CHAPTER ELEVEN
The door creaked. Marcene peered out the partially opened door at two men engaged in aimless discussion. She peered at Clark while he, chatting with Prajnapada, walked past her partially opened door.
Marcene smiled; however, the men did not notice her standing in the doorway. Marcene, with her left hand on the door knob and her right hand resting on her curvaceous right hip, sighed and closed the door.
“Praj,” Clark said in approaching the door of his house, “what do you think of Drush Limbo, that right-wing nescient, low-down and benighted nincompoop?”
“I take it you don’t like him,” Prajnapada said.
“I don’t.” Clark walked up to his front door with a stern face.
“All men,” Prajnapada quipped, “who delve into politics find themselves cut off from people who would otherwise be their friends. Republicans and Democrats need each other but fail to see that need. They’re benighted and argue and seem not to get any thing done; however, the nation’s problems do not take a hiatus or go on vacation. No, they fester and grow worse—
“Praj, sometimes you’re long winded.” Clark’s eyes narrowed.
“Clark, sometimes you interrupt when you should listen!”
“Okay, I get your drift. Continue; I’ll shut up and listen.”
“As far as Drush is concerned, he’s an operative for that political party’s agenda. He’s a cunning, likable demagogue but I would not listen to him. His purported truth is slanted to the right. He’s flamboyant. He’s a good talker; nevertheless, you must remember that those who talk most know less then their talk. He’s opinionated and opinion is not a foundation for truth. Do you listen to him often?”
Clark thought about what Prajnapada had said. “Not often. I listen to him when I don’t have anything better to do. Have you heard him? He seems to be intelligent.”
“I would find something to do that’s more productive to happiness than to listen to that drivel. Men in politics think of themselves—wait! I should say most men in politics. There are few who are overflowing with probity and integrity. Have you ever noticed that most politicians cannot think for themselves? Even Drush Limbo, though he says he’s his own man, is the vocal cord of a political movement. He’s intelligent; however, wisdom isn’t founded on mere intelligence. He has a myopic mind.”
“Praj,” Clark interrupted, “what do you think of liberals. I’m a moderate liberal.”
“Clark,” Prajnapada retorted, “liberals are no different than bland conservatives, but at least they tend to be more people oriented and think in terms of humane welfare. Most conservatives think about themselves and how they can augment their pocket books. They forget that when all is said and done they die and leave the rewards of their cupidity to someone else. To look after the welfare of others is a noble calling. You know, Jesus was the grandest liberal that ever lived on this earth. Conservatives, I don’t think, will ever understand that. Why are they so concerned about taxes when people are homeless and call their home the street? There’s so much poverty in America as well as in the world! Why do conservatives view helping others as ‘bad?’”
“I don’t think they do that, do they?” Clark arched his brow and studied Prajnapada.
Prajnapada gesticulated with his hands. “They are greedy people, these conservatives, and wish to stymie social welfare progress. However, too many liberals have their head in the air and take their feet with them. If I had to choose between being a liberal or conservative, I would opt for the liberal choice. There are more important things in life than the pursuit of money. If conservatives knew the truth, that true wealth is in giving, they would become more liberal in their thinking. It is better to share than to hoard. Someday the conservatives in America will wake up, smell the roses, and begin giving money to noble social welfare causes. A noble nation ennobles its poor.”
Clark rolled his eyes. “How can you charge the conservatives with allowing the poor to become poorer?”
“NO nation is prosperous that discounts its poor!” Prajnapada continued. “Some conservatives in America should be penitent. When they do it to the least of their citizens they do it unto God. I think they give God short shrift, don’t you? It’s enough to make me cry; and I have, my friend, I have.”
Clark reached for the brass knob of the door of his house, said: “I had no idea an angel could be so political.”
“I’m not political unless you think that consideration due to the poor is political. Did not Jesus admonish all to care for those who happen to be less fortunate than others?”
“I dare say most people give short shrift to the teachings of Jesus.”
“And Mohammad.”
Clark opened the door to his home and, walking through the doorway, asked, “Are you saying then that Drush Limbo is a man who shouldn’t be listened to?”
“Clark,” Prajnapada said, walking through the doorway, “a person should listen to what is said, but one need not pay heed to what is espoused. If you listen to your silence you’ll know the Truth and it’ll set you free. Limbo will set no man free by what he asserts.”
“Why not?” Clark closed the door.
“Was he not a champion of supply side economics? That was a failure before it started because it was premised on a falsehood of nature. Nothing in nature flourishes from the top down. Every- thing grows from the bottom up, from inside out. I winced in heaven when I heard that and was surprised when the American people fell hook, line, and sinker for it. After all, it was Say’s Law revisited. No, don’t pay heed to Drush and be careful around other conservatives. In fact, rush away from his blather and maundering lip movements.”
“That may be good sound advice or it may not. I’ll have to think on it.” Clark stepped toward the kitchen refrigerator to get himself a beer. “Do angels drink beer?”
“No, anyone who does drink alcoholic beverages is playing with fire.”
“Why do you say that?” Clark stopped and turned around to face Prajnapada whose eyes were aflame. Clark was thirsty and longed for a beer. He liked the taste of malt on his tongue, liked the sense of languor it brought him after he savored one too many sips of the brew. He could taste the beer in his mouth as he thought about it coursing down his throat.
“Alcohol befuddles the mind and it makes one do foolish things. It can even kill. No man who is wise imbibes alcohol.”
Clark reached out, opened his refrigerator, stooped over to get a beer. But all his beer was Ginseng Rush soda, cans and all. “What happened here?”
“I turned your beer into soda. Never again will your lips kiss the malted brew.”
Clark slammed the fridge shut, turned and sat on the kitchen table, eyed Prajnapada woefully, stared at the ticking clock on the wall above the window that was above the kitchen sink. His face turned pallid when he realized his plight. “Praj, Clark said plaintively, “you expect me to give up beer and live like you?”
“I was kidding.” Prajnapada beamed a smile. “You take life too seriously. Chill out, man, and have a Ginseng Rush.”
Clark had never tasted ginseng soda. He pushed himself from the table, opened his fridge and took a can from the second shelf. He closed the fridge door behind him and studied the writing on the can. Its contents were made of all natural herbs. He opened the can and poured its contents in a glass. The soda was golden in color and formed a head of bear-like foam. He said to himself as he etched a smile, “It looks like beer.”
He raised the glass up to his lips. Horrible taste, like grit. “Oh, I need a beer,” Clark wailed, allowing the soda to drool down his chin. Clark then slogged to the sink that was located to the left of the fridge, poured the soda down the drain watching Prajnapada as he did so. Prajnapada, with a mischievous grin on his face, avoided Clark’s antagonistic glance.
“Well, Praj,” Clark quipped, “why don’t you change the soda into wine?” He started toward the refrigerator, placed his right hand on its handle. He glanced out the kitchen window and es- pied his neighbor, Marty, trimming a tree on his front lawn. Why is he trimming my tree?
He opened his refrigerator and like water cascading down a waterfall, like a cataract, beer, rich frothy beer reeking the smell of malt, flowed onto his chest and legs and feet. Prajnapada stood in the kitchen corner laughing at Clark floundering in his beer and sang through his laughing, “In heaven there is no beer and that’s why we have it here.”
Clark was drenched but not angry. The beer tasted heavenly. “Praj, you’ve out done yourself. Why didn’t you bottle it? This beer tastes great!” He licked his beer-frothed brownish-blond mustache. “This stuff is tastiferous. Good stuff.”
Clark’s clothes were drenched with the suds. Even Clark’s hair was pomaded with the brew. The kitchen was redolent of a brewery. Prajnapada was laughing at the sight of Clark licking his mustache as he stood in a pool of beautiful brew.
“Clark,” Prajnapada said, his laughter having subsided, “you wanted beer.” He walked up to Clark, slapped him on his back with his right hand. Clark regarded Prajnapada and, simpering, said, “You think you’re smart. I’ll get you someday, friend. Angel or no, I’ll get you.”
Prajnapada’s laugher echoed throughout the house as the telephone rang.
“Praj,” Clark said walking to the phone, “you have to clean this mess up, ya know.”
“I know.” In a blink of an angel’s eye the kitchen was cleaner than it had ever been. Even Clark’s clothes smelled fresh and airy as if they had been taken off a clothes line.
“I wish I could do that,” Clark said, reaching for the phone.
“I know you do,” Prajnapada said, grinning with devilish lips.
“Hello. . . .”
“Hi, Marcene. How are you. . . ?” “That’s good. . . .”
“Do I want to come over for tea? Do we live in England?”
“No, I am not being sarcastic. . . .” “Sure, that would be great. . . .” “What time?”
“Expect a surprise?”
“Bye. I’ll see you in a couple of hours. . . .”
Clark hung up the receiver. Smiling, he turned to Prajnapada: “That was Marcene. She wants me to come over to her place for dinner tonight. Says she has a surprise for me. Wonder what it could be.”
“I know what it is,” Prajnapada said, “but I won’t tell you. It would ruin your fun to know in advance that she’s going to make a move on you. Drats! I let the moose out of the forest.”
“Moose out of the forest?”
“Moose out of the forest, cat out of the bag—it’s the same thing only in bigger dimensions.” Prajnapada’s teeth sparkled.
“So, she’s going to try to seduce me tonight.” Clark said, fire in his eyes.
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Prajnapada said; “but, I won’t allow her do anything to compromise you.”
“Praj,” Clark implored, “I wish you would not interfere in my romantic life. I’m not interested in Marcene that much; I think I can parry any move she might make.”
“I don’t think you can.” Prajnapada’s stare penetrated to Clark’s soul. “Marcene is a beautiful woman and I’ve seen how you react around beautiful women. Your radar turns on, you zero in for the ‘kill’, you lose control of your reason. When it comes to women you’re weak; dreadfully, eminently, mightily weak!”
Clark flexed his muscled arms. “That may be true; however, she didn’t invite you.”
Clark looked out his kitchen window, birds chirping, noticed that Marty was still trimming the tree in Clark’s front yard. He observed that intermittently Marty would look in the direction of the window before which Clark stood.
“I’ve no intention of interfering when you go over to Marcene’s this evening,” Prajnapada said in a soft, assuring tone. “I don’t want you to get into a situation where you may get hurt. I’m here to protect you from that, remember?”
“Okay, okay; I don’t mean I don’t want you around.”
“I’ll be around, but you won’t be able to see me,” Prajnapada said. “In fact, I’m here and at Marcene’s, too. She’s preparing herself for you.”
* * *
Marcene, smiling broadly, had placed the phone receiver down on its hook. She pranced around in her living room, kitchen and den tidying up although it was as neat as neat could be. She thought that tonight would be the night Clark would experience orgasm with her on her firm water bed. She was happy with the thought, her lower abdomen glowing in warmth.
What should I make Clark for dinner? she thought. I want to please him and the best way to please a man apart from sex must be to sate his palate with tasty morsels of delicious food. She panicked. She did not know what he liked.
What did she do? There was a restaurant in the area that delivered full course meals for a substantial fee. The fee was no prob- lem. Clark did not know it but Marcene was a moneyed woman. Like any resourceful and thinking woman she ordered out. She called this restaurant, ordered country fried steak with all the trimmings and asked if the meal could be sent as soon as possible.
In her dither Marcene did not notice the pink angelic figurine moving about the house watching her. The angel even on occasion smiled but Marcene was oblivious to it. She was thinking about the coming evening and what the two of them would be doing in a short time. She had placed a sheer teddy on her bed. She planned to slip into her red silk teddy after the main course, slither into the din- ing area and then as sensually slip out of that teddy, stand before Clark, wait for him to pull the ribbon of her lust off ever so gently and delve into what she would offer him. In a few hours would she taste action? Yes, yes, yes!
The teddy lay on the bed, the food was on its way (Marcene had called the restaurant a second time; the meal would be delivered) and Marcene was in her bathroom putting on her makeup when the telephone rang. The pink figurine followed her with eagle eyes.
Marcene relished walking around the house nude when she was alone. She strode up to the phone like a minx with her nude thighs softly reflecting the subdued light of her living room. Her breasts were firm and the curvatures of her hips were smooth as glass.
“Hello. . . .”
“What, you’re coming home. But, why; I thought. . . .” “Okay, Pam. . . . Yes, I’ll be here. . . .”
Marcene hung up the phone. Would her plans be thwarted? No! She was going to send her daughter to her girl friend’s house. She snatched the phone receiver and dialed Betty Parkwood’s number.
Hurray, off to Parkwood’s Pam will go. I can taste Clark’s lips and can feel his arms wrapped around mine, she thought during the time she ambled back to her bathroom to finish applying her makeup. She smacked her lips together after applying deep red lipstick and pursed her lips thinking that tonight would be special. In short, Marcene was extremely randy and knew it. Before the night was through she intended Clark to know it too.
The pink figurine watched, noticed the way Marcene moved her nude hips while she walked. The figurine saw the way her lissome breasts depended gracefully as she moved, remarked the rawness of her body and blushed a livid purplish-green. How could Clark parry the onslaught of such a woman when an angel, a being who does not have lustful thoughts, has a difficult time stultifying primal urges and prurience? Prajnapada, the spirit behind the pink angelic figurine espying each move Marcene made, shuffled in disquietude. How could he keep Clark from subsiding into the path of desire? Clark was growing tired of the wanton life but with a woman like this his resolve to live a life leading to sexual purity would be short lived.
Marcene, when she turned in her haste to wend her mirthful way down the hall into her bedroom, tripped over something on the bath- room floor. It was a pink figurine of an angel. She noticed it lying face down on her bathroom floor with its right wing chipped (Prajnapada felt the pain!). Marcene hastily picked it up, studied it for a second, and with her breasts beckoning Cupid, she placed it on the shelf right below her bathroom mirror above the sink. From that position Prajnapada could see Marcene’s navel and the peaks of her breasts, and her smile. When she leaned over to the mirror to apply her facial makeup, her left breast came ever so close to kissing the angelic figurine on its head. Prajnapada became dizzy with delight as he listened to Clark speak in his house while also present in Marcene’s bathroom. Prajnapada had a devilish urge to nip at Marcene’s left nipple but quelled that urge angelically.
Marcene retired from the bathroom toward the bedroom with the purpose of dressing. She donned a blue dress that showed enough cleavage to tantalize and invested one-inch blue high heels on her feet clothing them in sexuality. She slithered ecru nylons up her shapely calves and firm thighs. The tightness of her dress accentuated the curvature of her buttocks. Her blonde hair hung to her shoulders, her face emitted a piquant glow, her smile effervesced. A wistful glow of fire deepened her limpid-gray eyes. All of her body and soul were on fire with the anticipation of what would happen when the sun rested for the night.
She glanced down at the gold wrist watch she wore on her left wrist. The time was 3:01 P.M. She had two hours to kill before Clark would be in her arms. Marcene owned the desire to make Clark her man. Tonight would be the night!
* * *
“Prajnapada,” Clark said while padding from the telephone which was on the kitchen wall into the hallway, “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think I’ll go over to Marcene’s this evening. If what you’ve said is true—that Marcene wants to get me in her bed—I don’t want any part of that. I’d like to get to know her as a friend. Why is she so ready to hop in the sack with me?”
“Clark,” Prajnapada said, his face evincing probity, “She’s the type of woman who needs a man in her life. She’s insecure and thinks that the only way she can attract a man is through sexual- ity. She thinks all men are interested in sex more than would be interested in her personality. Some women use sex as a magnet when they’re insecure with other aspects of their lives. There are few men who look at women as an entire person. Most note sex as a woman’s attracting feature, seeing the body and not the person. You’re like that in many respects; however, you’re changing.”
“I hope the hell I’m changing!” Clark winced after he said this. Prajnapada bridled, glared at Clark, and then continued in an imperious tone: “Now, if you refuse Marcene’s invitation you’ll make her feel inadequate. Why don’t you accept her invitation? Better yet, why don’t you invite her here instead? That way you’ll have more control over the situations that may arise, especially when she bares all in front of you. I’ll be here to give you the moral strength to parry her advances. You’re a man and she’s a woman. She may be everything you need in a woman to augment your happiness. You’ll never know if you decline her invitation. If you do decline her invitation she may never desire to lay her eyes on you. It would be an affront to her for you to brush her away in that way.”
“You’re an insightful person.” Clark noticed Prajnapada’s smile. “You forget that I’m not a person. I’m not of this world.”
Clark scrutinized Prajnapada’s face. “That’s right. You’re here from heaven trying to help me. It’s easy to forget because you look like a man. I’ll call Marcene and ask her to come over. As you said, I can always send her home if she gets out of line.”
“I didn’t say that, but you got the general drift. Call her!”
* * *
B-r-r-r-ing.
I wonder who that could be, Marcene thought. She was sit- ting on her couch with her feet firmly planted on her thick shag carpet reading “Woman’s World.” She allowed the phone to ring but it would not stop its singing. In disgust she threw the magazine down on the couch next to her and airily rose from the couch and set off in the direction of her phone, her body slithering. Stopping in front of the ringing phone she glanced out the glass sliding doors of her kitchen and descried two children picking the pedals off her flowers, leaving the stems. She opened the sliding door.
“Get out of my flowers, I’ll call the police!”
The two scurried out of her yard like frightened, wild rabbits. Marcene smiled, closed her door effortlessly. Just as effortlessly she picked up the phone’s receiver, said, “Hello.”
* * *
Marcene did not wish to go to Clark’s place that evening. She wanted him to come to her. She had remonstrated but assented to his wishes. There would be no meal, no seduction. Her plans for a romantic evening were just that, plans. Why did he want to talk with her at his place?, she thought while plodding toward her bedroom to shed her dress and nylons. And he’s going to have a friend with him! And I’m going to have to try to get him to want me with another man there! Don’t know if I can do it that way.
She undressed reluctantly, replaced her dress and nylons with tight shorts and a tank top. She would still do her best to entice him. But would her best be good enough? Clark was not like any other man she had known and that intrigued her. He did not seem to want her body. What did he want?
While Marcene was adjusting her attitude, Clark and Prajnapada were in the living room of Clark’s home relaxing, both sitting on the couch with Clark sipping a glass of lemonade. Prajnapada would not drink anything. He was not in the mood.
“Prajnapada,” Clark placed his tall cool glass of lemonade on the coffee table in front of him, “we have some time before Marcene comes. I would like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
Prajnapada had selected a “Field and Stream” magazine from a rack on the floor next to the chair in which he sat and was riffling through it. He stopped at each picture, studied and continued thumbing through the magazine. He looked up at Clark. “You know I don’t mind. Ask me anything.”
“What’s love?”
“What’s love?” Prajnapada echoed.
“Yes; what’s love? I’ve read in the Bible in First Corinthians Thirteen what love should be. I’ve been married and thought that I knew love. I’ve had several relationships with the opposite sex since having been divorced; but, though I thought I knew love I know that I don’t know what love is.”
“Didn’t you already ask me what love is?”
“Yes, I did; but, I want to hear it again.” “God is love. Love is a—”
“But,” Clark interrupted, “Buddhists don’t recognize a God.
They love. It’s hard to understand you when you say God is love. Some people who don’t know a God love more than those who profess to worship God. Tell me the truth. What’s love?”
“Okay,” Prajnapada said. “I’ll elucidate the meaning of love to you. Listen.”
“I’m all ears.”
There was silence.
“Clark,” Prajnapada pierced the silence with his sharp but soft voice, “love is life. Love is a mother hugging her child and a father disciplining his son. Love is a hen caring for its brood and a duck teaching its offspring how to swim in line and how to eat. Love is a butterfly wafting its way through the air. Love is a wolf feeding its cubs. Love is the laughter of a child when it receives joy from whatever pleases it. Love is the hard work of a man or woman who labors to bring home bread. Love is the rain moistening the parched earth. Love is the tears at a wedding when the bride embraces her husband for the first time as wife. Love is the activity of life and love is also the surcease of physical activity when one life ends so that another life may begin.
“It’s a misconception on the part of man when he thinks that only human beings may love. All life knows love because love is the source of all life. When a mother cat nurses its young kittens what is that but love? When a doe watches over its fawn, is that not love? Love is that part of life that makes living whole. It is gentle because life’s nurturing is gentle. When a man of insight watches a puppy playing with a child that man sees what men call God because God, the regenerative power of the universe, is Love. Love is the regenerative power of the universe.”
“But, wait a minute,” interrupted Clark, “You’re harking back to God again. Didn’t you state to me that greed, hatred and ignorance are the cause of man’s suffering? Did you not tell me that it doesn’t matter if God exists or not? Now you’re saying Love is God!”
“Don’t quibble.” Prajnapada’s face was aglow in pink and amber illumination. “You are getting tangled up in words. I could as well call this force Tao or Dharmadhatu. Words are not the thing. This power is inexpressible. As the Zen Buddhists say it is that which is and is not and both is and is not.”
“If love is power,” Clark intruded, “then why didn’t my love for my former wife conquer her desire to separate from me?”
“Don’t forget,” said Prajnapada, “that the power behind love is selflessness. When you say you loved your former wife was not there more in it for you than for her? Your love was based on selfishness. Your love was incomplete. Love is selfless. Did not Jesus give his life so others could live? His act was selfless and because of that his love was complete. Selflessness and love are the same thing.”
“Then what you’re calling God is selflessness in action,” Clark said with the inflection of his voice wavering. He was thinking and talking at the same time and at times that was hard for him.
“Yes; love is selflessness in action,” Prajnapada said, “and what the Christians call God is what the Buddhists label not-self. . . .”
“But—Christians believe that they are closer to love because of Jesus.”
“Clark,” replied Prajnapada, “Did I not state to you that it matters not what religion one happens to choose. Love, Truth Christ, God are the same. Jesus is in any religion if love is present in that religion. Jesus said that H e is the Truth and the Life. No founder of a religion has said that. The Truth is Love is God. This is so hard for some Christians to understand because to understand one must be selfless. They cling to the person of Jesus and not the Truth which is Jesus. Jesus is God. Jesus is therefore Love. No one religion has a monopoly on love, but—those who fail to see Jesus as Love as God have a problem. They don’t know what they worship. Also, do you know of any human being on this earth who is selfless?”
Clark ruminated. “No, I can’t say that I do.” There was silence.
“Praj,” Clark asked, “When a person engages in sex, is it love or lust?”
“Sexual relations are lustful. Sex and desire are commingled and can’t be extricated one from the other. If a man and a woman copulate with the sole intent of pleasing the other party, then that act borders on love. However, this isn’t the love I’m alluding to. Sexual love isn’t ethereal love. It’s of the earth plane. It is earthy. When you become an angel you will understand.”
“When I become an angel!” Clark bridled with his eyes blinking in rapid succession.
“Why do you seem so astonished by what I said? All men and women become angels in their spiritual progression. I was once a man like you with sexual desire and the whole bit. I had more sexual desire in me than ten men put together. For that reason it took me longer to become an angel.”
“How old are you?” Clark looked out of the living room win- dow, noticed his neighbor, Marty, mowing his own lawn with the mower that Clark had lent him last week. I’d like him to return my mower, Clark thought as Prajnapada began to speak. He cast his eyes in the direction of Prajnapada’s voice.
“Clark, I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you, so let me just say that I’m old enough to know better. . . .”
* * *
* * *
