A Prayer For Prison Pete

The rain woke me up that morning and I found myself amid the lambs
and crosses of the children's section of a cemetery. I grabbed my
carefully tied plastic bag and made my way to a coffeehouse I'd noticed
the previous morning. Making my way inside, I took my place at the end
of a line populated by fashionable dreadies, well-dressed professionals
on their way to work, and, as I gathered from eavesdropping, a
successful black Shakespeare actor preparing to become King Lear. I
used my last two dollars to buy a bagel and cream and devoured it like
the starving beast I was. Then I untied the doubled plastic bag and
took out my treasure: a hardback "Selected Works of Keat." I read that
for a while, letting those hopeful words wash over my depressed soul.
After a while, the line was gone and the stunning red-headed waitress
was left with nothing to do. I approached the counter; she was wearing
a black mini-skirt but I was careful not to let my ragged eyes wander
to where they surely weren't welcome. I looked her in her elegant
blue-green eyes and said, "Could I please get a free cup of coffee? I'm
on the streets you know." Without even a sympathetic pause, she arched
her well-trimmed eyebrows and said, "If you don't leave, I'm going to
have to call the police."
      Fifteen minutes later, I found myself
hitch-hiking by the highway again, having eaten only a bagel in
twenty-four hours, watching the car-like blurs speed by one after the
other. I thought I was headed for Chicago, where a good college friend
had become editor of a major newspaper. I stood there for an hour. You
should have experienced the feelings of hatred and rage that pulsed
through my skull. I remembered childhood bullyings, fatherly
platitudes, and softly-spoken, loudly microphoned lies I'd heard in
college lecture halls. And that's when I remembered the Yogic proverb:
"When the student is ready, the guru will appear."
    As if on cue, a huge, purple pickup pulled up
directly in front of me. "Get in," a booming voice called to me. As I
approached the door, I noticed the entire side of the truck was a
canvas for an intricate mural prominently featuring the grateful dead
skeleton with roses in his hair. No sooner had I settled myself into
the plush leather seat than a huge joint was offered me by a huge hand.
After begging a moment to put my seat belt on, I broke my two year
abstinence from marijuana. When in Bohemia, do as the bohemians
do.
    You should have seen the man: the seven feet of
grunge-coated clothes, the brown mountain man hair, those predator's
teeth locked into a shiny smile. For the next hour, he told me stories
about a fishing schooner in Alaska, his homeland of Greece, and about a
Seattle policeman who had his own teeth knocked out with his own billy
club.
Eventually, I dropped a hint about my gnawing hunger and he pulled
over at the next diner, which turned out to be of surprisingly high
quality. I ordered a veggie omelette and he had steak and eggs As I
massacred my meal between gulps of O.J., I felt life returning to my
thrashed system. Noticing how quickly I finished my omelette, he
offered me another, which I gratefully accepted.
All the plates were cleared away and I was busy thinking what a
perfect meal it would be if only the coffee we were drinking was
gourmet. It was then that he looked at me with his mad, sky-blue eyes
and asked, "What do you think is the meaning of life?"
There was so much sincerity in his way, an urgent curiosity, and, as I
thought at the time, a hopeless confusion of words and reality.
I said, "Well, Pete, that's a tough question- I mean, whose life and
whose meaning?"
With an almost ridiculous thoughtfulness, he said, "There has to be a
reason why we're all here. Personally, I like what the Yogis say, that
we're here to learn and when we've learned enough, we move on to
another world. That's what the universe is: it's like a huge office
building with different planets for different levels of
enlightenment"
"Pete-," I started, having intended to tell him about the uselesness
of huge terms like "enlightenment," "universe," and "reason." But there
was something beastly and beautiful about him his naivety; it would
have been like telling a devout child about Santa Claus.
And then I remembered how generous he was being and how little he was
asking. I had a degree in Philosophy; I might as well give some sort of
respectful answer, one with a kernel of truth, if I could manage.