Zen among the bussinesmen

“When you can do nothing, what can you do?”
                                                           - Zen Koan

It was around two o’clock in the afternoon when I wandered to one of Pearl Streets newsstands. The hot mid-summer sunlight shone upon this metal box, and changed it in a tank of shivering, humid air.
The man behind the register wore a white ‘I heart NY’ t-shirt and was about five foot tall. He was also impatient, cranky and rude: not really in an ‘I heart NY’ kind of mood to be short.
“Whadda ya want?” he asked me.
Considering myself more of an English gentleman, I ordered in some type of Yorkshire dialect. A cup of Macchiato coffee, a packet of cigarettes and an edition of the New York Times, were among my purchases. Since I started smoking again, I noticed that Luckies were 10 cents up in price. Nothing less than a good planned-out governmental rip-off, if you ask me. The other thing I noticed on the way back to my apartment was a lot more remarkable, though. An orange clothed figure passed his way through the black business suits of Wall Street, as some kind of sunset; swimming its way through the ocean. Intrigued and nosey as I have always been about these kinds of appearances, I followed him towards William Street, where he entered a somewhat deserted looking building. There was a sign just beneath the 2nd floor window, which said ‘The Monarch Butterfly: a Buddhist convention.’
I lit a cigarette and glazed into the room- yet all I could see was the ceiling. The rest was trapped in something obscure, something unknown.
A life as a Buddhist would have a great outcome on me, I thought. But alas, nirvana is not accessible to me; all my life I’ve felt like I knew nothing. Nothing for certain.
I had a nice long walk back to my apartment in Herald Towers to clean my head. Regine, my wife, was occupied cleaning other things; the furniture and such.
“I’m home” I yelled.
She did not reply until I came into the living room.
“What have you been up to?” she asked suspiciously.
“I just went for a walk” I said.
She went on polishing our pinewood sideboard.
“What’s for dinner?” I asked.
“Pot roast,” she said “we’re eating pot roast.”
I sighed and walked towards the living room. How many meals of dreary dry pot roast can a man endure, I asked myself.

The next morning I woke up at 7 o’clock, got myself some coffee and went to work. It was a typical – yet unusually foggy – Monday morning. The people outside on the streets dragged themselves forward, expressing nothing but apathetic despair. I myself felt like the newsstand clerk: impatient, cranky and rude.
There was no time to act grumpy, however. It was an important day to proof myself as an architect. Mr. Jones, the executive, assigned me to calculate the mechanical specifications of the building. It was a dull task, but it was of great importance; the entire construction depended on it, after all. A misplaced pillar, for instance, could cause a catastrophe.
After lunchtime Mr. Jones’ assistant Mr. Smith gathered everyone for the meeting. Our team, consisting of three highly educated architects, Mr. Smith and I, took place at the conference table. Meanwhile Mr. Jones set up the projects presentation, which included a miniature model of the building, a blueprint and a map of the location in question. Mr. Smith layed down his notebook and his sharpened, chewed-off pencil, to draw the minutes of this meeting.
“Our head executive” said Mr. Jones “took notice of some protests near the building site the other day”
He carelessly rubbed his finger around the lid of his eye.
“Because the construction policies tell us we can not demolish anything without the accordance of the residents, we must negotiate with these rats first. We need to be able to give them full financial support.”
Mr. Jones took a deep breath through his nose and continued talking.
“But we’ll leave that to the accountants” he said, “Let’s take a look at the blueprint.”
The blueprint displayed some basic design features, like door gods and mythical ornaments along the entrance. But these were merely details in comparison to the building’s main and most essential feature: the colossal multi-inclined roof construction. The building as a whole was meant to represent the East in all of its intimidating magnitude. It did not, however, represent any of its philosophy. It did not express any harmony, peace or balance. Let alone patience: the most fundamental requisite for Asian meditation. One needs time to think things through and to develop oneself, just like a caterpillar requires time to become a butterfly. But lets face it, patience has always been rather uncommon in cities like New York. Maybe it’s because businessmen tend to think that time is equal to money. Patience is therefore doomed to be considered as a waste of their most precious possession.
After Mr. Jones reviewed, recalculated and remeasured the constructional details of our sketches, he gave us our last assignment. Since our project concerned an Asian restaurant, it was obvious that the interior would require a lot of attention. It was our task to design the kitchen, dining room and bar area. As I said, three of us were highly educated: they all had a degree in interior design. I, however, did not meet the qualifications for this particular assignment. I was the odd man out and therefore had to assist the accountants in persuading the residents.
“You’ll meet a guy named Bill this afternoon” said Mr. Jones when he looked at me.
He informed me I had to look for him in Ernst & Young in Times Square, so that’s what I did.
The instant I got there, however, I was lost. There were around fifty identical looking bussinesmen on the ground floor alone. They all wore a black suit, a blue tie and a white striped shirt underneath. It was almost as if they were massproduced in a factory. Luckily, a young, blonde girl behind the reception desk was happy to help me.
“You can find him on the first floor” she said “Just head upstairs, turn right, left and right again.”
I was suprised to find myself like some kind of sweat-soaked monstrosity, once I got there. All the cigarettes I smoked in the past few stressful weeks, began to take a toll on me.
The nameplate on the door said ‘Bill Roberts, accountant.’ It was funny; Bill had always been the name I’d picture an accountant to be called. This stereotypical image had never realized itself, though. Not before this very day, that is.
I took some time to catch my breath, before I knocked on his door and entered.
“Mr. Roberts?” I asked.
“Ah, you must be Jack” he said when he stood up “Just call me Bill.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle a little when I saw him. His pulled-up flannel shorts and his large button-up shirt made him look like an archetype geek. The fact that he was the first guy I saw there not wearing a black suit, did not gain him in respect.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Bill” I said while I tried my best to keep a straight face.
“Pleasure is all mine!” he replied eagerly. His voice was squeaky and high-pitched.
Bill got away from his desk and suggested to go to the building site at once.
“No use in wasting time, eh?” he said as he walked out of the door.
A small hand gesture indicated that he wanted me to follow his lead.
“There sure isn’t” I said as I tried to keep up to his pace.
His swift way of walking made the people in the hallway dodge out of his way.
“So, it’s just the two of us, huh?” I asked while walking downstairs with him.
“Yes sir” he replied quickly, “the other accountants are off to Venezuela for a little business trip.”
“You were not invited?” I asked.
“Oh yes! Yes, yes, I was! It’s just that my skin gets all itchy when I’m in such muggy climates.”
His big, yellow teeth revealed their gruesome smell when he smiled at me. His mouth was like a goddamn can of sardines.
“So where are we heading?” I asked while shutting my nostrils.
“William Street” he said when we got outside through the revolving door.
A concerning kind of suspicion settled itself in the front of my brain.
“William Street?” I asked.
“Yes, sir” he confirmed, “near Wall Street.”
My mind found itself in some stage of drowsiness. I stared at the traffic and watched the cars pass each other by.
“Taxi!” he shouted.
A yellow car successfully escaped the overflowing flood of vehicles and parked itself on the side of the pavement.
“Let’s go” said Bill as he opened the door for me.
The interior of the cab, as opposed to most cabs, was clean and comfortable. The seats were made of leather, and more importantly: free from chewing gum.
Bill took a deep breath and exhaled slowly when he sat down next to me. The ride didn’t take too long, but was awkward nonetheless. There was nothing to talk about, nothing to say.
Finally, the cabdriver pulled over near the The Mall, took our money and headed back into the traffic-jammed madness.
“Which way are we heading?” I asked.
“Just follow me” he replied.
The reflective glass buildings of Wall Street rose above the little buildings along the road. William Street was a much more modest and peaceful part of New York City, I thought.
Once Bill stopped walking, I saw the same deserted building I saw a couple of days ago. A line of Buddhist monks blocked the entrance. Each of them wore a big chain around their wrists, which connected them to the building. It was a desperate attempt, thought Bill, to save this hellhole from destruction.
“Listen, you bald sons of bitches” he said when he walked towards them, “this building does not meet the constructional or safety standards anymore. It can collapse any goddamn minute.”
At first, Bills physical appearance looked like that of a weak, insignificant being. He looked like a fragile and clueless soul that was unable to dominate even the tiniest fruit fly. This however, was a terrible misconception.
“We are not leaving here” said the monk in the middle, “this is our home.”
“I don’t give a crap,” said Bill “we are able to get you thrown in jail.”
It was the way Bill could bluff that made him an intimidating talker. The monks however, were fearless. They had the greatest skill anyone could have in this kind of situation. They were able to remain calm, relaxed, zen.
“We do not believe you” the monk said simply.
“You wanna test me on this one, buddy?” Bill asked.
I stepped towards the monks and stretched out my arm.
“My name is Jack” I said.
My hand hovered patiently in the air. But it was to no avail: his hands were tied of course.
“Let me make you an offer,” I said “I can get you all an apartment nearby Murray Hill, Manhattan.”
“You do not understand,” said the monk “we just want to stay in this place.”
Bill leaned over to me: “You have to be tough” he whispered, “To be relentless is a necessary economic evil! Think about it. You can’t negotiate with these people!”
I really wondered why they did not want to leave there, though. Why was this place so special? Unfortunately, Bill was not in the mood to make any compromises. He wanted to rule and dominate.
“This is your last fucking chance,” he said to the monks.
Bill began to get on my nerves. Who the hell did he think he was? I decided to part my ways from him and head home.
Pot-roast suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

The next morning I stayed in bed for a while because I didn’t have to go to work. Today would be a carefree day: a worriless interval in stressful times. And it started out perfectly: A bright incidence of sunlight shone on the sheets of my bed as I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. A few sparrows outside whistled a tune for me, as if they were hired to do so.
I got out of my bed, got some coffee and opened up the window. There’s always a particular smell in the summer air: a smell of blossom. I put my head outside and took a deep breath. The wind blew a gentle breeze and nudged the sparrows along. I felt a hint of what I longed for, for so long: an empty space of air, with the blue skies above and the grey roads beneath.
When I got to the kitchen to make some toast, I saw a small advertisement in the New York Times. It said something about a modern art exhibition in the Metropolitan museum of arts: today was the last day, according to the add, to see it. Considering myself more or less interested in art, I made up my mind to give it a shot. This was my day off after all.
A five minute walk alongside the honking horns of West 34th street, brought me to my destination. A large grey building stood infront of me. Its neo-classical look made it appear to be build in ancient times.
“Goodmorning, sir. Can I help you?” asked a tall gentleman as I walked through the entrance.
He was a member of the staff, based on his workclothes.
My voice betrayed a bit of uncertainty, when I asked him for directions. Everything had such a classical look to it, you see. A modern art exhibition wouldn’t really fit in here, I thought.
“Oh, of course. The modern art exhibition!” he replied, “Follow my lead.”
After I bought myself a ticket, refused the assistance of a guide and followed the tall gentleman’s directions, I ended up in a large room of paintings. They seemed to glow with colors, when the sunshine pierced itself through the glass roof and shone upon them.
The more paintings I saw, the more I began to think about art in general. I realised that there was a lot of common ground in the different types of art. For example, if you look at art – whether it is a painting, a piece of literature or a musical composition – you always find some kind of ambiguity. On the one hand it can be very synthetic: an abstract artwork is due to its deconstructed nature, mostly unrecognizable. On the other hand, however, it can express something very trivial. Love, happiness, death – regardless of the tremendous impact they can have – are very common things. Art, as it seems, deals a lot with reality.
In contrary however, reality does not approach any aesthetic ideal. Life should not be submitted to our poetic urges, our romantic tendencies. Life is just how it is. Our life is determined; not by destiny but by our own free will.
My life is a perfect illustration of this theory: before I ran into Regine one day, I obviously did not know who she was. I was unaware of her existence.
I and Mr Smith, who was a landscape architect back then, were assigned to make some adjustments in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. I figured it would be useful to know a bit more about gardening, so I started to look for a bookstore. The first bookstore I saw happened to be the one she worked at. It was a mere coincidence, if anything. When I asked her for gardening books, she was surprised and got very interested. There are just a few New Yorkers that are lucky enough to have a garden, after all. When I told her I was an architect, she invited me over to her house. She was looking for someone to fix up her house.
Sure, I could call it destiny. But the idea of two people being predestined to meet each other is just a romantic cliché. Both of us individually had very ordinary reasons to be were we were: it was because of our work that we met each other.

The last painting of the modern art exhibition at the end of the room, displayed the sight of a smothering sunset. Both its colors and its feel of restfulness, made me think about a nice, warm hearth in times of wintery cold. It also made me think about the Buddhist monks in William Street. I decided to pay them a visit, to see how they were doing.
Once I got out of the museum, I took the subway towards Bowling Green, and got out at Fulton Street. I felt the urge to jog a bit, so I did. My stamina however did not permit me to run for very long. I stopped, sat down on a bench along the pavement and catched my breath.
“Goddamn it” I muttered when I found an empty packet of cigarettes in my pocket. I shouldn’t smoke so much, I thought.
When I finally took off again, I heard the sound of drills, radios and hamers getting louder and louder. The shouting gibberish of Mexican men echoed out of one of the buildings along the avenue.
Once I had ran my way over there, I stood infront of a hollow box of concrete. The doors and windows were smashed out of there and the carpet floor was pulled off of the ground. All that was left, were a few pieces of furniture.
Bill stood infront of the entrance and shouted at the construction workers.
“Get to work, you sons of bitches!” he shouted.
“Hey asshole!” I screamed while I approached him, “you goddamn asshole!”
I clenched my fist and hit him in the face. His eye turned blue almost instantly.
The Buddhist monks suddenly appeared at my right. It was almost if they came from a dream or a vision. They looked at me and shook their heads.
I watched them, astonished and motionless, while Bill fell down on his knees. He covered his face with his hands.
“Hey! Do you guys need a place to live?” I asked.
But the five sages in bright orange robes did not reply. They turned around and walked away.
In the mean time Bill unguarded his face and begged for mercy.
“Please don’t hurt me” he cried.
I ignored him, turned around and walked back home. Bill was not important anymore.
I thought about my job and all the things that happened the last few days. I knew Mr. Jones would get angry on me and I knew I would get fired, but I tried to not let it get to me.
The Buddhist monks knew that there was no such thing as faith. They knew the reason they got kicked out of there was because some capitalistic villain up high in a skyscraper, wanted to make money. There was no divine power, no omnipotent being that they adressed for their problems. They just observed things as they were, because that’s all they could do. Being zen was their way of overcoming the inevitiabillities of life.
When I came home and told Regine what happened, she began to shout at me. She didn’t understand how I could remain so calm.
“Don’t you care about your life?!” she screamed.
I tried to explain her that it wasn’t a matter of caring: it was a way of dealing with things. But the more I tried to tell her, the more agitated she got.
“You have studied all this time to be jobless?” she asked.
When I realised there was no way to get through to her, I got my coat and left the house.
“I’ll be back when you have calmed down” I said.

Most people can not cope with getting the sack. The common reaction to this type of things is to get a bottle of hard liquer and beat someone to a pulp. I however did not care for any of these things: they were unlikely to have any positive effect. And besides, I had already punched someone in the face.
When I left the house I decided to pay a friend of mine an unanounced visit. He lived in the East 64th street, which was about a half an hour walk from Herald Towers. When I got nearby, I changed my mind however. I decided to walk to Central Park instead.
It was around six o’clock in the afternoon when I finally took a rest to sit somewhere. It smelled like a typical summerair: the grass freshly cut, the flowers in full bloom. I saw purple wisterias grew along a field of daisies, when I looked at my side. Infront of me a sun slowly drowned down the earth’s green surface.
I layed down in the grass and closed my eyes: only an orange blob remained on my retina. Everything else had left my worried mind.