Orange Juice From Manhattan Mart

The Rancho

The phone rang suddenly, jarring the Bodhisattva from his slumber.

Vision blurred, skin damp from the persistent heat of life right now–the humidity was so high as to be unbearable, no central air in his cabin.  Bleary in the chattering swell of Rancho Mundo, he checked the number: not saved.  Wisconsin area code.  Slide of the thumb, soft click.

“Hello?”

Confusion.  Attempting to sift.  Is this actually confounding him or is his skull still cobwebbed?

“Speaking.”

The eyes go from squinted to wide.  Wide to furious.  Furious to sad.  Sad to stressed.

And, whatever the news was, The Bodhisattva leapt from the bed immediately, barely getting pants over his bare ass before he grabbed his keys.

—

Outside of Chicago. West Van Buren is the destination, but as is usual for the city proper, the BioDiesel camper was stuck on the Expressway.

Not that he was looking forward to where he had to go.  A structure of concrete but lacking in the charm or artistry of proper Brutalism, but also not a gleaming erect cock dedicated to commerce that you see in major American downtowns, all steel and glass pane.

No, MCC was tan stone broken up by narrow windows that only ever reminded Sage of the blinds archers may have used in a medieval castle.  No math to them.  Nothing to recommend.  He had spent by his admittedly weed-soaked memory no fewer than two nights on two separate occasions at the Metropolitan Corrections Center, which he took as a point of pride.  The pigskin Chicago had been busting the heads of those who fought for equality since at least the 1950s, and he felt a sort of atavistic kinship with those warriors of yore.

The call was surprise.  He hadn't ever spoken with that woman–he wasn't even sure how she got his number.

But he didn't care.

The traffic shuddered forward, and he rumbled up to close the 4 foot gap.

Twenty more minutes.  Only twenty, he reminded himself.  With a grunt he rolled the driver’s side window down, firing up a cone joint.

Might as well get his mind right.  And reminisce.

—

The Rancho, 3 Days Prior

“So as you can see, we’ve been able to expand further to the east. That’s huge news, everybody.  What I’m thinking is living area expansion.”

“More people?”

“No, not as of yet.  More space.  The ownership is structured in that you all hold percentages of the total of land, right?  So I want to expand until your percentages are sizable enough to live comfortably on.  Farm on.  Expand homes on.  Invite members of your family to.  So I just got us an additional 20 acres on that side.  The project is going to be to clear that down…to here.”  Sage taps on the map, indicating a section he had marked off on the topography with orange highlighter.  “Then we can split that into parcels.”  There are nods mostly from the Rancho members in attendance, but Wolf speaks up, his deadpan drawl as languid as ever.

“Sayin’ we did wanna invite some folk in.  We saw how that’n worked out before.  What’s yer criteria?” This set off a ripple in the gathered adherents, and one from the back hustled their way forward.  Raph.  Five foot nothing of constantly Pigpen-level dirt cloud, a hardy sort who existed beyond gender and beyond the need for four walls, content as always in their canvas all seasons bell tent, the smokestack belching even in the warm months for cooking.

“Wolf’s got a point, man, but why do we need his criteria?  Letting him choose who got to stay is what lead to this place fuckin’ near unraveling.”  The head jerks and thumbs are all in Pontiff’s direction.  There’s a rage in their throat, and there’s a part of The Bodhisattva–a bigger part than he would like to admit–wants to meet it.  To match it.  To solve the problem with a fight, because there’s purity in that, even if he’s almost a foot and a half taller than them.

But his calmer head prevails, and his leaf is truly new.

“I don’t think you need my criteria–and I don’t actually have any say in the matter.”  The words set off confusion from the crowd, more silent than abrasive, as they contend with what he’s saying.  Wolf speaks up.

“Thass it then?  Y’just don’t care no more?”

“No, no, I mean…this isn’t mine.  I don’t own this.  You do.  You as a group, as the collective.  You want to figure out processes, figure them out.  Determine what works best–I know at least a couple of you have lived in intentional communities before, right?  So take what worked and leave what didn't.  If you want my opinion, I’m glad to give it.  But I’m not an owner, not a leader, and not a steward.  That ended when you were all given equal parts of this land.  I’m if anything like…like a benefactor, I guess?  Patron?”  Pontiff shrugs.  “I’m going to keep buying land until my body gives out.  And by then, maybe we’ll be so firmly entrenched and established that we have a true sanctuary from the bloodbath out there.”

—

Joshua Tree, 2011

Shaky video camera footage.

That’s the memory Sage has of this time, a video he hasn't seen in a number of years.  Shaky footage as he tries and fails and flails to nail a kickflip.  He’s long in the limb even at his youth, but he’s before the growth spurt that will turn him into his current towering form,. His shirt is oversized and appears to bear some sort of handpainted tortoise on it.  He fails again, and a reedy voice behind the camera zooms in.

“Here we have young Sage, well on his way to being a top prospect for all the major skate companies…”

“Dad, c’mon…”

“Hey, if being a skateboarding superstar doesn't pan out, what do you want to do with your life, huh?”  The youth on the screen, the boy sage was, the lifetime that no longer actually exists, ponders for a moment.  Kicks his skateboard into his hand.

“I dunno…I’d wanna help people.”

“Don’t really care much how?”

“Nah.  ‘Cause helping them is what’s most important, right?”

“‘The path is temporary, the result is permanent.’”

“Who said that?”

“Some great philosopher named Anson Pontiff…”

“Dad, you dork!”

—

The Rancho, 2 Days Prior

“They’re mighty pissed atcha, alls I’m saying.”

“Yeah, but they don’t own me.”

“Sage, y’know I’m not one fer tellin’ anyone how t’live their lives.  But you made lotsa commitments here.  An’ it’s about to be the big buying season.  Y’want these folks t’have cabins, we’re talking quick-crete, lumber, tools, shovels, prolly gonna have t’rent a Caterpillar…shit costs money.  And when y’just up and leave yer employers high an’ dry, they don’t really cotton too well to paying you much in the future.”

Sage chews his lip at this.  In the abstract he knows Wolf is right–and he also knows he doesn't have much of a leg to stand on with management when the most he could muster for explanation was ‘oh, my bad’.  If he was willing to be honest with himself, he assumed he was fired.  If he wanted to be really honest with himself, he was kind of hoping for it.

Instead, they threw him into a legitimate fracas.

“Wolf, you know I respect your counsel.  I have money saved, which I know sounds crazy, but I’ve been at this for four years now.  I could probably quit.  Float on that bubble until the next thing comes along.”  He looks into the eyes of his compatriot, twin pools of placid ebony.  “But I can’t do that.  You’re right.”

“So what, then?”

“Keep at it, I guess.  But I look at these names across from me, one man I know, one man I don’t, and I can’t find the gear I had.  I could whip myself up into such a fervor, it was like strong psilocybin, I could envision myself with blue skin and a terrible maw, three tongues licking fire into existence, six arms, bow of sugar cane, a holy bolt shuttering from the heavens to a worthy adversary.”  He sighs.  “Now I meditate before the match and those visions don’t come to me.”  This sets a lull in the cabin, as both men sit, shirtless, pondering.  Wolf chewing on his corncob pipe, Sage idly taking a hit of his ever-present raw cone.

“So when you meditate, what comes t’mind?”

“Here.  This place.  You and Orchid and Raf and Spence and everyone here.  The way the mists of the morning seem to enrobe The Monolith, the sounds of songbirds, the loon that sometimes travels by, the smell of honeysuckle and pine, the fact that no matter how hard I listen, I can’t hear a car.”  He smiles, his eyes meeting Wolf’s.  “I think of this peace and then my knuckles fill with explosive power and my body enters a state that I can’t describe.  It comes over me.  I'm thirsty for it.”

“Then what?”

“Then I go out there.  Then I fight.  Then I get paid.  Then the money goes here.”

—

East Las Vegas, Late 2022

Stick and move.  You remember that much.

But the move always robs you of what you’re really after.

His opponent hadn’t shown, and it left him with the sort of spiritual blue balls that prophets usually ripped their flesh and eyeballs out over.  But he was an advanced man.  And it’s not too hard to find a fix is it?

Keep walking.  If it has shadows, go that direction.  If there are broken down cars, go that direction.  Shuttered buildings, the same.  Find somewhere where people congregate, somewhere where someone wants to show off and shitkick the hippie.  And lean into it, too.  Amp up how often you say “bruh” and “peace” and “nectar.”  Other yourself.  Make yourself an object of hate.  You don’t need to lie here, not inside yourself.  Here we can be honest with ourself.

You’re missing on purpose.  They’re still failing to capitalize.

It’s infuriating.

You need the pain.

Without the pain the understanding doesn't flow.  You’ve accepted that fact about yourself.  It’ll never go away, you figure.

So now we manage.

Rear back.  Telegraph.

A boot finds your gut, errant but higher than you expected, catching the rib.  If it’s not cracked it’s bruised, that swing caught you bad.  The breath leaves and you double over and then you feel it, two of them on you at once.

Through thuds and grunts, it’s whispered.

Nomo Buddhaya.

“Praise to the Awakened One.”

—

Rooftop, Unknown Location

Instagram Live from user @BodhisattvaSagePontifex99, streaming now

Where we are isn’t instantaneously apparent, but it’s the midwest.  All the brick, all the crumbling remnants of a life built on rails and in mills and factories left to rot on the skylines, the lush greenery, but the sunshine seems different than other sunshine.  More washed out than the West Coast, somehow, but more vibrant than the northeast.  Sage is world warrior, but this area seems to be the closest thing he has to a home now–the home he shared with a man who won’t speak with him, the home he built in the woods of southwestern Michigan.  He belongs here.

Especially since he chopped his dreads.  Now he looks more anonymous.

It’s ironic where a person can find peace.  I think of that often, because my means of survival, my means of thriving, the way that I allow for a space of legitimate peace to exist in the hell that the modern world has become…well, it directly relies on my ability to wage war.  Small wars, I admit.  Wars of little consequence in the great fabric of existence.  But this is one of the areas where I felt peace.  Ever since I left home.  There’s something in the clarity of the air of the desert that makes you feel close to the divine–close to something ancient and true.  The middle of this blood-soaked nation is totally different.  We’re outside of the love of the creator.  But that also allows you to focus on real shit, on day to day life.  It forces you to stop and think.  Slows you down.  Brings you back to the earth.  Blaze, you’ve seen that.  You’ve seen why I’m here.  Why I fight.  Why I win.  Why even when I don’t, I make you extremely aware that I’m not someone to be discounted.  I’ve been fighting for the better part of a decade and a half, professionally for what, 6 or so years?  And the worst part is, there’s a version of me out there who is just…I look back in shame.  Not because I used people.  I’ve made peace with that.  Not because I hurt people.  I’ve made peace with that.  No, because I tried to make this feel bigger than it was.  Still had the desert in my head, all creosote bush and sacramental smoke and ancient stone that makes you feel a connection that may or may not be imaginary.  I was so weak then.  So…silly, I guess.  I get into these fits, these headspaces, and I start seeing patterns where none should exist.  There are ways to be The Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience that aren’t tied to dragging people kicking and screaming to some great spiritual awakening.  Because what the fuck did that ever really achieve?  Has anyone who faced me been improved, been changed for the better, had a better life after I tore into their flesh and did my best to break their bones?  Shit, maybe.  I never stick around long enough to find out.  Cowardly.  But look at the woods, look at The Rancho.  Those peoples' lives have been transformed.  The land has been transformed.  There’s an actual legitimate sanctuary, and that itself even as a successful concept is transformative.  Put those two on a scale, me beating the shit out of people and me building that home for those people, which one weighs more, which one is more substantial? 

He chuckles.

This isn’t even a crisis of faith.  It’s clarity. Steve, Blaze…I will not exercise my demons through you.  That, you have not consented to.  But you did consent to dealing with me once that bell rings.  And since there are real stakes here?  I’m fighting for life.  My own.  All of theirs.  You better find stronger stuff than that.  Because if not, you’ll be one of those broken bodies in my rearview that I make peace with.  Namaste.

Play Again?

—

Downtown Chicago

Manhattan Mart is across the street from MCC.  Sage remembers both times he got out of the clink there, this was his first stop.

He always wanted orange juice right after.  Probably a fear of being sick.  You’re packed in there like factory farming.  The camper is in the parking garage on the corner, and by the time listed on his burner, he’s already over fifty bucks in cost, but that doesn't stymie him.

There are more important things than parking money.  This is more important than parking money.

She said he had taken one hell of a beating.  Frankly, it was a miracle they were even able to track down where he was–when you rumble with those jackbooted latter day gestapo, sometimes you disappear.  Sometimes you just fucking die.  He’s not completely cut off at The Rancho, he knows what’s going on.  He knows that this land is breaking apart at its seams, the oligarchs firmly into “stash the silverware into your bag before you jump ship” mode.  Rats deserting a vessel they themselves ripped holes into gleefully.

As at home as Sage can feel in these places, there’s a level of ambient psychic damage he has to take to exist in polite society.  In the woods he’s calm, content, the simplicity of existence is the only thing that makes any sense anymore.  There’s no war, no fleecing, no greed, no corruption.  Just unity.

Here on the street he can feel it like electricity in the air.  Clubs up from his toes to the back of his neck, sets him on edge.  Unlike some, he’s a walking target for the state apparatus, a man who might feel more able to blend if he were ever willing to dress like a member of polite society.  But here he stands on the corner, head freshly shaved, beard to his nipples, slim fitting t shirt and billowy Thai fisherman’s pants.  Enough beads and jewelry that he tends to softly clack whenever he moves.  And there’s something else in him, a look in his eyes that arouses contempt in the heart of the pig.

Defiance.

“Come and get it, but you’re limping home.”

A look on his face that says the threat of jail doesn't spook him and the concept of being martyred for a cause does not frighten him.  Cops love to beat shits like him into the ground, and shits like him like rumbling with cops.  So even though he’s ostensibly a free man, his eyes flit often.  Every government vehicle is a possible issue until it’s out of sight.  His muscles are tense.  His mouth is dry.  Teeth grinding.

And then there he is.

Sage has to squint and adjust his eyes, the mountainous range of the man’s shoulders dwarfed by the carceral obelisk he emerged from.  Broad in chest, Sage always said he looked like some evolutionary middle step between gorilla and man.  The mustache was glorious.  His glasses cracked, hastily repaired with scotch tape that Sage guessed was from the desk at booking.  His sister wasn’t wrong, either: he was tuned up solid.  The limp and the way he favored his ribs, the swelling around the left eye, the split in his lip, his nose now a little crooked.  Like a computer, Sage calculated it: Two cracked ribs.  Sprain to the ankle.  Maced, nightsticked, zip tied, nose broken.

When the man spotted him, he sighed.

Then they met.

Sage reached out, clutching a cold, perspiring orange juice.  The mighty mitt of the other man clasped it.  And for the first time in a long time, The Bodhisattva could say these words.

“Good to see you, Cliff.”