Steven Thomas - Criminal Carma

“Actually, I do.”

“Oh, yeah? What is it?” Though she was obviously all grown up in the ways of the world, she had a childish pride and possessiveness about her knowledge of the esoteric. It made me like her that much more.

“It’s food offered to a divinity like Krishna that takes on divine energy in the process. It is then shared among the god’s devotees as a way of receiving his blessing.”

“Wow,” she said, her attitude changing easily from superiority to admiration. “That’s pretty good. I never heard anyone say it so simple before. I mean, I kind of knew that’s what it was, but I couldn’t have put it so neatly.”

I shrugged. “How long have you lived here?”

“I’ve only been here a couple of months, but I’ve lived in other ashrams before. I really groove on Hinduism and yoga, you know?”

“Yeah, Vedanta is a cool religion. What brought you to this ashram?”

“My roommate graduated last semester-I go to City College-and I couldn’t afford the rent, so Baba let me move in here. I help out with karma yoga and he doesn’t make me pay anything. He’s pretty cool.”

“What all does karma yoga include?”

“Mostly working in the kitchen,” she said flatly. “But I kind of help manage the place, too. What about you? What do you do? How do you know about Vedanta?”

“I studied it years ago when I lived in Florida.” I didn’t mention that my scholarship took place in a prison library in between card games and yard fights. “I spent some time with Muktananda when he was in Miami.” That was after prison, when I was a dewy-eyed spiritual seeker, through forever with lying and stealing and all forms of dishonesty.

“Wow! You met Muktananda? He was one of the great teachers of this age.”

“Yeah, he was. Maybe I can tell you about him sometime.”

“What do you do now?” she said, slightly cooler, sensing a spiritual come-on.

“I own a construction company.”

That was the cover story I’d used for the past several years. I had business cards, stationery, sample cases, and a phone number that was answered by a professional-sounding woman who always said the same thing: “Coast Construction. No, Mr. Rivers is out on a bid. If you leave your number, I’ll have him call you.”

“A construction company? Really?” Mary sounded skeptical. “You have a job going down on the beach?”

“No,” I laughed. “I’m on vacation.”

“Let me see your hands.”

I held my right hand out to her. She took it and turned it over in a businesslike way, unself-conscious about her raw fingertips. “No calluses,” she said, looking up from my palm. Her bright blue eyes were fringed with exceptionally long, exceptionally light eyelashes that gave her a fairy-like appearance.

“I’m an executive, not a carpenter.”

“I doubt it,” she said, letting go of my hand. “That cat you are with is some kind of player, for sure. I think you are, too.”

“Why?”

“Female intuition. I grew up around players and I know one when I see one. For my money, you are some kind of naughty fellow. Maybe a con man or a bank robber. Tell the truth-I’m right, aren’t I?”

I was flattered by her estimate of my criminal standing. Bank robbery-not walking in with a scrawled note in a trembling hand, but planning and executing a major heist-is a high-class crime. Those guys get a lot of respect in the joint. At the same time, her flash of insight caught me off guard. To distract her from further speculation, and because I could hardly help myself, I scooted my chair closer to her and put my right arm around her.

“You’re projecting,” I said, taking a chance and lightly nuzzling her neck. She got still when I touched her, but didn’t shy away. “I think you are the naughty one. I’m not a bank robber, but I make plenty of cash in construction, and I wouldn’t mind spending some of it on you.”

I didn’t know if she was a temple prostitute like the other gowned girls or just an easygoing ashram lass who believed in free love, but she had showed us her breasts and I was getting such a warm and lively vibe from her that I thought there was at least an outside chance she would let me slide my hand between her thighs and lay her on the table while everyone else in the building talked about ultimate truth and spiritual transformation.

“I’m not for sale,” she said, placing her left hand against my ribs and pushing me away with calm, steady strength.

“I didn’t mean to imply that you are,” I said, backing off a little. “I just meant I’d like to take you out sometime and get to know you.”

“That’s sweet,” she said, sardonically but thoughtfully, too. “I’m flattered. But I don’t even know you. Maybe if you came around and took some yoga classes we’d have a chance to get acquainted.”

“We have a chance right now.” I leaned toward her again and tried to turn her head so that I could kiss her red lips. I don’t know why I was being so aggressive. It wasn’t like me. Maybe it was because she hadn’t seemed to mind Reggie’s direct approach in the hallway and because I wanted to cut him off before he got another chance with her. Maybe because sex was in the air in the ashram and she radiated an intoxicating female energy that stirred me to my core. I wanted to put my tongue in her mouth, to taste her and touch her intimately.

“Stop,” she said sharply, jerking her head away. “I can’t. You seem like an interesting guy and all, but I’m with Baba now. I can’t fool around with you.”

That chilled me. I saw the tangled jeans on the orange bedspread again and knew why I had felt irritated when I came downstairs.

“So-what? You’re part of his string? You let him rent you out in those nice little rooms upstairs?”

“Screw you, pal. No one turns me out. No one ever has and no one ever will. Why don’t you get the hell out of here?”

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I just don’t understand why a gorgeous girl like you would waste your time with an overgrown fakir like Baba. He’s got to be at least twice your age and three times your weight. And you can’t tell me that he isn’t pimping those other girls out.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, reverting to a bored tone. Her anger had faded as fast as it came. Calling her gorgeous hadn’t hurt. “Baba’s not a Boy Scout, but he is a real guru. There are people at this ashram who have seen him levitate during meditation. He helps people, too. I’ve seen him do it. Like that kid who was with you on the beach-we found him bawling his eyes out on the boardwalk one day and after Baba talked to him for a few minutes he was all happy and smiling. Could you do that for someone?”

“Why was he crying?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I think he said his mom was supposed to meet him and didn’t show up, or something like that. But Baba made him feel better. That’s the point. And it’s not like you think with the other girls. They do it with the guys Baba tells them to do it with, sure, but it’s, like, tantra, you know? It has a spiritual purpose.”

“Yeah, and I bet it puts a lot of spiritual dough in Baba’s dhoti, too.”

“So what? Money makes the world go round, pal. He uses it to keep the center open so people can learn about yoga and enlightenment.”

Ganesha chose that moment to hurry into the kitchen from the hall. He practically skidded to a stop when he saw me sitting with the blonde. Confusion, anger, jealousy, and sorrow played across his transparent face. He took refuge in the anger.

“You aren’t supposed to be back here,” he said to me, angrily.

“It’s okay,” Mary said. “He’s helping he make prasad.”