Jonathan Nasaw - The Boys from Santa Cruz

“Still with you.”

“Okay, do you know what I’d advise that person?”

“I’m all ears.”

“I’d say, Don’t eat the crouton. Got it? Do not…eat…the crouton.”

“Loud and clear,” said Pender. “I appreciate the heads-up.”

“Glad to help,” said Stahl, who waited until Pender was gone before turning back to the wet grapes, which he now began to dry with a clean dish towel, one at a time, as carefully and painstakingly as if they were precious gems, or little baby eyeballs.

Around five o’clock, Steve Stahl wrestled a six-foot-long didgeridoo out the screen door of the Center, took a deep breath, puffed out his cheeks, and blew a series of long, deep-toned, peritoneum-tingling hawaughhh s that resounded the length and breadth of Braxton Hot Springs. Then he rejoined Skip, Pender, Dr. Oliver, and Candace, who were watching from the glass-enclosed second story as the trainees converged on the building, strolling down the dirt road or climbing the lightly wooded slope leading up from the campground in the woods behind the Center. They were all dressed in comfortable-looking cotton meditation outfits similar to those worn by Oliver and his aides, and carried coats and sweaters over their arms.

Laughing and chattering, the trainees climbed the open-treaded spiral staircase to the second floor, where sage and sandalwood incense burned in bowls and a small boom box played a CD of ethereal Steve Reich space music. Fat, round meditation pillows known as zafus were already arranged in a circle; the atmosphere was intense, charged with nervous energy as the trainees took their places.

“Namaste,” said Dr. Oliver, seating himself cross-legged on a white zafu with an incense bowl and a small silver bell in front of it. His meditation pajamas were white, Steve and Candace wore royal blue, and the ten trainees were dressed in pale orange.

“Namaste,” the others echoed, lightly pressing their palms and fingers together in a prayerful mudra.

“It’s so good to see your shining faces. Let’s take a few calming breaths, taking in peace through the nostrils, letting out ego through the mouth. Eyes shut? Here we go…”

Pender had seated himself next to Oliver. Skip was sitting directly across the circle, his good leg folded and his withered leg outstretched, with the toe of his built-up shoe pointing straight up. He opened his eyes after a few seconds, caught Pender looking back at him, and winked.

After the breathing exercise, Oliver introduced the newcomers to the group, then asked the trainees to introduce themselves. First up was Beryl, an elderly, bird-boned woman, her face as wrinkled as a dried apple. Juana was a buxom Argentinean in her mid-forties, with a round brown face and a toasty smile. Then came Michael, a pale, thirtyish commodities trader, and next to him was a man named Jonah, wearing dark-rimmed glasses he was constantly adjusting.

In addition to the four single trainees, there were three couples. George Speaks, a Native American college professor with a broad Eskimo-looking face and a long black braid, was seated next to his wife, Layla, who had sleepy eyes and a soft Southern accent. Elaine and Marty, both lawyers, had pronounced New York accents. Tom and Mitch were a fit and handsome gay couple in their mid-thirties.

When they’d finished, Oliver thanked the group. “ Good job, everyone,” he said, sounding a little like a kindergarten teacher. “And now, unless anybody has any last-minute questions or concerns…?” His eyes traveled clockwise around the circle. “Yes, Beryl?”

“I’m not sure I can do this, Dr. O,” she said, wringing her bony hands nervously. “I–I thought I could, but I’m…well, I’m scared. That’s the plain truth of it: I’m scared.”

“Okay, I get that,” Oliver responded mildly. “And the first thing I need you to understand is that nobody here is going to force you to do anything you’re not ready to do. But may I ask you a question?”

“Please.”

“Which ‘I’ is it that’s scared?” Air quotes around the pronoun. “Is it the ‘I’ that thinks it’s still a helpless infant, dependent on others for its very survival? Or is it the ‘I’ who’s a full-grown, capable, adult human being who for over seventy years has succeeded in handling anything and everything the universe has seen fit to throw at her with such admirable grace and courage?”

The answer came in the form of a shy, pleased schoolgirlish smile.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” said Oliver, beaming. “Now who’s ready to let go and let God?”

A chorus of assent: “Me!” “Yay!” “I am!” “Ya-hoo!”

“Al- hum -dilly-la!” Oliver clapped his hands together sharply, then rose, picked up his zafu, crossed the circle, helped Beryl to her feet, and offered her his arm. Together they started down the spiral staircase, with the others following. Skip and Pender trailed behind.

“Locked and loaded?” whispered Pender.

“Locked and loaded,” said Skip.

“And what don’t we do?”

“We don’t eat the crouton.”

Asmador awakes from his short, marijuana-assisted nap in the back of the Cherokee. The razzle-dazzle of late afternoon sunlight glinting off the cars makes the little parking lot look as though it were ablaze with brightly colored stars.

Driving up from the county road earlier that day, Asmador had noticed that the line of telephone poles by the side of the winding driveway ended at the parking lot. The highest aerial wire, a power line with ceramic insulators, descended the last pole and burrowed itself into the earth; the lower wire led to a rusty, gray-painted metal box mounted on the pole beneath a sign instructing those in need to call for assistance.

Asmador opens the cabinet, which encloses a telephone handset wired into a single line that exits through a hole in the bottom of the cabinet before disappearing underground. He slices through the wire above the box with the serrated inner edge of Peter Daniel’s hunting knife, then punctures all four tires on every vehicle save the Cherokee.

Having done what he can to buy himself time to complete the mission, Asmador changes into a night-camo jumpsuit, splotchy blacks and grays with elasticized waist and cuffs, blacks his face and white sneakers, jams all the gear that will fit, including the night-vision goggles, into the backpack, and fills the built-in, hard-walled quiver with an assortment of arrows.

“Wish me luck, Pocket Pal,” he calls to the starlings perched on the telephone wire. From behind him comes the sound of mocking laughter. He turns to see Sammael sitting cross-legged on the roof of the Cherokee, jingling a set of car keys. Asmador reaches for them; the redhead pulls one of his vanishing acts. But to Asmador’s considerable relief, when he peers through the window of the Cherokee, he sees the keys dangling from the ignition; the door, fortunately, is unlocked.

“Thank you,” he calls sheepishly, locking the car and pocketing the keys; not surprisingly, the only response is a burst of disembodied laughter.

The little procession, with Dr. Oliver marching in front and Skip bringing up the rear in the golf cart, followed a dirt trail bordered with spring-green poison oak that led uphill through a transition forest of red aspens, mountain alders, graceful poplars, fragrant-leaved bay laurels, and mossy live oaks so gnarled and ancient they looked almost sentient.

After marching for half an hour, Oliver turned off the main trail at an arrow-shaped wooden signpost pointing the way to something called the Omphalos. The side trail was too narrow for the cart, so Skip abandoned it at the turnoff and limped after the others on foot, down a rocky path that hugged the base of a shaley cliff for a hundred yards or so. Then it took a sharp downhill right turn and opened out onto a perfectly round, enchanted-looking clearing surrounded by a grove of quaking aspens that whispered and shimmered in the faint breeze.