by S. G. Browne
“Sometimes you have to be willing to make sacrifices, Lloyd. You have to be willing to take a risk and lose something of value if you want to win.” Blaine takes my rook with his bishop and smiles. “That’s checkmate. So where are you taking me for lunch?”
I’ve always wanted to go here with you.” Sophie squeezes my hand and pulls tight against me as we walk along Canal Street toward the Mahayana Buddhist Temple. “Thank you for indulging me.”
While I’m not as excited about today’s field trip as Sophie, her enthusiasm is contagious. Such as when she gets excited about going to the movies. Or the way she laughs when we’re running to catch the ferry back to Manhattan. Or how she claps at parades and throws her arms around me after I come home from a three-day lockdown.
These are the little things that make me realize how much Sophie matters to me, and how much I enjoy being with her. They’re also a reminder of what I would miss if I lost her. And I’m afraid that when I tell her about this ability I have and that I don’t want it to go away, she isn’t going to stick around.
“It’s so beautiful,” Sophie says as we approach the bright red doors that mark the entrance to the temple. “So spiritual.”
I smile and nod, though I can’t help but think how the Mahayana Buddhist Temple hasn’t always been a place of religious mediation and spiritual connection. In its previous life, before it was reborn as its current incarnation, it was an adult movie house called the Rosemary Theater. Back then, people came here to worship Ron Jeremy and Jenna Jameson and to pray at the temple of the almighty orgasm.
I just hope they did a good job of sterilizing this place.
Once we step past the gilded lions and through the doors into the faux pagoda, the scent of incense hits us from a large urn that sits in front of a small shrine with red columns and golden dragons and a small statue of Buddha.
I’ve never been a big believer in any kind of higher power or purpose, be it Buddha, God, or the Flying Spaghetti Monster. I’m not what you would call an atheist. I just don’t believe in anything. Plus, when you have the newfound ability to make other people fall asleep in an instant, the idea of worshipping someone or something else feels a bit like slumming.
Sophie presses her palms together in front of her and bows slightly toward the statue of Buddha, then she takes a pinch of incense and throws it into the urn. She turns to me and I know she wants me to do the same, so I do, but more to make her happy than to show my respect. Plus the incense is making my eyes water.
“Welcome.” A monk in a rich saffron robe greets us with a smile and a bow and an air of complete calm that immediately sets me at ease. He’s like a human antianxiety drug, but more like Librium or Elavil than Ativan.
As the monk welcomes more worshippers and tourists who enter the temple, I keep thinking about how people used to masturbate in here.
Past the monk and the giant urn of tear-inducing incense is a red sign with gold letters that says:
PICK YOUR FORTUNE AND DONATE $1.00
Next to the sign is a basket of small individual scrolls rolled up in rubber bands. Sophie and I each donate a dollar and receive our fortunes as another monk gives us a smile.
“May you receive the words you long to hear,” he says, then gives a slight bow and stands there emanating a sense of calm similar to that radiated by the first monk—though this time I’m getting more of a Paxil vibe.
Sophie opens up her fortune and reads it and gives a little smile.
“What?” I say. “Tell me.”
“I can’t.” She reads the fortune again, then rolls it back up and puts it in her pocket. “It’s a secret. If I tell you, then it won’t come true.”
“Is that right?” I ask the monk.
He just gives me the same noncommittal smile, like he’s taken too much Valium and he can’t remember.
“So I can’t tell you my fortune, either?” I say.
“Not if you want it to come true,” Sophie says.
“What about fortune cookies?” I say. “We always share those.”
“Fortune cookies are just for fun,” she says. “They don’t mean anything. This is different.”
I’m not sure if Sophie is kidding around or if she really believes that these fortunes are any different than the ones that come at the end of a meal of Mandarin eggplant and vegetarian kung pao with tofu, but I’m intent on making her happy and don’t want to spoil her good mood.
I unroll my fortune and make a big show of not letting Sophie see it, then I read what future has been foretold for Lloyd Prescott:
IN TRUE LOVE, DESTINY AWAITS.
I look up at Sophie, who raises a single eyebrow at me, then puts an index finger to her lips, so I give my fortune one more glance before I fold it up and put it in my wallet.
Sophie takes my hand and we continue into the temple, which is simple in appearance, with wooden floors and red chairs and red paper lanterns hanging from the walls. There’s so much red in here it’s like Valentine’s Day threw up. The centerpiece of the temple at the back of the main room is the sixteen-foot gold Buddha resting on a lotus flower with an ethereal neon blue halo around its head.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Sophie says.
Personally I think it’s a little Indiana Jones meets Burning Man, but I hold my tongue as well as Sophie’s hand and just nod, the two of us contemplating the enormous gold sculpture in silence. Prints depicting Buddha’s life line the walls on either side of us, while tables in front of the statue are covered with oranges and grapes and provide a place for offerings in memory of loved ones.
And I can’t help but wonder what part of the movie theater this place used to be.
“Can we sit and meditate for a little bit?” Sophie asks.
“Define a little bit.”
Sophie gives me a look that lets me know I’m not being a supportive boyfriend.
“Sure,” I say. “Let’s sit and meditate. For as long as you’d like.”
Sophie has always encouraged me to develop a regular practice of meditation as part of a well-balanced life. While I’ve sat with her numerous times and tried my best to clear my mind and focus on my breath and repeat some kind of silent mantra over and over, I’ve just never been able to make it a priority. Plus it’s kind of difficult to keep your focus when you’re testing drugs that make you anxious or restless or agitated. Or that cause cramping and explosive diarrhea.
So while Sophie meditates in the lotus position with her back straight and her eyes closed, I sit in the half-lotus and sneak glances at the tourists and worshippers who approach the Buddha, leaving offerings or taking pictures. Knowing that I could make any of them fall asleep makes me think about what I could get away with. Practical jokes. Revenge. Stealing people’s wallets and purses while they’re out cold.
I wonder if deities ever struggle with their own inner demons.
I also wonder if there’s something more I should be doing with this ability rather than teaching a bunch of courtesy criminals a lesson on social etiquette. I just don’t know what that something is.
As I pretend to meditate in front of the statue of Buddha, contemplating my purpose and my own omnipotence, there’s a muffled crash from down the hallway toward the front of the temple, followed by a single shout of surprise.
“Hey! Stop that!”
“What’s going on?” Sophie asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, then stand up.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“I just want to check it out,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
While getting involved has never been my thing, for some reason I’m compelled to find out what happened, maybe see if there’s something I can do to help.
I walk down the hallway to the front entrance, where I find the donation box near the basket of fortunes smashed open and one-dollar bills scattered across the floor. A crowd of about a dozen people watch as two monks roll around on the dollar bills, grappling with one another—their earlier sense
of calm nowhere to be found.
“What happened?” I ask a young woman with a backpack.
“The one on the bottom smashed open the donation box,” she says with a German accent, which is either percussion or brass, I can’t remember. “The one on top tried to stop him, then they started fighting.”
The men and women stand around and watch the show, but no one does anything to help. I consider using my ability to solve the problem and make one or both of them fall asleep but figure that might be too conspicuous, so instead I step in to break them up. A burly guy with sideburns and a ponytail follows my lead and together we separate the two monks.
“Are you okay?” I ask one of them after I help him to his feet.
He has a bloody nose and what looks like a welt forming above his left eye. He doesn’t answer but just looks down at the other monk, who remains on the floor, thrashing around like he’s still fighting with someone. At first I think maybe he’s having a seizure, then he stops and sits up and says, “Did you see that?” before he scrambles back against the wall and looks around wearing a wild expression.
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask.
The first monk only shakes his head and wipes the blood from his nose. “He has never done anything like this.”
“Maybe it’s one of those random dosings,” the guy with the ponytail and sideburns says. “Maybe someone slipped a tab of acid or some mushrooms into his food.”
I glance around at the dozen or so men and women watching us and wonder if one of them might have dosed the monk. Except other than the food left out as an offering to Buddha, there’s nothing edible or drinkable in here that could have been spiked.
As the monk continues to have what appears to be some kind of hallucinatory episode, another possibility occurs to me: What if what happened here was due to something other than a prank involving recreational psychedelic drugs? Not just here, but throughout Manhattan?
What if the people who have been experiencing these reported hallucinations haven’t been the unwitting marks of a gastrointestinal terrorist, but the victims of a pharmaceutical guinea pig?
A host of prescription drugs have been known to cause hallucinations in volunteers and patients. Antipsychotics and anticonvulsants and antidepressants. Medications for insomnia and obesity and Parkinson’s disease. Drugs that are advertised during news programs and soap operas and prime-time TV shows.
It never occurred to me that this might be happening to anyone else. I presumed it was unique to our group. Or maybe that’s the way I wanted it to be. Just the five of us. Our own little club. But for all I know, there could be dozens of other guinea pigs out there discovering that they’ve developed strange new abilities.
I’m walking through Little Italy with Randy, Vic, and Charlie after eleven o’clock on a school night, the four of us on our way back from Veselka, where we just finished off some tasty pierogi. The moon is out, the sky is clear, and a homeless guy is talking to himself in front of the Church of the Nativity.
“You think there are other guinea pigs out there able to do what we do?” Randy asks.
“I don’t know if anyone’s making people throw up or break out in rashes,” I say.
“Or go into convulsions,” Charlie says.
“Or go into convulsions,” I say. “But yeah, I think there might be someone who’s developed abilities like us who’s responsible for all of the hallucinations that have been happening lately. I mean, we’re not the only guinea pigs who live in New York City.”
“What about those people who got mugged and can’t remember a thing?” Charlie says. “Do you think that might have been done by a guinea pig?”
There are a lot of prescription drugs on the market known to cause memory loss. Sleeping pills and narcotics and statins. Medications for anxiety and depression and seizures. Drugs prescribed by hospital nurses and handed out by primary-care physicians like breath mints.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s possible.”
“What about Frank?” Vic asks.
“What about him?” Randy says.
“He didn’t show up to the last meeting,” Vic says. “Or to poker night.”
“You think Frank is doing this?” Charlie asks.
“I don’t think anything,” Vic says. “I’m just spitballing here. But when was the last time anyone saw Frank?”
No one says anything, but we all know the answer. No one’s seen Frank since he stormed out of Randy’s nearly three weeks ago. We all just assumed he’d show up for the next meeting and when he didn’t, no one thought twice about it. We’ve all missed meetings before. It happens. But apparently we were all so caught up in the excitement of our new abilities that no one bothered to call to see if he was okay.
Still, the idea that Frank might be the one behind the hallucinations or the muggings strikes me as wrong—both as an unpalatable option and an impossibility. From the silence that seems to have engulfed our quartet, I’m guessing I’m not the only one struggling with this possibility.
We walk along Bowery toward Chinatown in pensive silence, the stores closed and the roll-up doors pulled down, some late-night stragglers on their way to or from somewhere. The shine seems to have been rubbed off the evening and it’s approaching quitting time for Sophie, so I’m about to peel off and head for home when someone starts shouting.
A block down Bowery in front of the Royal Jewelry Center, a couple of punks are harassing a homeless man who appears to be trying to protect his worldly possessions. His protests only seem to escalate their abuse and laughter.
“Stop it!” he shouts. “Get lost, you fuckers!”
Being a hero has never been my strong suit. It’s never even been a suit, or a sports coat, for that matter. But something inside of me clicks and I feel compelled to act.
I look at Randy, who looks at me with an expression that seems to mirror my thoughts. Charlie says, “We should do something,” and Vic nods. “Then let’s do it.”
The four of us jog down the sidewalk, side by side, preparing to do battle like Eliot Ness and the Untouchables. Except we’re not carrying shotguns or badges. And we have no idea what we’re doing.
One of the punks shoves the homeless man to the ground, eliciting a “Hey!” from Randy, who gets out in front as we arrive at the scene. The two punks turn and notice us and I expect one of them to develop a sudden and severe case of poison oak. Instead, Randy drops to the ground, rolls over once, and starts convulsing.
“Shit,” Charlie says.
“Goddamn it, Charlie!” Vic says. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m sorry,” Charlie says. “It was an accident.”
“Everything you do is an accident,” Vic says. “You’re a walking disaster.”
“I said I was sorry!”
“Yeah.” One of the punks walks up to Charlie and flashes a knife, waving it in the air. “You’re gonna be fuckin’ sorry.”
It takes a moment before I realize it’s none other than Cornrows from the J train.
“Hey asshole!” I shout, and start to access my trigger.
He looks at me over Charlie’s shoulder and narrows his eyes before opening them wider and smiling. “Hey Deke, guess who—”
Before he can get any more out, Cornrows drops his knife and projectile vomits all over Charlie’s chest and face. Two seconds later, Charlie returns the favor. Whether out of disgust or because he’s collateral damage from Vic’s efforts I don’t know, but both of them start puking like a couple of fraternity pledges.
“Yo Billy,” the other punk says, who turns out to be Soul Patch. “What the fuck, man?”
Cornrows/Billy throws up all over the sidewalk like someone turned on a faucet in order to empty his stomach while Charlie vomits in short staccato bursts. A few feet away, Randy continues to convulse and spasm like a fish on the deck of a boat.
“Hey, man!” Soul Patch says. “What the fuck you bitches do to Billy?”
Soul Patch doesn’t wait for a
n answer but takes out his own switchblade and flips it open, the blade glinting in the glow of the streetlight. On the sidewalk nearby I see Billy’s knife, but I’ve never been in a fistfight let alone a knife fight, so I use the only weapon I have at my disposal.
I take a deep breath and summon my trigger, imagining Steve Martin from Little Shop of Horrors shoving a needle into my gums, lidocaine flowing out of the syringe and turning my lips numb, channeling all of my focus and energy into my lips, turning them numb.
“Yo man!” Soul Patch says. “You’re that fucker from the subway!”
He comes at me with the knife as my eyes grow heavy and the pressure builds up in the back of my throat.
“I’m gonna cut you open like a fuckin’ pig!” he says.
My mouth opens and I yawn, my lips stretching wide like I’m Steven Tyler or Mick Jagger mugging for a music video. Before I can get out of the way, Soul Patch stumbles into me and we tumble to the sidewalk in a heap of arms and legs, the deadweight of Soul Patch pinning me to the sidewalk. The next moment, Vic is shoving the punk aside and into the gutter and reaching down with his hand to help me up.
“You okay, Lloyd?” he says.
I nod, relieved not to have a knife sticking out of any part of my body, then I stand up and look around.
Cornrows/Billy is on his hands and knees dry heaving while Charlie sits on the sidewalk in front of the Chinatown Health Castle, groaning. Soul Patch is out cold in the gutter, flat on his back, sleeping like a baby—his knife on the ground next to him like a forgotten pacifier. The homeless guy who was getting attacked when we showed up has gathered his possessions and is shuffling off as fast as he can down the street.
I guess a thank-you would be too much to ask for.
Randy stops convulsing, sits up, and holds his head in his hands like he’s trying to keep it from cracking open.
“Jesus,” Randy says. “I’m totally Led Zeppelined right now.”
I’m presuming Randy means he’s dazed and confused and not going in through the out door, but we don’t have time to play classic-rock roulette. A few bystanders have noticed the commotion and are walking toward us while somewhere in the distance, a siren wails. Whether it’s headed this way or to another scene I don’t know, but it’s probably not a good idea for us to stick around and have to explain what happened.
