Way of the Peaceful Warrior (2 page)

Suddenly the Grim Reaper vanishes. The man with the shining white hair looks at me and holds out his hands in a gesture-of welcome. I walk toward him, then directly into him, dissolving into his body. When I look down at myself, I see that I'm wearing a black robe. I raise my hands and see bleached white, gnarled bones, come together in prayer.
 

I'd wake up screaming softly.
 

One night, early in December, I lay in bed listening to the howling wind driving through a small crack in the window of my apartment. Sleepless, I got up and threw on my faded Levis, a T-shirt, sneakers, and down jacket, and walked out into the night. It was 3:05 A.M.
 

I walked aimlessly, inhaling deeply the moist, chilly air, looking up into the star-lit sky, listening for a rare sound in the silent streets. The cold made me hungry, so I headed for an all-night gas station to buy some cookies and a soft drink. Hands in my pockets, I hurried across campus, past sleeping houses, before I came to the lights of the service station. It was a bright fluorescent oasis in a darkened wilderness of closed food joints, shops, and movie theaters.
 

I rounded the corner of the garage adjoining the station and nearly fell over a man sitting in the shadows, leaning his chair back against the red tile station wall. Startled, I retreated. He was wearing a red wool cap, grey corduroy pants, white socks, and Japanese sandals. He seemed comfortable enough in a light windbreaker though the wall thermometer by his head registered 38 degrees.
 

Without looking up, he said in a strong, almost musical voice, “Sorry if I frightened you.” “Oh, umh, that's okay. Do you have any soda pop?” “Only have fruit juice here. And don't call me 'Pop'!” He turned toward me and with a half smile removed his cap, revealing shining white hair. Then he laughed.
 

That laugh! I stared blankly at him for one more moment. He was the old man in my dream! The white hair, the clear, unlined face, a tall slim man of fifty or sixty years old. He laughed again. In my confusion I somehow found my way to the door marked “Office” and pushed it open. Along with the office door, I had felt another door opening to another dimension. I collapsed onto an old couch, and shivered, wondering what might come screaming through that door into my orderly world. My dread was mixed with a strange fascination that I couldn't fathom. I sat, breathing shallowly, trying to regain my previous hold on the ordinary world.
 

I looked around the office. It was so different from the sterility and disarray of the usual gas station. The couch I was sitting on was covered by a faded but colorful Mexican blanket. To my left, near the entryway, stood a case of neatly organized traveler's aids: maps, fuses, sun glasses, and so on. Behind a small, dark brown walnut
desk was an earth-colored, corduroy-upholstered chair. A spring water dispenser guarded a door marked “Private.” Near me was a second door that led to the garage.
 

What struck me most of all was the homelike atmosphere of the room. A bright yellow shag rug ran its length, stopping just short of the welcome mat at the entry. The walls had recently been painted white, and a few landscape paintings lent them color. The soft incandescent glow of, the lights calmed me. It was a relaxing contrast to the fluorescent glare outside. Overall, the room felt warm, orderly, and secure.
 

How could I have known that it was to be a place of unpredictable adventure, magic, terror, and romance? I only thought then, “A fireplace would fit in nicely here.” Soon my breathing had relaxed, and my mind, if not content, had at least stopped whirling. This white-haired man's resemblance to the man in my dream was surely a coincidence. With a sigh, I stood, zipped up my jacket, and sallied forth into the chill air.
 

He was still sitting there. As I walked past and stole a last quick look at his face, a glimmer in his eyes caught mine. His eyes were like none I'd seen before. At first they seemed to have tears in them, ready to spill over; then the tears turned to a twinkle, like a reflection of the starlight. I was drawn deeper into his gaze until the stars themselves became only a reflection of his eyes. I was lost for a time, seeing nothing but those eyes, the unyielding and curious eyes of an infant.
 

I don't know how long I stood there; it could have been seconds or minutes--maybe longer. With a start, I became aware of where I was. Mumbling a goodnight, feeling off balance, I hurried toward the corner.
 

When I reached the curb, I stopped. My neck tingled; I felt that he was watching me. I glanced back. No more than fifteen seconds had passed. But there he was, standing on the roof, his arms crossed, looking up at the starry sky! I gaped at the empty chair still leaning back against the wall, then up again. It was impossible!
 

If he had been changing a wheel on a carriage made from a giant pumpkin drawn by huge mice, the effect couldn't have been any more startling.
 

In the stillness of the night, I stared up at his lean shape, an imposing presence, even at a distance. I heard the stars chime like bells singing in the wind. Suddenly, he snapped his head around and stared directly into my eyes. He was about sixty feet away, but I could almost feel his breath on my face. I shivered, but not from the cold. That doorway, where reality dissolved into dreams, cracked open again.
 

I looked up at him. “Yes?” he said. “Can I help you?” Prophetic words!
 

“Excuse me, but...”
 

“You are excused,” he smiled. I felt my face flush; this was starting to irritate me. He was playing a game with me, but I didn't know the rules.
 

“All right, how did you get up on the roof?” “Get up on the roof?” he queried, looking innocent and puzzled.
 

“Yes. How did you get from that chair,” I pointed, “up to that roof, in less than twenty seconds? You were leaning back against the wall, right there. I turned, walked over to the corner, and you . . .”
 

“I know exactly what I was doing,” his voice boomed. “There is no need to describe it to me. The question is, do you know what you were doing?”
 

“Of course I know what I was doing!” I was getting angry now; I wasn't some child to be lectured to! But I desperately wanted to find out the old man's gimmick, so I held my temper and requested politely, “Please, sir, tell me how you got up on the roof.”
 

He just stared down at me in silence until the back of my neck began to get prickly. Finally he replied, “Used a ladder. It's around back.” Then, ignoring me, he looked upward again.
 

I walked quickly around back. Sure enough, there was an old ladder, leaning crookedly against the back wall. But the ladder's
 

top was at least five feet short of the roof's edge; even if he could  have used it--which was highly doubtful that wouldn't explain how he got up there in a few seconds.
 

Something landed on my shoulder in the darkness. I gasped, and whirled around to see his hand. Somehow, he'd gotten off the roof and crept up on me. Then I guessed the only possible answer. He had a twin! They obviously got their kicks scaring the wits out of innocent visitors. I accused him immediately.
 

“All right, Mister, where's your twin? I'm nobody's fool.” He frowned slightly, then started to roar with laughter. Hah!
 

That clinched it. I was right; I'd found him out. But his answer made me less sure of myself.
 

“If I had a twin, do you think I'd be wasting my time standing here, talking with 'nobody's fool'?” He laughed again and strode back towards the garage, leaving me standing open-mouthed. I couldn't believe the nerve of this guy.
 

I hurried to catch up with him. He walked into the garage and started to tinker with a carburetor under the hood of an old green Ford pickup. “So I'm a fool, huh?” I said, sounding even more belligerent than I'd intended.
 

“We're all fools together,” he replied. “It's just that a few people know it; others don't. You seem to be one of the latter types. Hand me that small wrench, will you?”
 

I handed him his damn wrench and started to leave. Before I left, though, I had to know. “Please, tell me, how did you get up to the roof so fast? I'm really puzzled.”
 

He handed me back the wrench, saying, “The world's a puzzle; no need to make sense out of it.” He pointed to the shelf behind me. I'll need the hammer and the screwdriver now, over there.”
 

Frustrated, I watched him for another minute, trying to figure out how to get him to tell me what I wanted to know, but he seemed oblivious to my presence. I gave up and started toward the door when I heard him say, “Don't go.” He wasn't pleading; he wasn't commanding. It was a matter-of-fact statement. I looked at him; his eyes were soft.
 

“Why shouldn't I go?”
 

“I may be useful to you,” he said, deftly removing the carburetor like a surgeon in the middle of a heart transplant. He set it down carefully, and turned to face me.
 

I was gaping at him.

“Here,” he said, handing me the carburetor. “Take this apart and put the pieces in that can to soak. It will take your mind off your questions.”
 

My frustration dissolved into laughter. This old man could be offensive, but he was interesting, too. I decided to be sociable.
 

“My name's Dan,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand, smiling insincerely. “What's yours?”
 

He placed a screwdriver in my outstretched hand. “My name doesn't matter; neither does yours. What is important is what lies beyond names and beyond questions. Now, you will need this screwdriver to take apart that carburetor,” he pointed.
 

“Nothing lies beyond questions,” I retorted. “Like how did you fly up on that rooftop?”
 

“I didn't fly--I jumped,” was his poker-faced reply. “It's not magic, so don't get your hopes up. In your case, however, I may have to perform some very difficult magic. It looks as if I'm going to have to transform a jackass into a human being.”
 

“Who the hell do you think you are, anyway, to be saying these things to me?”
 

“I am a warrior!” he snapped. “Beyond that, who I am depends on who you want me to be.”
 

“Can't you just answer a straight question?' I attacked the carburetor with a vengeance.
 

“Ask me one and I'll try,” he said, smiling innocently. The screwdriver slipped and I skinned my finger. “Damn!” I yelled, going to the sink to wash the cut. Socrates handed me a BandAid.
 

“All right then. Here is a straight question.” I determined to keep my voice patient. “How can you be useful to me?”
 

“I have already been useful to you,” he replied, pointing to the bandage on my finger.
 

That did it. “Look, I can't waste my time here any longer. I need to get some sleep.” I put the carburetor down and got ready to leave.
 

“How do you know you haven't been asleep your whole life? How do you know you're not asleep right now?” he intoned, a twinkle in his eye.
 

“Whatever you say.” I was too tired to argue anymore. “One thing, though. Before I leave, will you tell me how you pulled off that stunt earlier?”
 

He walked up to me, reached out, and grasped my hand. “Tomorrow, Dan, tomorrow.” He smiled warmly, and all my earlier fear and frustration were washed away. My hand, my arm, then my whole body started to tingle. He added, “It's been pleasant seeing you again.”
 

“What do you mean again'?” I began, then caught myself; “I know, tomorrow, tomorrow.” We both laughed. I walked to the door, stopped, turned, stared at him, then said, “Goodbye--- Socrates.”
 

He looked bewildered, then shrugged good-naturedly. I think he liked the name. I left without another word.
 

I slept through my eight o'clock class the next morning. By the time my afternoon gymnastic workout started, I was awake and ready to go.
 

After running up and down the bleacher stairs, Rick, Sid, and I, along with our teammates, lay on the floor, sweating and panting, stretching our legs, shoulders, and backs. Usually I was silent during this ritual, but today I felt like telling them about last night. All I could say was, “I met this unusual guy at a gas station last night.”
 

My friends were more involved with the stretching pain in their legs than in my little stories.
 

We warmed up easily, doing a few handstand push-ups, some sit-ups, and leg raises, and then began our tumbling series. As I flew through the air again and again--as I swung around the high bar, did scissors on the pommel horse, and struggled through a new muscle-straining ring routine--I wondered about the mysterious feats of the man I'd named “Socrates.” My ruffled feelings urged me to avoid him, but I had to make sense out of this enigmatic character.
 

After dinner, I quickly read through my history and psychology assignments, wrote a rough draft of an English paper, and raced out of the apartment. Doubts began to plague me as I neared the station. Did he really want to see me again? What could I say to impress upon him the fact that I was a highly intelligent person?
 

He was there, standing in the doorway. He bowed, and with a wave of his arm welcomed me into his office. “Please, remove your shoes--a custom of mine.”
 

I sat down on the couch and put my shoes nearby, in case I wanted to make a hasty exit. I still didn't trust this mysterious stranger.
 

It was starting to rain outside. The color and warmth of the office was a comfortable contrast to the dark night and ominous clouds outside. I started to feel at ease. Leaning back, I said, “You know, Socrates, I feel as though I've met you before.”