Looking for Old Man Zen

 

He used to show up a lot, but not anymore He had a well-worn keisaku stick that I think he stole from some puffed-up enlightenment guru, which he would waggle at me facetiously. I could always count on him to be the knot at the end of my balloon. I honestly don’t know where to even start looking for him.

Down on the corner by the gas station, maybe, where the kids go by on bikes with smaller kids perched on the handlebars? Wait, no, they don’t do that anymore.

Under the freeway overpass next to the off ramp, where the woman with the “Anything Helps” sign used to stand? But she’s not there anymore, either.

In the parking lot by the thrift store where I gave shoes to the barefoot woman? Nope, not a sign of him.

In back of the bar that had bluegrass on Tuesday nights? Not even any bluegrass anymore.

In a phone booth outside of 7-11? Nope, not a single phone booth left in the world.

Out back of the grocery store where the dumpsters are locked to stop people from getting the expired-but-perfectly-fine packages that have been thrown away? If he was ever here, he isn’t now. Although, something about this place….. this waste, this futility, this stubborn indifference… why would I suddenly sense that it hasn’t been that long since he was here?

Anyhow, I should know by now, I’ll never find him by looking. He isn’t ever where you would expect. Though, I just want to scream “Dammit, I’m not expecting anything!” I’m tired of not expecting anything. What would he have to say about that, I wonder?  All those years of practicing having no expectations and it’s come down to this. Would he laugh at my expectation of being able to eliminate my expectations?

Uh-oh, he just peeked around the corner, but he wasn’t laughing, he was pissed off and crying. Now, that is unexpected!

I’m following him, and he’s just walking. Head down, hood pulled up, and he’s walked on the bottom of the back of his jeans until he’s worn holes in them. Old flannel coat and wispy old-man hair going every which way. Hunched over, corners of his mouth turned down, hands shoved deep in his pockets, just walking. Walking away from me. How far do I dare to follow him? And why should I? Well, the fact is I can’t help myself, and besides I can’t think of anything better to do. Maybe the reason he hasn’t been around is that I didn’t have the guts to go where he’s been.

Well, I guess that means that there’s no place else left to go, and nothing left to do but keep following him, expectations or no expectations. He’s not turning around.