Jim Harrison - The Ancient Minstrel

“What are you doing?” Sky Blast barked.

“Helping with the groceries.”

“That’s women’s work,” he said.

Margaret served them a cup of tea at an aluminum table. Sky Blast had seemed to notice Sunderson’s glance at her butt.

“You may find my approach to zazen a bit unorthodox but I received a dispensation on the top of Mount Tamalpais last year that our age will be undergoing a resurgence of the natural world in our time. Howler monkeys are our primate predecessors. We must honor them. I am fascinated by the oneness of all living things.”

“Me too,” said Sunderson for lack of anything else to say.

“Good. Then we’ll get along. Call me Roshi Sky.”

“Fine by me, Roshi Sky.”

“See you at five tomorrow morning.”

Sunderson wasn’t enthused about getting up that early except to go fishing though he rather looked forward to howling like a monkey. People of this ilk kept trying to help you “get in touch with yourself.” He wasn’t at all sure that this was a pleasant idea though he knew in his heart that he had to put a stop to things with Barbara however late in the game it was. He vowed as punishment that he would have to go to that mind doctor if he screwed her again. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye, they used to say.

He was up before daylight and fried two good-sized sausage patties. He had read that mountain climbers were never vegetarians. Of course he had no intention of climbing mountains but he liked the solidity of the idea that pork rather than cereal could get you up Everest.

In the church basement the rows were three-quarters full of meditators and Sky Blast glowered at the late arrivals from the kitchen, finally making a mighty howl which the others joined. Sunderson started tentatively with not much more than a squeak. Sky Blast came up behind him and told him to use his lungs completely as if he were a monkey singing opera. He did so and found it oddly satisfying like yelling at his sister Berenice when he was young. As he glanced into the kitchen it occurred to him that Margaret must eat a lot of vegetables to get an ass that big. Down the row her brother Michael’s face seemed fixed permanently in a smirk. He was a heavy cross for Margaret to carry. Sunderson learned that he was a football player and allowed to eat a big steak at a restaurant every night for dinner. He was also the only man allowed to date outside the group. His father had given him a new yellow Corvette for making the team. He had a black girlfriend and would say loudly that he preferred “dark meat.”

Of all the howlers Sky Blast was the loudest, obviously playing to his strength. Mona’s voice was the most penetrating. It was high and clear and if there had been any actual animals in the area they would be frightened witless. Latecomers said that even with the soundproofing any strays or dogs being walked fled the area posthaste. When Sunderson was a child he was friends with a local Ojibwa family and once at a powwow they asked him to join in their chanting and singing. He recalled what a wonderful sensation it was to chant at drumbeats during a full moon in August. There were northern lights that evening which made it even more eerie. His friend’s father told him that the song they had sung was about summer waning in August. The next dawn he and his friend went out and caught a big pail of bluegills and perch and there was breakfast around the campfire of fried fish cooked in massive iron skillets. He had a crush on a pretty Indian girl who thoroughly ignored him except once were they were playing hide-and-seek and in the woods she kissed him impulsively.

As they continued to yodel in the church basement he noted that Michael stared at Mona with graceless lust, not that he could blame him. She was by far the prettiest girl in the group. When they finished their howling they sat in silence for a full stick of incense, forty minutes, a tip of the hat to tradition. They had a predictably awful breakfast. His legs hurt mightily from his attempt to keep balance on the zafu. The tsampa tasted like cattle feed and didn’t help his pain. His prospects with these nitwits looked glum.

On the way back to the hotel Mona and Sunderson decided to pick up brisket and horseradish sandwiches, so they took a long slow walk to Zingerman’s. He dreaded calling Ziegler. He didn’t want a phone call to ruin his meaty sandwich, the surging track of protein he desperately needed.

Back in the room Mona laid out their lunch. Even the pickle and potato salad were wondrous. Mona stripped to her undies which was discomfiting, saying she didn’t want the juice from hers to drip on her clean clothes. He got an instant hard-on despite his recent hard work with Barbara. They had been amused on the way home to see Sky Blast sneaking out the back door of a hamburger joint with a package and cramming a big bite right there in the alley. Sky Blast hadn’t seen them and Sunderson was not without sympathy for the sneaky vegetarian.

He had a small whiskey for courage before he dialed Ziegler. He reminded himself that the man was a hothead but he himself would quit before he took any shit or abuse. The conversation started poorly with Sunderson admitting that Ziegler’s daughter was “living in sin” with Sky Blast. Ziegler went off like a roaring rocket saying abruptly, “My poor baby.” Sunderson was somewhat mystified. How many friends even when he was active as a detective would say they would kill anyone who fooled with their daughter? Sons were home free and if they were seducers the father would brag, “My son gets more ass than a toilet seat.” A mystery, all of it. They wanted a daughter to stay “daddy’s little girl,” though frequently they ignored her. Sunderson’s only firsthand experience of father-daughter relationships, of course, was Mona, so perhaps it was better not to think about it. He noticed both Michael and Margaret’s sister had told Ziegler nothing, obviously wanting their dad to stay out of their lives.

He had seen Sky Blast and Michael practicing wrestling holds out in the lobby. They were both big men, well over six feet and quite obviously muscular. It turned out they had been high school and college wrestlers. Michael was thicker and a bit stronger but Sky Blast was deft and extremely fast. Sunderson bet in an all-out fight Sky Blast’s speed could win if he could avoid Michael getting him in a choke hold which was the finish of any fight. Sunderson’s father had taught him early in high school that since he wasn’t a fast puncher he would be better off learning a good gut punch, knowledge he made use of against the basketball player. This was because if you knocked out an opponent’s wind he couldn’t continue. It was such a ghastly feeling that he was immediately a wounded puppy. The current wrestle seemed anti-Zen to him but boys would be boys he supposed.

Sunderson left Ann Arbor by car early the next morning telling Mona to tell Sky Blast that his mother was mortally ill. She said she would sweep up and mop the mud tracked from the churchyard. He called Ziegler from Clare and told him he would meet him for drinks in Trenary at five o’clock. That was fine Ziegler said because they were unlikely to see anyone they knew in Trenary.

Sunderson had a case of “lover’s nuts,” scrotal discomfort caused by his great moral victory before he left. He had been careful not to drink too much at dinner because he knew he might lose control. He suspected that Mona would try to seduce him. She did. She slept on the couch which opened into a bed and it took her quite a while to accept the fact that he wasn’t going to close the deal. She was bouncing naked on the bed and tried to sit on his hard-on. He rolled off the bed, quickly dressed, and went down to the front desk for another room giving the concierge strict instructions not to tell her where he was. He had a double whiskey out of a pint in his luggage which didn’t help. He watched an old Vincent Price movie where a killer was sabotaging parachuters’ chutes.