The First Rule of Ten (20 page)

My phone beeped, indicating another call coming in. I had no idea how to put Bill on hold with this new phone, so I just left him stranded. He’d forgive me. What else are partners for?

A crisp, businesslike female voice said, “Is this Tenzing Norbu?”

I said it was.

“Nancy Myers, Nurse Supervisor at Mercy Hospital. We have an elderly gentleman here named John D. Murphy, and he put you down as both emergency contact and next of kin.”

My stomach lurched. I walked out to my deck, pulling deep mouthfuls of air into my lungs. The brisk voice continued.

“Mr. Murphy has suffered three broken ribs and some facial contusions. He’s doing fine, but we’re going to keep him overnight to make sure things are stable.”

“What happened?”

“Mr. Murphy was attacked by two men this morning, on his way to breakfast, he told me.”

John D attacked?
A narrow bolt of energy crackled from my brainpan to my coccyx, and back. Whoa. Down, boy.

“Can I talk to him?”

“He’s champing at the bit. I’ll put him on.”

“Hey, Ten.” John D’s normally gruff voice sounded weak and constricted.

“John D, what the hell? Are you okay?”

“Fine as frog fuzz,” he said. “It only hurts when I breathe.”

I felt the muscles in my belly relax slightly. I told him I was glad he hadn’t lost his sense of humor.

“If I ever lose that, just shoot me,” he said.

“I’ll have them put an addendum on your DNR,” I said, which triggered a couple of wheeze-chuckles from the other end of the phone.

“I gotta get out of here before they get me hooked on drugs,” he said. “I keep just saying no, but nobody’s listening.”

Classic John D.

“Do you need me there? Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Well … they say they’re gonna let me go tomorrow, so long as I don’t drive. If you got nothing better to do, how ’bout giving me a lift home?”

“You got it,” I said. He put me back on with the nurse for the particulars.

After I hung up, the air whooshed out of my lungs, which told me how long and hard I’d been holding on to it. I did a body-check and soon located the high-pitched sizzle in my ears and clenched muscles in my upper back that signaled I was still really angry. I tried taking a few long, deep breaths to disseminate the rage. I had to think clearly. Fight or flight is fine, but not when I need the tool of reason.

I didn’t waste a moment wondering whether the mugging of John D was another coincidence. Too many things were stacking up; something was going on, even if I didn’t know what. Yet.

I paced around my deck, under the watchful eye of Tank, perched on the railing.
Fucking cowards, jumping an old man like that. I’m going to find you and kick your scrawny little …

Okay, pacing wasn’t doing it for me either; I needed to burn off the excess energy still sputtering in me, orphan sparks left over from the original bolt of lightning at the news.

I went out to the garage and fired up the Mustang. I pushed it hard, savoring its deep-throated roar on a high-speed run all the way to the ocean. As I took the curves, there was so much cornering force the idiot light came on and the gauge wavered, from oil surging in the sump.

I parked in the public lot and climbed over the dunes to the beach. I kicked off my shoes and executed a long series of 50-yard wind sprints up and down the beach. I ran until my lungs screamed and sweat poured off me in rivulets, and then I ran some more. Stripping to my boxers, I took my final sprint right into the waves, and swam through the frigid water, gasping at the cold. Then I stood under the hard spray of the open-air shower until my skin was fizzing. Better.

I spread out a towel and lay on my back. The afternoon sun flashed gold against my closed eyelids. As my skin warmed, I listened to the beach sounds all around me. The grunts and cheers from a nearby volleyball game. The happy squeals of children, mingled with the drone of an overhead airplane.

Another body-check. Physical exertion had blown most of the anger right out of me. Then I checked in with my mind: it still felt hardened, and in need of repair. My deep attachment to John D had taken me on a direct skid into violent thoughts of revenge on his attackers. Rage might make me feel temporarily powerful, but in the long run it weakened me, and clouded my thinking. I needed to find equanimity toward my enemies, as well as my friends, to be effective.

I breathed in and out. I let my connection, my concern for John D, soften this time, into compassion. I let the feeling of compassion grow, ripple outward from the personal to the universal. My heart opened a crack, and the bittersweet nectar of loving-kindness spilled out, spreading to include the playing children, the calling gulls, and, finally, the men who had harmed my friend out of their own ignorance. The last vestiges of hatred dispersed into emptiness, like a cloud dissolving into pure, unblemished sky. I felt peace.

For now, anyway.

Next thing I knew, the sun was low on the horizon, and I was about to be late for my date with Julie.

I tore back up the hill and hustled inside. I brushed my teeth. Ran a hairbrush over my thick black buzz cut, not that anyone but me would notice any difference. I changed into a white linen shirt and a clean pair of black jeans, and put a good bottle of Pinot Grigio into the fridge. I pictured her freckles, her warm lips and soft curves. Added a second bottle.

Julie’s car pulled up at 7:30 on the dot. Good girl, a time-Nazi just like me. I added a mental check to the “Pro” column. As the bell sounded, Tank arched his back and ambled to the door.

“You behave,” I said as I opened it, and he ran off.

Julie was wearing tight black leggings, black leather boots, and a soft angora tunic the color of cream. She was carrying a cardboard box containing a blue enamel casserole, out of which wafted the rich scents of rosemary and stewed tomatoes. My saliva glands reminded me I had skipped lunch.

She set the box on the kitchen counter and held out her hand.

“Keys,” she said. For a horrifying moment I thought she wanted her own set of keys to my place. But then, “You still owe me a spin in your Mustang.”

She looked past me, and her eyes widened. Tank had deigned to poke his head around my bedroom door and check out the new visitor.

“Who’s this handsome fellow?” she crooned. She hunkered down on the floor and made a come-hither motion with her right hand. To my shock, Tank hithered right over. She scratched behind his ears. “Oh, yes, you are quite the Romeo, aren’t you?”

Tank rolled over and put all four limbs in the air.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Julie said. And then she did the same thing. I never knew a cat could actually look gobsmacked. He and I were both in big trouble.

Here’s what I learned about Julie on our second date: Her minestrone was undeniable proof that divinity can exist in edible form; crème brûlée tasted even better when served by a curvaceous chef clad only in an apron; and holy shit, this woman was gifted handling a close-ratio, four-speed racing stick.

C
HAPTER
20

I woke up calm and clear-headed. Any residual anger had been loved right out of me, and I savored the sense of spaciousness, the clarity of intent. Somehow, a plan had formed in my mind. I knew what I wanted to do, and I knew how I wanted to do it.

I glanced to my right. Julie faced away from me, asleep on her side. The dip from shoulder to hip was breathtaking, like the curved lines of a cello. I ran my palm along the slope and rise of her.

She rolled to face me. Her eyes were warm and direct, and clear as a bell I heard her thinking, “Who are you? Where did you come from?”—only from her, the questions were tinged with wonder. She snuggled closer, arranging my arm so it draped around her neck. She pressed her ear against my chest, and I could feel my heartbeat against her cheek.

“How did you end up in Los Angeles, Ten? It’s so unlikely.”

“A Lama sent me,” I said.

She raised her head. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” I said. “Lama Serje Rinpoche Neysrung. Rinpoche’s a highly regarded spiritual leader, scholar, and teacher in my order. He traveled all over the United States in the 1980s, setting up dharma centers for His Holiness.”

I explained how I was 17 and in a high state of rebellion when Serje Rinpoche paid a surprise visit to our monastery.

Julie’s head rose and fell on my chest, as I breathed quietly, my heart remembering that day, the one that changed everything.

“I was a typical teenager, I guess, getting into one conflict after another with the three ruling lamas of the monastery.” I felt my voice tighten, along with my jaw. “One of them was my father.”

Julie shifted away, so she could see my eyes. I pulled her close again.

“Apa only ever had one goal for me: that I be the greatest Gelugpa scholar in all Tibetan monkdom. Just his luck, his only child seemed to have been born without the studious gene. He’d always tell me I was gifted with intelligence far beyond his, that if I only applied it I could be a great lama. That I was squandering my gifts with my childish rebellions. But I didn’t know how else to be. The truth is, I just hated it. I hated being a monk.”

I sat up, my stomach and chest tensing as long-buried resentments poked their heads out of my past.

“Tibetan monasteries are oppressive institutions, little fiefdoms, did you know that? Nothing is ever done by logic or reason or any kind of democratic process. It’s all about following the rules. In my monastery alone, there were more than two hundred we were supposed to remember, and obey. Rules that had been made over a thousand years ago. Only a handful of them even make sense anymore. ‘Extinguish candles before going to bed.’ Okay, that one makes sense. ‘Monks may only read sacred literature.’ I broke that one every night, and got busted for it at least once a month. Oh, and how about ‘A Monk must not jump, or swing his arms when walking’? Do you know how hard that is for a rambunctious eleven-year-old? My best friends, Yeshe and Lobsang, embraced their monastic life: the rules, the shaved heads, the red robes. I struggled at every turn.”

Julie laughed softly. I stiffened. Was she mocking me?

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said. “It’s just … people never think that, do they? That a monk might hate being a monk? We just assume it’s all bliss and enlightenment and peaceful navel-gazing. Poor thing. You were only a kid. It’s not like you could just quit your job.”

I felt my heart give a little flip.

She understood.

Then, just as quickly, it flipped the other way, into a defensive stance.

“It wasn’t that bad. I mean, I had two great friends, and all my needs were taken care of there. I had a roof over my head. Two meals a day.”

Julie put her hand over my mouth.

“Stop, Ten. It was that bad. Let me feel for you a moment, will you?”

I tried to appreciate her empathy, but I was relieved when she said, “Okay, so this … Rinpoche?

I nodded.

“This Rinpoche came for a visit and …”

“… and I think he spotted the tug-of-war going on inside me that day. In fact, I’m sure of it, because after he finished a long lecture on the importance of maintaining a disciplined practice, he pulled me aside. He told me he and my father had entered the Litang monastery in Tibet the same year. That they had been friends a long time. Then he asked if I had any questions for him. All I could think to ask was … was … whether he thought my father would ever be proud of me.” I swallowed.

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Your father is the way he is. Do not ask for mangoes in a shoe store.’”

“I like that.”

“Well, at the time, it infuriated me. I thought it was just another glib aphorism, and I’d had my fill of them from my father. Rinpoche left soon after to spend time with His Holiness. But later that week, he came back. The whole monastery was abuzz with this second visit, coming as it did so close to the first. That night, my father sent for me. He told me Rinpoche had proposed a radical solution to the Tenzing Norbu dilemma: send me to the West to share the Dharma teachings with American teenagers. He’d contacted the Tibetan center he’d founded in Los Angeles, and they’d agreed to sponsor me—they had a special outreach program to introduce meditation to young people. I was to be a novice member of their team. I could continue my studies there, and postpone the decision to take my final vows. My father was quick to agree with this plan.” My voice hardened. “Of course he was. I was nothing more than an embarrassment to him by that point.”

Julie touched my cheek. I covered her hand with mine, and gently removed it. I didn’t want her touching my face, for some reason.

“It all happened very quickly. With an American mother, I could bypass all the immigration issues. Within six months I was living in a small back room in the Dharma center, earning my room and board as a teacher, wondering if I’d ever belong anywhere again.”

I fell silent, remembering how hard I tried to be a good teacher of the Dharma, and how hypocritical I felt. Young Los Angeles seekers took one look at my robe and shaved head and set me on a spiritual pedestal that bore no relation to my actual inner world.

I may have felt rebellious at the monastery, but here, I felt like a sham.

“I was adequate as a meditation teacher,” I said. “But inside, I was dying. Still, I thought I was hiding it well, until one day one of the team leaders, a psychologist, took me aside and asked me an important question, one I had never dared to ask myself: what did my heart truly long to do?”

“Another guardian angel.”

I smiled. “I guess you could say that. Anyway, the instant he asked, the answer flew out of my mouth: ‘A detective. I want to be a police detective.’”

Julie nuzzled my neck. “I’m loving this, but can we take it into the kitchen? I’m starving.”

“Almost done,” I said. “I kept teaching meditation, but at the same time, I got my GED, and somehow landed a part-time summer job as an administrative aide at the Parker Center—that’s the old police headquarters downtown. It was a revelation, you know?”

Julie pushed up on her elbow to watch my face.