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Auntie Em: Why don’t you find a place where there isn’t any trouble.
Dorothy: A place where there isn’t any trouble. Do you suppose there is such a place Toto? There must be. It’s not a place you can get to by a boat or a train. It’s far, far away. Behind the moon, beyond the rain.
—The Wizard of Oz
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I was already at a critical financial level when one of my last clients told me the other day that he was going to stop training because of “the economy.” For the most part, all limiting choices are made because of priorities and/or fear. The fact that he is the head of a top record label and travels multiple times per year to beautiful islands means that “the economy” is not affecting him in the same way as it is people who are out of work and unsure about their next meal. But enough about me.
Unlike the yoga posers, I’m not here to tell anyone what their priorities should be. Care about the environment; don’t care about the environment. Eat meat; don’t eat meat. I just encourage you do whatever you choose to do with consciousness. When someone justifies having an animal taken from its family and tortured so that they can wear a fur coat with, “I have to keep warm,” my anger is less about the animal being tortured and more about how someone can bullshit themselves when there are so many “warm” synthetic alternatives, in order to deny their contribution in the mass murder of our four-legged brothers. Excuse me, I was having a PETA moment.
So the other day I called my client to see about our training schedule. “Mick, you’re back from vacation?” He replied, “From the country, yes. From personal training with you, the vacation is more like retirement.” We talked some more, as we both have really enjoyed the other’s company and all the sharing we’ve done over the years, but a part of me felt like Vince Foster after he crossed Hillary Clinton—dead.
He said, “What’s your address? I’d like to mail you something to show my appreciation.” He obviously meant money. I said, “You don’t need to send me anything. You’ve shown your appreciation over the years by all you have shared with me.” At that point my conscience, which has the voice of a Hasidic Jew, said, “What are you out of your mind? Take the money!” It was true, I didn’t feel he needed to “show” me his love in cash, as he was already doing it in his living. That being said, I needed money!
I made December’s rent on December 14th and since I was late on January’s rent, I received one of those yellow sheets of paper slid under my door that said, “Pay up or we will sick Hillary Clinton on you!” This frightened me enough to borrow $600 from my friend, Lion. So when Mick told me he was out, all I could muster up the strength of will to think was, “Weak.”
I sell books on Amazon and so in my desperation I started to list books that I wasn’t yet ready to part with, such as my 1950 First Edition of Jack Dempsey’s Championship Fighting, that I paid over $100 probably 15 years ago. I was considering anything to the alternative of blowing dudes off the West Side Highway like I did during the great oil crisis of 1973.
I went for a long walk with Abandon, to clear my head that was playing a new mantra, “Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak.” I took a long walk uptown to pay rent and avoid the wrath of the Hillary monster. On the way, I passed by my bank and fantasized that I had more than spare change in my account. I had to cut this fantasy short, as I didn’t have the money to buy new underwear.
After dropping off the rent check, I went to the post office to pay the bill for my post box that was due. While the inflow of money may dwindle, bills and expenses never seem to follow the same trickle down theory. I was second in line on the back window to three women who seemed to have a special challenge besides the tumors, heart disease, paralysis, blindness and insanity that comes with degenerative syphilis, like our government allowed to progress untreated in 399 black men, unbeknownst to them, in the Tuskegee Experiment. But I guess I’m just a conspiracy theorist. [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tuskegee_syphilis_experiment]
It was taking forever and that’s a mighty long time…but I’m here to tell you…there’s something else…the afterworld—sorry, I was having a Prince moment. Finally one of the women looked back and apologized. Now patience is not my most developed attribute and so I lit up my underwear and shouted, “JIHAD—OH, MY BALLS!” Jees, just had an Underpants Bomber moment. I told her that what she’s dealing with will take the time it requires and no less and if we were to let’s go crazy…let’s go nuts…let’s look for the purple banana…until they put us in the truck… it would serve no purpose. I said, “Just remember, on the grand scheme of things, this is nonsense.” She smiled and agreed and spent another friggin’ hour ruining my whole fuckin’ day.
During the interminable wait, she turned and started talking to me. Because I was in a serene state due to just being hit in the face with the shovel of poverty, I didn’t give her my patent response when a stranger engages me in conversation, which is, “Let me interrupt you with a suggestion—it would probably be better to talk to someone who gives a shit.”
She shared some of her philosophy on life and while I didn’t pull out my notepad to jot down anything she said, I was grooving on her. The philosophy she shared, although spirituality 101, was real-world application philosophy. I was thinking of devil’s advocating—because I am the Devil, at least according to one of those black racist “lost tribes of Israel” dudes in Times Square—and saying something fake world like, “Yes, but all you have to remember is ‘We are all One,’” but even thinking that cheesy adage gives me a migraine. Not only wasn’t I in the mood to pontificate and show what a brilliant philosopher I am, but it would probably ruin the experience. I was just listening to her, feeling her. And it was perfect.
She mentioned how she knew this guy who owned this gym in a big fancy building near Bloomingdale’s and I interrupted her with, “Oh, are they having a sale today?” Ug, having a purple banana moment. I told her that I was hurting for cash and did personal training and that maybe she could help hook me up with the guy she knew.
She was totally into it and said she would. I gave her my card and she said she would definitely call, which I have heard from countless others whose word means nothing to them, but I could see that she was different, that she honored her word and herself.
A woman next to us said smilingly, “Networking at the post office.” I told her to shut the fuck up and mind her own business.
Before I left, I asked, “What’s your name?” She said, “Em.” If the cheery onlooker interrupted our Taster’s Choice moment this time, I was going to beat her with the paper recycling garbage can, which I found out isn’t used for recycling and is just a scam to pacify the environmental pussies and say, “I’m going postal—is that more appropriate at a post office for you??” Luckily she kept her fat trap shut.
I told Em, “Even if nothing manifests with the guy you know, I feel you were an angel sent to me to remind me that I am not alone and all will be taken care of.” My eyes were a little wet. She said I looked depressed but what I don’t think she realized was that my tears were of gratitude to the Universe, who despite constantly fucking me, always lets me know that She still cares with a cuddle afterwards. Today she did it by sending Angel Em.