A Buddhist Walks into a Bathroom

“. . . his wife is waiting outside.”

I wander towards them as they fidget in conversation. Closing time. The night had been slow and they had already gone through the store several times, touching books here and there to keep them on the straight and narrow path. The last hour of the night—the hour after the doors have been locked—belongs to us, the booksellers.

We move through the store like a wave, returning order to the dishelved. We gather up the displaced and return them to their homes, never asking what pilgrimage they had embarked upon, nor whether they had reached Mecca. For the most part, it is simply a cleansing, an exorcism of the chaos that had descended upon us that day. It’s a futile cycle. Come morning the droves will return, the other books will set out again in the hands of the reader, and tomorrow night we shall again sanctify the store in our detracted way. It almost seems sacrilegious. We hold these treasures in our hands every day, but within this sanctuary we are not allowed to worship them. We, too, take them on pilgrimage, carrying them from place to place, but our longing to delve into their deep mysteries must be postponed. We are simply altar bearers.

“She’s not his wife; they can’t marry, can they?” He didn’t mean to sound condescending, but the nasally twinge to his voice gave it an edge of agitation.

“Who can’t marry?” I ask, wandering out from behind the registers.

The boys look at me. It was Kevin who spoke up. “So, there’s a Buddhist monk in the bathroom taking a dump.”

I stare at him silently for a moment.

Then I consider pointing out that the religion books are near the restrooms. I ponder the potential significance of that floor plan. I decide to keep my opinion to myself.

“Well,” chimes in Brian, “whoever she is, she’s waiting for him right outside.”
I glance through the dark store front windows at the short woman standing alongside the curb. Her dark hair is cropped short to her head. She has a round face with prominent cheekbones, and her cheeks are like apples--round and red--giving the impression of a perpetual smile. The crow’s feet gracing the corners of her slanted, almond eyes only enhance this impression.

Kevin looks towards the ceiling, slightly rolling his eyes. “Well, she can’t be his wife.”

I look away from the tiny woman outside. “So she’s his Yoko Ono . . .”

“That’s racist.” Kevin looks at me over the tops of his dark, retro-style glasses and smirks . I don’t think he believes that.

I laugh nervously because maybe he’s right.

I turn to begin straightening the mountain of Christmas cards on the table. They had been placed prominently by the door even though it was only mid October.

A streak of yellow flashes through my periphery, and I see a quiet ghost fluttering past the rows of book shelves on the other side of the store.

“There he goes!” I speak before thinking. I am momentarily embarrassed by my excitement at seeing the elusive monk. Brian sets off in the direction I had indicated. I stand sheepishly at the card table, not sure for a moment what to do with myself.

Brian returns, the monk trailing quietly behind him. “ . . . she’s just outside, your . . . friend. The woman you were with, I mean.” The monk smiles and nods his covered head. Kevin holds the door for the man as he flits out. Then he locks it.
Without a word the boys head off to finish the end of the night tasks.