate, sexual, or whatever. His excruciating personal torment caused an arduous self-induced celibacy. Except, of course, for those several shameful drunken evenings when he risked health and fortune with some wretch of a gutter whore who seduced him into an opprobrious sex act in some dirty alley on his way home from somewhere depraved.

  He remembered sex to be great. He used to be all for it, every bit of it, and whenever he could. He practiced first-time sex with a first-time partner often in college, and for the few years afterwards when he was going through the internship at the station.

  But now Herbie, from deep inside his scarred and scabbed psyche, felt blessed he met Danielle before the Exchange.

  By the first part of the twenty-first century, American sexual morays degenerated into profligate and indiscriminate behavior. Anything went on anywhere, anytime. Pornography flooded the Internet. Personal sex clips of all kinds and combinations abounded. The pharmachemical giants had pills for everything. Anonymity became an advantage.