Criminal Karma (15 page)

Squaring his shoulders and sticking out his chest, Pete marched over to the stereo and turned the volume down to a conversational level.

“Negative,” he said. “I’m not partying tonight. Got an oh-six-hundred wakeup mañana. So let’s keep the noise down. We don’t want the shore patrol showing up.”

“Loosen up, Moe,” Reggie said, coming up for air. “It’s only ten-thirty.”

“Yeah, man, it’s Saturday night!” Budge said. “Time for a party! Grab a girl and join in.”

“What you mean you ain’t partying tonight?” Reggie’s hottie said, sniffing. “You smell like you just put one out.”

“You’re crazy,” Pete said, backing away. “You better keep the noise down, if you know what’s good for you.”

He glared at Reggie and the girl for a few seconds, then turned on his heel and marched down the hall and into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He had completely dropped all pretense of respect or friendship toward me and Reggie.

“You see that shit?” Candyman said. He was sitting up on the couch with a disgusted look on his face.

“I know,” Budge said, his jolly mood punctured. “If Pete don’t want to party, he don’t want nobody else to party either.”

“Nah,” Candyman said, shaking his head in an anti-Shoshana manner.

“What?” Budge said.

“That little sumbitch wearing new boots.”

“Whurd he get money for new kicks?” Budge said.

“That’s what I want to know,” Candyman said, angrily. “Look like Wolverines. Hundred bucks a pair.”

The next morning
was crystalline. The wind blowing down from the mountains had cleared every particle of pollution from the air before it died down to a light breeze in the night, making the world look clean and new, like an aquarium after the water has been changed. When I left the snoring house a few minutes past seven, the fronds on the palm trees along Pacific were fluttering like tinsel in the early sunlight. A block away, the jade-green sea was full to the brim, stretching in a sparkling sheet to the razor-line of the horizon.

I was thinking diamonds as I walked north along the deserted boardwalk to Santa Monica, watching the Ferris wheel grow from the size of a quarter to a structure that loomed high above me. In the restaurant at the end of the pier, I ate pancakes and sausage, washing the meal down with a glass of milk and finishing up with two cups of strong black coffee. Afterward, chemically exhilarated, I strolled inland on Colorado, past the
homeless encampments in Palisades Park, to Lincoln, which I followed south to Broadway. Grim-faced churchgoers in expensive cars made up most of the traffic. Their eyes darted as they drove, looking for sinners. I came under suspicion. It was justified.

When I arrived at Baba’s Hindu church, the place was bustling with volunteer workers. There were cheery old ladies in overalls weeding the flowerbeds and hippies on stepladders washing windows. Along the Seventh Street side of the hulking Queen Anne, a dozen or so men and women were standing by a pile of extension ladders and aluminum walk planks, looking as clueless as Eskimos in Acapulco.

Ganesha seemed to be in charge, his ocher robe moving back and forth between groups as he offered encouragement and answered questions. I didn’t see Mary or Baba Raba, but Evelyn Evermore, whom I had hoped to encounter, was among the group by the extension ladders. She was wearing Jordache jeans that fit her just right, showing her shape but not constricting her movement, and a brown-and-gold Pendleton shirt with the cuffs turned back neatly to her elbows, exposing downy forearms. Her thick platinum hair was tied back in a ponytail with a yellow ribbon.

Ganesha walked briskly up to Evelyn’s group just as I joined it.

“Does anyone here know roofing?” he asked hopefully, looking up from his clipboard.

I waited to see if anyone else was going to say anything, but they just looked at one another with the silly smiles and shrugs of the spiritually inclined but mechanically inept.

Karma yoga has a magical allure for most meditation students because washing the dishes or weeding the garden is actually a lot easier than concentrating on a candle flame, and the results are more apparent to others. Honest swamis often are on a shoestring budget. They need volunteer workers to keep their ashrams afloat on the cosmic tide and tend to dole out effusive praise for minor tasks.

So everyone wants to help. And that works out fine with weeds and dirty dishes. Problems rear when skilled labor is required. Turn most of these proto-yogis loose on a task more complicated than painting a door and you’re courting disaster. Give them a simple plumbing job, for instance, and hot water will soon be coming out of the cold tap while the lights blink off when you flush the toilet. If the group Ganesha was addressing tackled the roof without supervision, you’d be able to take a shower in the living room next time it rained.

“I know something about it,” I said.

He turned toward me eagerly, recoiled slightly when he recognized me, then suppressed that reaction with a determined nod.

“Okay, you will be in charge, then. What’s your name?”

“Robert Rivers,” I said. “What are we doing?”

He was writing my name down on the top sheet on his clipboard, which I didn’t like. When he finished, he flipped to the third page and scanned it.

“You see that part of the roof up there?” he said, pointing. “That part that slopes down?” Since every section of the roof sloped down, his description wasn’t particularly acute.

“That shed roof over the bump-out?” I asked, following the beam of his index finger.

“Is that what it’s called?”

“Yes.”

“Well—it’s leaking somewhere and Baba wants to put these new shingles on it.” He pointed to some bundles of asphalt singles stacked on the sidewalk. “Are you sure you know how to do it?” He was familiar with the “can-do” attitude that actually can’t.

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Do you know how to set this… stuff up?” he asked, gesturing toward the ladders, ladder jacks, and walk planks. No doubt he had many precise Sanskrit terms for psychic states stored away in his perceptive young mind, but he didn’t have much terminology when it came to construction equipment.

“I’ll take care of everything,” I said. “But I am not going to need all these people. If you have the right quantity of shingles over there, we’re only reroofing about three hundred square feet. Why don’t you four help me?” I extended my arm to separate Evermore, the artistic guy I’d seen the previous night, and two other able-bodied men from the rest of the group.

“All right, thanks,” Ganesha said. “The rest of you can come with me and help clean up the backyard.”

Asphalt shingles come thirty-three square feet to a bundle, each kraft-paper-wrapped package weighing between seventy and ninety pounds, depending on the thickness of the shingles. There were ten bundles stacked on the sidewalk with a gallon of tar and a five-pound box of galvanized roofing nails on top. Hammers and nail pouches lay on the grass.

After we introduced ourselves, I showed the men how to set the ladders
and ladder jacks up to position the walk plank at a comfortable height, so that the edge of the roof was at waist level when we stood on the plank.

It was a simple job. The section of roof that was disturbing Baba’s nirvana was an unobstructed rectangle, twenty-four feet wide by fourteen feet deep, which meant a minimum of cutting and fitting. The shallow six-in-one slope would be easy and safe for amateurs to work on.

While the able-bodied guys started carrying the heavy bundles up and spreading them out on the roof where they would be handy as we progressed, I helped Evelyn and the artistic guy, whose name was Walt, run a starter course, then showed them how to place and nail down the shingles. When the laborers had caught their breath, I got them going too, each person working a six-foot-wide section, lacing their shingles in with those laid to their right.

We put the new shingles down on top of the existing ones. With the old shingles to guide them, my helpers did reasonably good work. It wasn’t the neatest job I’d ever seen, but I was confident the living room would stay dry. When Evelyn started to lag behind, I went over and helped her. Squeezing past her on the narrow walk plank, the front of my body was in full contact with the back of hers. She didn’t seem to mind the intimacy.

Standing to one side, watching me work, she wiped her forehead with a bandana and smiled.

“How did you learn to do roofing?” she asked.

“Funny story,” I said. “I had just gone into the remodeling business in St. Louis, doing carpentry and concrete work, when there were two hellacious hail storms that knocked out about a third of the roofs in the city. Big roofing companies were giving people three-month waits just to get an estimate. I had never nailed down a shingle before but I had an alcoholic friend who knew the trade, and he showed me how. Within a month I had three full-time crews working and more jobs coming in from referrals than I could handle. By the time the season was over, I pretty much knew the business.”

“Weren’t you worried about learning the trade from an alcoholic?”

“I didn’t really have a choice,” I said. “All roofers are alcoholics.”

“Really?” she laughed.

“Really.”

“That’s a great story. You were fated to be a roofer. And you know carpentry, too. It must feel good to have all those skills.”

I wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but it seemed like she was flirting with me. That opened up possibilities.

“What about you?” I said. “You look like someone with a lot of skills. What do you do?”

“Oh, I golf and play tennis quite a bit. I used to surf, but I stopped after I hurt my back. I still ski and ride. I have two horses at a little stable up in the valley.”

“Do you work?”

She made a wry face. “I guess you could say I am a philanthropist.”

“That’s a noble calling. Do you help support the ashram?”

“Yes,” she said, briefly. “I help out a little bit. What’s your connection to the center? I don’t remember seeing you before. Do you take classes?”

“I am thinking about taking some,” I said. “How ‘bout you? Do you take classes?”

“Yes, since last summer.”

“How do you like it?”

“It’s good,” she said, without conviction.

“Do you live in the area?”

“I just moved into a house in the canal district, as a matter of fact. It needs quite a bit of work, but I think it will be a great place once it is fixed up.”

“What kind of work?”

“Quite a bit of carpentry work, actually.” She paused. “Are you still in that business?”

“Yes, I am.” I took one of my Coast Construction cards out of my wallet and handed it to her. I’d worked in remodeling for ten years in St. Louis during my laughable attempt to fit into straight society, five years sober and five years drunk, so I knew enough to make the cover story stick.

“Would you have time to come by and take a look at the house and tell me what you think?”

“Be glad to,” I said, keeping my voice light and conversational. “I’ll get your address and phone number when we are done.”

“Wonderful.” She gave me a nice smile.

When we had shingled as much of the roof as we could reach from the walk plank, we climbed up onto the roof, kneeling on the shingles we had just nailed down, working our way up the slope to the wall where the shed roof ended. I flashed the final row of shingles to the wooden siding with roofing cement and membrane, using a putty knife someone had thoughtfully sent out with the materials.

When I was finished, one of the able-bodied guys helped me take the scaffolding down. He was a cowboyish kid named Johnny dressed in Levis and a jean jacket, about twenty-five.

“It’s nice to see someone around here who knows what they’re doing,” he said, when the equipment was stacked and the trash picked up.

“Are there some issues with competency?” I asked.

“You could say that. This used to be a super place when Swami Sankarananda was running it, but it’s gone downhill since the big guy took over.”

“In what way?”

“Seems more like a singles bar than an ashram nowadays. Those girls of Baba’s are always trying to cozy up. I told them I’m married and trying to live a clean life, but they don’t seem to get the message. I know it’s supposed to be spiritual union and everything, but it rubs me the wrong way. I come here to meditate and get my head straight, not get laid. I’m about ready to switch to the Ramakrishna Center. It’s farther from where I live, but at least those guys stay down on the farm.”

“How did Baba happen to take over?”

“No one seems to know. Maybe Ganesha knows, but he’s not saying. Baba’s not even from the same order as Sankarananda. From what I hear, he came out of the Naropa Institute, and that place got to be a real can of worms. Everybody was fucking everybody and a bunch of them died of AIDS. You can call that tantra if you want to, but I don’t want any part of it.”

“Me either,” I said.

“Really?” He cocked his head and gave me a look. “What about Evelyn?”

“What about her?”

“Nothing.” He held up his hands at shoulder height with his palms toward me like someone surrendering. “She’s a cool lady. And foxy, too, for her age. I’m just saying she gets around.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. She pretty much goes with the new flow. I know three or four guys she’s taken home. I guess she’s pretty hot. One of the guys got hung up on her, but she told him she doesn’t want anything serious. Just likes to play around. Which is great. More power to her. It’s a free country. I just don’t reckon this is the place for it, necessarily.”

Ganesha came around the corner from the backyard and walked toward us.

Seeing him, Johnny stuck out his hand, which I shook. He had a firm grip.

“Good working with you, man,” he said. “Don’t tell Evelyn or Ganesha I said anything. I like both of them. I just don’t agree with the way this place is being run.”

“Did everything go okay?”
Ganesha asked when he came up to me, holding his clipboard to his chest.