Randy White - Dead of Night

“I already have my own religion,” he answered, a little sadly. “Not through choice, either. Because of the Internet, there’re people out there devoted to my writings. Thousands. Unfortunately, I was doing my own version of mandatory drug testing at the time, so I don’t recall much of what I wrote. Or why I wrote it.”

I watched as Ransom began to speak, then did a slow freeze as if she’d been struck by something. The woman sat in silence, pondering. Then, gradually, a shrewd glow came into her eyes-a different sort of awakening.

“You did start your own religion,” she said softly. “That’s true. It is true. How could my brain not thought of this idea before?”

Later, Tomlinson would say she had thought of it before. Her trap.

“We all seen the idiots come around here thinkin’ you’re some sort of religious guru,” Ransom continued. “A spiritual man who can change water into wine, instead of what you are. Which is a donkey dick that turns rum into piss when you ain’t using it to diddle. But those idiots don’t know that. Fools think you’re special. People all over the world. I seen it myself, the stuff they write to you on the computer.”

Unoffended, Tomlinson said, “Yes, my students say they learn much from the little I have to teach.”

My cousin replied, “Yeah, mon. But you ever thought of chargin’ them for it?”

“Charging? You mean, money?”

“You want a new experience or not? If you got the balls, let me handle it. We’ll both make a pile.”

Sounding rattled, he said, “I don’t really want to get rich. I was playing with the idea. On the other hand, though… compared to bestiality, or the other two…”

Ransom said, “Those are three nice options you got there. Think it over. You might look good wearin’ lipstick and shit. Walkin’ like your bum hurt.”

Later that evening, Tomlinson told her, he didn’t see any way around it. If she had some ideas about making money, go ahead and get started.

“Do it now,” he said, “’cause I don’t have much time left.”

Ransom was like a lion set free.

There were already Tomlinson-dedicated Web sites-mostly in Europe and Asia, where his small, brilliant book, One Fathom Above Sea Level, had been widely translated and praised.

One fathom equals approximately six feet, so the title referred to a view of the world through one man’s eyes.

The customer base was out there waiting, so Ransom decided to start an Internet school of meditation. From Sanibel, they could reach out to the world. In return, she hoped, money would flow in from the world.

Tomlinson was mortified. Money was the only area where he set strict guidelines: The school had to serve the public good, he said, and she couldn’t charge fees of any kind. Donations could be accepted. But no pressure tactics. If his teachings improved lives, students might send a little gift in gratitude. Expect nothing more.

“This getting rich business sucks,” he told me privately. “I haven’t made a cent yet, and your sister already has me pissed off about the tax laws. Insurance companies? The insurance racket is nothing but organized crime with a permission slip.”

As a template, Ransom copied a respected international school of Zen that offered Internet instruction. Founded by a Korean Zen master, it had educational centers worldwide and several hundred thousand followers.

My cousin charged ahead, working seven days a week. Created a corporation. Filed forms with the IRS seeking a religious nonprofit 501(c)(3) status for the now legally chartered “Sanibel Institute of Zen Meditation amp; Island Karma.”

“The feds should grant it, no problem. Even if they don’t, we can still operate as an electronic church, and take all the donations them folks want to send us. Either way, everything will be nice and legal.”

Ransom loved the acronym. SIZMIK, which she pronounced as “seismic.”

“T-shirt sales alone,” she said. “Think of the cash flow.”

She put herself through a crash course on building Web pages, and hired one of the state’s best Internet designers. They created an interactive, multipage Web site. A Miami computer bank, or collocutor, became her Web server. As a domain name, they settled on: www.KarmicTomlinson.com.

“A collocutor’s nothin’ but an office with computers linked to several hard drives. If one drive dies, they can hot swap a new one without shutting down, so we don’t lose a thing.”

The collocutor would coordinate live telecasts. Point the camera at Tomlinson and it would be sent out across the Internet. Students could interact with him in real time. Two or three live sessions a week. Everything else at the CyberZendo would be shot in advance and edited.

CyberZendo. Tomlinson’s name.

Ransom did the video. She recorded Tomlinson’s lectures, his sitting zazen demonstrations, and followed him around during a typical day-a sort of Tomlinson reality show that became popular.

She also traveled the islands recording soothing scenes of beaches, bays, swaying palms at sunset, and oceanscapes. “Meditative stuff,” she called it.

Ransom worked her butt off while Tomlinson sat around brooding about his decision to get rich, and fretting about his death dream. She was often furious at him, and for good reason.

In mid-July, it happened. Ransom’s Internet Zendo Village, featuring Rienzi master Tomlinson, premiered on the World Wide Web. She hosted a party at Dinkin’s Bay to celebrate, though most who attended seemed confused by the occasion.

Why was there a banner over the bait tanks that read: CONGRATULATIONS SANIBEL INSTITUTE OF ISLAND KARMA? Why was Tomlinson wearing flowing orange monk’s robes instead of his trademark sarong? The video crew-why?

The night of the premiere, few islanders visited Karmic Tomlinson. com. On the other side of the earth, though, hundreds of eager Asian admirers did. In Europe, Africa, and Indonesia, too. The spiritually minded sat at their computers and, for the first time, interacted with their esteemed teacher, the Roshi, whose writings they loved.

News of the link spread.

The first week, Ransom told me, the site recorded two thousand hits. By the fourth week, they were averaging that many a day, and the numbers were growing.

Donations started as a trickle. Disappointing. Ransom wanted to change the term from “donations” to “Good Karma Offerings,” and pestered Tomlinson until he finally gave in.

It worked. Money orders and traveler’s checks began arriving in large numbers at the post office on Tarpon Bay Road. Ransom rented a second commercial-sized box to handle the flow.

“I’d hoped for an even bigger buzz,” she admitted. “I want to get rich. Wild rich. We aren’t, but it’s okay. Having a nice bank account will have to do.”

Tomlinson, though, was distraught. By now he was too afraid of Ransom to risk a direct confrontation, so he retaliated by imploring his students not to send offerings.

“If the Good Samaritan wasn’t rich, nobody would remember the dude. Keep your money!” he told them in his live telecasts.

Reverse psychology sometimes works when it’s unintentional.

His followers sent more money, not less.

That called for another variety of celebration.

On the Monday before Thanksgiving, Ransom drove Tomlinson’s venerable Volkswagen Thing into nearby Fort Myers, traded it in on a luxury van, then had it painted like one of the old hipster microbuses: flowers, peace signs, and rainbows.

For herself, she bought a Lexus LS 430, the big luxury sedan.

Over the next several months, things got stranger. Tomlinson began to change. He withdrew emotionally for a period. When he reemerged, he was the same scatterbrained, brilliant flake, but with an unexpected edge.