Episode 3; The Difference Between September 11th and July 4th

            The guilt that I bear in this next un-neighborly instance can probably be completely attributed to Tabitha’s new class on Buddhism.

            “For every action within the natural world, you are responsible for the reaction,” she reminded me one day over a back-porch cigarette. “You kill a cricket, there will be repurcussions.”

Tabitha widened her eyes and nodded her head, alarming signs of earnestness. I looked for the sarcastic smile that you’re supposed to wear as an anthropologically knowledgable, and yet still primarily American human being, but it wasn’t there.

            “What if it’s an accident?” I asked.

            “Well, that’s not as bad, but you’re still responsible,” she said, flicking her cigarette across the lawn.

            This conversation, in fact, was the tail end of her lengthy explanation of the six categories of ‘being’ which a Buddhist faces at death, one of which is Hungry Ghost. It is only those who achieve the very best karma who are considered for reincarnation as a human being.

            “Ha!” I seized upon this obvious oversight in the logic of this and simply pointed my finger next door. “So how do you explain…”

            Over the next month, the nexus of the Tabitha college information intake became Buddhism. A magazine on Yoga became an inroads to her Buddhist-prone psyche.

            “ ‘Letting your thoughts flow like a river’?” she read, following me through the kitchen. “ ‘ Be aware of each thought as it comes into your mind, and then be aware when it leaves’. I already do this! This is me! I’m a natural Buddhist!”

            I thought about this—how much enjoyment this girl can get from eating a damn peach, or watching a youtube clip, and how mysteriously strange this seems to me, who get up at six o’clock in the morning just to have as little as possible in common with college students, and though I watch my own fair share of youtube clips (minus the cute kitty ones), I never feel completely comfortable with doing anything…fun. I would rather memorize a stack of flashcards with the currencies of Spanish speaking countries than, say, go shopping.

            And so, at this moment, I decided to pull out the Zen Garden.

            I sat at my corner desk which faces the only two window-less walls in my room, and ran the tiny rake through the white sand, but before long, I was scrolling through New York Times articles on my laptop. Basically, instead of petting a cat while I read, like any normal twenty-two year old female, I was raking sand. This meditative experience had become, rather, a manifestation of the kind of company I perfer to animals.

            And this is when it happened. The sound of fireworks. Disturbing close to my window. It was September 11^th. Who would be blowing things up? Or had they simply confused September 11^th with the fourth of July?

            Half expecting to see Terry Jones outside with a box of Korans, I tiptoed to the door to look out.

            I would like to say that it was a shock to find that two neighbors from the House of the Girl Who Can’t Jump Rope, were throwing fireworks at my car. Unfortuantely, since this is also the House of Many Neighbors who Come to Make Two Minute Visits which consist of what I’m sure is a very fulfilling exchange through a car window, I would be hard pressed to call this a surprise. For Christmas, perhaps we should loan them a copy of Weeds, Season 1. Disturbingly, I suspect that I know more about inconspicusou drug dealing from this TV series, than they do.

            “Are you throwing fireworks at my car?” I asked the two black men on the porch opposite me, using a technique I call ask the offender something in a tone of voice which will make them tell the truth.

            “Naw, yo, that’s some car backfiring,” one of the them said, snickering fittingly afterward.

            “Stop throwing firecrackers at my car.” I responded, and stood there for a minute to let this set in before returning inside.

            I went inside to find Tabitha’s cat gnawing on my beautiful bamboo plant, which sits inside a vase with two Buddha-like figures smoking together. I smacked her with all my force, and that’s when the explosions continued.

            I whirled around and ran outside, slamming the door shut behind me. I then offered to just stand there until I spotted a car that could backfire fifty times in one place and which would also elicit their laughter.

            “How bout you don’t talk to me like I’m your kid?” one suggested.

            Meaning that this rather reminded the thirty-ish looking individual of a conversation he’d once had with his mother. How surprising.

            As someone old once said, better it is to heap malediction upon the two drug dealing fellas from your own front porch than to go inside and get one of your male roomates to do it. Ding ding, I believe a first-wave feminist just got her wings. This will hopefully be the Buddhist redemption for the time that one of our female neighbors actually had Dutch and Isaac open her front door with her own keys simply because she couldn’t seem to do it that day.

            Returning back to the heaping of maledictions, that is exactly what I proceeded to do, in a tirade which would make Lewis Black proud. Having released this bad energy upon the street, I returned inside and called the police, listening to the frequency of the explosions increase.

            The cops came, and in a characteristicly brilliant move, the neighbors simply went inside as the officer pulled up. He was instantly rendered powerless, and performed a skit which was almost a satisfying substitute to seeing the neighbors get arrested: the officer walked around the house several times knocking on the windows, and even once looked in their shed, about as effective as looking for your keys in the freezer.

            When I returned to my Zen garden, I realized that it smelled. Or to be more specific, my whole room smelled. After a short search, I realized that Tabitha’s kitten had shit in the middle of my floor. Not in the logical mini-litter box just earlier today I’d strangely percieved to be a Zen garden. Nope. Right in the middle of the floor. Now, if this were once of those heart-warming E.B. White tales, she would have at least had the decency to squirt out words like, oh, I don’t know, Karma is not, and never will be on your side. Or, don’t try to enjoy anything. Ever. You suck at it. Something of that fire-under-the-ass, get-back-to-your-flashcards-you-old-stick-in-the-mud nature.

            And then I watched that thought flit by and wondered what it’s going to be like. Being a Hungry Ghost.