A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

Why is his mind doing this? His mind is a bottomless pit, a deep dark cavern, an open throat with fibers like cilia, like tentacles, like an octopus's arms, strong, dangerous, voiceless.

"I don't want to die," he screams.

Did he really scream, or just imagine the scream?

IN THE AFTERNOON it rains, it pours out of season. The sky is black, there is no light, they light candles in the meditation hall, they do a walking meditation inside. And they sit — for hours. Richard falls asleep while he is sitting; the sound of his snoring wakes him up.

THE RAIN CONTINUES into the night. Richard is awake — his schedule is upside down. He wanders the halls; the scent of French fries pulls him to the reception area. The security guard, a young girl, is there with a cheeseburger and fries.

"I'm not one of them," she says when he walks up. "You can talk to me."

"Those smell good," he says.

"Have some."

He sits in the office with her, watching a small black-and-white television with the sound turned off. "I'm not perfect," she says. "I don't even try. What do they expect me to do at three in the morning, read a book?"

He nods.

"Are you doing all right?" she asks.

"My first retreat," he says.

"You seem like you're doing fine. Sometimes people come apart — they don't know who they are, why they're here. We have a special blanket we use, like a straitjacket, but more comforting. It's called a binding blanket. We put them in that and try and talk them down. There's a special number for me to call and a team of people come and help. I've only had it happen once. Kind of dramatic — a woman thought a spaceship was coming to pick her up. Do you want a cup of tea?"

"No thanks. I think I'll try and go back to bed. Nice meeting you."

"Sleep well," she says.

And he does.

THERE IS A MAN who cries every day, who begins to weep during the morning meditation and doesn't quit. His weep turns to a wail, and escalates. Richard knows he's supposed to be compassionate, to care about the crying man, but the man is ruining it for all of them. Why doesn't he stop, why doesn't someone stop him, why doesn't he get up and leave the room, why is it so upsetting, why does it make him hate the man?

And why does no one get up and attempt to comfort the man? Is it against the rules? Why don't they all stop what they're doing and go to the man? Would they hate him less if they could comfort him, if they knew what was wrong with him? Does his crying embarrass them because they know it could happen to them, because they know how deep the pain is, because they are all afraid that they could start crying and never stop too?

And finally the man, gasping, practically retching, chokes back the crying.

AT LUNCH there's a sign up on the dining-room door — "If you're having stomach trouble, look here for help." Below it a basket of remedies — Pepto-Bismol, Kaopectate, Imodium, various herbal remedies, teas…

A virulent virus has let loose in the community — there are signs everywhere: "Practice good hygiene." "Be mindful and wash your hands frequently." "We have ordered softer toilet paper."

By midafternoon there are lots of comments scribbled on the sign — "Free colonic." "Do you meditate while you go?" "Meditation causes dis-ease." "Joseph goes poop too." "Are the squirts part of the practice?" Who writes this stuff and when do they do it? Does anyone see them? And where are they getting their pencils and pens?

His roommate, Wayne, has left early without a word. When Richard goes back to the room to change his shirt, Wayne is gone, the bed stripped. Richard checks to be sure his wallet and personal goods are still there.

Bodywork.

When he checked in, Richard signed up for a massage on the fifth afternoon.

The masseuse shakes his hand, holding it for a minute too long. "Make yourself comfortable," she says, welcoming him into her den. "Anything special I should know?"

"I'm fine," he says. "I mean, I have a back ache, a leg ache, a shoulder-and-neck ache."

"That's why I'm here," she says. "Go ahead and get ready, faceup under the sheet, and we'll begin." She steps outside to let him undress.

"Come in," he says, adjusting the sheet over himself.

"You can talk if you need to — it's soundproofed," she says. "Some people talk the whole time, they're so glad to be able to…"

"I'm fine," he says.

It is such a relief to be touched, he didn't know how much he missed it; the warm oil, her touch, it feels fantastic. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Is the pressure OK?"

The pressure is firm but female. "Perfect."

She slides her fingers up into the base of his skull; it's like she's kneading his brain, draining the complicated parts.

"I can keep going if you want," she says at a certain point, when he is facedown, his sinuses pressed into the donut-hole headrest.

"What do you mean?"

"Someone canceled for the hour after you, so I have more time, if you want it."

"Sure, that would be great."

"It's another ninety dollars."

"Fine," he says, speaking into the face holder.

"You've got a lot of tension on your gluteus; do you want me to try and release that, maybe do some internal massage?"

"Yeah, sure," he says.

And then her finger is sliding up his ass, and he's shocked and kind of clamps down on it.

"I'm sorry, I should have warned you… What I'm doing now is internal massage; is that all right?"

"I guess," he says, embarrassed at how tightly his ass is clutching her finger.

"Try and relax and don't judge," she says, gliding her finger back and forth, rubbing him where he's never been touched before. He feels himself getting hard.

"Not to worry, that's all part of it." There is a seriousness with which this woman is rubbing the inside of his ass. She's really working on something.

"Not everyone will allow themselves to go here," she says. "It's very deep."

"It's fantastic," he says.

"Thank you," she says. He can hear her blushing.

The massage makes him think of the crying woman. He imagines what she is doing right now — yoga. She is standing like a tree while he is lying like a corpse — savasana.

AFTER THE TALK on the fifth night, he has his interview with Joseph. Each retreatant is granted a brief interview, a chance to ask questions, to talk privately for a few minutes. He is sitting on a chair in the hallway outside Joseph's office. Even spiritual guides have offices.

There is a couple before him; they sit in the hallway, whispering, hissing — fighting. The door abruptly pops open, they are ushered in, and the door closes. He feels like he's in fourth grade and waiting to be called into the principal's office. What will the interview consist of? Will Joseph ask him questions? Will it be like a test? Whatever it is, he wants to pass, to seem smart, he wants to win.

When it is his turn, he goes in, sits in a chair opposite Joseph, and waits.

Joseph looks at him.

Everything seems trivial. He thinks of mentioning the man who moved his cushion, Mr. Happy Arrogant, but decides to keep it to himself. "I guess what I'm most amazed by is how my mind moves, how something can seem so important in one moment and then, a moment later, I don't remember what that was that I was so sure I would never forget."

Joseph nods. "And your practice?"

"I'm practicing," Richard says. "I left myself a long time ago. I hope this will remind me of who I am. Free me, open me, change me."

"It is just a practice, it doesn't do anything," Joseph says.

"Yes, I know." Richard says, looking down, knowing that the moment he looks down the interview is over. He has ended it before it began.

Joseph sits. He waits. How is he able to just sit, to just wait?

Richard stands to leave.