Susan E. Lloy
Steve The Buddhist
It was decades ago. The season when the sun bathes the earth and light dances well into the evening. It was the early eighties when she was fresh. Just beginning her twenties and was game for most things to break the tedium of inhabiting a small city. She met him at a bar one summer evening at one of the trendy spots in that coastal provincial port. She was with a group of friends who stood out. Not because they were obnoxious or loud, but because they looked different from the locals. He could tell right away they were art students. One can always pick them out of a crowd. The way they dress, the cut of hair. Somber clothing, even though the weather is balmy, and more than that, all of them looked as if the sun had never caressed their alabaster skins.
He smiled, walked over and introduced himself. And before they could offer up their own names, he divulged that he was Steve from America. New York State perhaps, the Midwest, Colorado? She has long forgotten. But Steve she does remember. He had immigrated here with a band of Buddhists. Why here of all places? He told them that his teacher had proclaimed that Nova Scotia was the place with right ‘lungta’ and had convinced many of his followers and students to join him here. He believed their humble, unpopulated culture could absorb and support the creation of a new enlightened society. Well…imagine that, here in this conservative backward hamlet. At least that’s what she and her friends thought at the time. All of them dreaming of escaping to New York City upon graduation. Getting their work shown in galleries and retaining studios to promote their wares. Fantasizing about their faces on the cover of Warhol’s Interview Magazine. Well Steve, I’m Ruby, and this is Todd, Geoff and Floyd. They smiled in unison proclaiming that they were delighted to meet a new special someone. They raised their glasses in that crowded bar thinking Steve exotic, yet somewhat touched, but in a good way. They welcomed him into their selective fold and affectionately christened him Steve the Buddhist. He had a wife named Honeysuckle. They imagined her as some Southern belle, although they never met her, not even once, during that summer of indelible sketches.
Steve the Buddhist magically appeared whenever they went out, which was often. They had 24/7 access to their studios and each space hosted a fridge usually filled with beer. After an evening’s worth of studio work, they ventured into the night to one of the few dance places in that minute Metropolis to shake off the tightness of leaning over drafting tables, stretching before canvasses or bending over tubs in the photography studio. And before they could pay for their drinks Steve always stopped them, placing a large number of bills into the waiter’s open hand, as he always had a fist full of cash. They were perpetually grateful, but felt guilty that he always insisted on procuring their drinks, which made them feel as if this was his fee for including him in their coterie. And, if in fact it was, which it wasn’t, he didn’t seem to mind.
Steve seemed to have a very long leash. At least that’s what they all thought when they inquired why Honeysuckle was never about. Steve claimed that she preferred to stay at home and didn’t like bars, noise and populous spaces. They imagined her ethereal – meditating before a statue with candles and incense burning all about. Around that time hip little restaurants started springing up offering Indian, Thai and California fusion. The owners were the new flush of Buddhists that were thriving in their adopted land, spreading their eclectic influences and providing a divergence from the usual ma and pops’ eateries, fish and chips shops and generic Chinese.
On an evening out, it was rare if Steve the Buddhist didn’t appear–their trusted apparition. One could depend on him like the stars at night, fog and the smell of the sea that was always a quick walk away. One particular soiree following dancing and drinks, he asked them if they wished to visit his temple. They all agreed to call when the moment was opportune. After all, Steve had lavished them time after time, and they didn’t want to him to think they only included him in their circle because of what was freely overflowing from his pocket book. This appeared important to him, so they would indeed oblige even if it was out of their realm of normal.
It took some time before the four of them could arrange for the temple experience. With separate course schedules it was not an easy feat to manoeuvre. They agreed to meet the following Thursday. They were advised to be a tad early. However, Floyd was perpetually late, for classes, assignments, everything you can imagine, so this did not seem feasible.
As expected, the following Thursday Floyd was not there at the set time. They decided to give him a generous fifteen-minute window, but after that passed, they went in without him. The first thing they noticed was a large Buddha at the far end of an open room. The Buddha was enclosed on a raised stage setting with an altar in front. Decorative curtains and images were on either side of the peaceful looking statue. A small table stood at the end of the heightened platform. The rest of the room had pillow seats with low backs for people to sit upon.
The teacher gave them a tour and went over the basic principles of the service. They were to sit and try to rest their minds. Contemplate feelings with the ultimate goal of overcoming mental barriers such as anger, jealousy and longing. It all seemed rather positive until Floyd arrived noisy and late, as the rest of the followers at the temple were deep in their thoughts. He stomped loudly with his Doc Martens and nearly tripped on his way to his friends, giggling and disruptive. The teacher never once gave him the dirt eye, which impressed Ruby. Steve was his usual calm and sweet self. Nothing ever seemed to bother him as they assumed he had obliterated every negative thought from his head. And he was affluent. They knew he had a computer company, for this was the new order of things. The first desktop computers were present now. And having money usually calms the spirits of worry and woe.
Following the temple call, things went back to the usual pace of keeping late hours in studios–then catching a late-night cocktail to wind down after laborious conceptual strain. It was rare if Steve was not there waiting for them or arriving soon after. He had a childlike innocence about him that was attractive. He was consistently positive while the rest of them fretted about their futures and where to land upon graduation. On a few sacred evenings they picnicked by day and star-gazed at night. On a couple of nights, they watched meteor showers well until dawn.
Now that Steve lived on the coast, he wanted to experience nautical life. He thought it wiser to buy a houseboat instead of a sailboat, given his inexperience on ocean waters. It was nearly 550 sq feet. With a fully equipped kitchen and bathroom. It could sleep up to six people and was encased by glass and steel. It had an upstairs open deck with a glass railing for security and was the first modern houseboat ever to be docked in the harbour. It was christened The Shambhala, and became a sort of a tourist attraction down on the waterfront. Often Steve, Ruby, Todd, Geoff, and Floyd would hang there sipping cocktails living the life of good fortune that Steve The Buddhist fondly provided. The Shambhala teachings was what Steve and other members of the Buddhist community came here for in the first place. This is where their teacher and leader transferred wishing to create a society based on mindfulness, compassion and non-aggression.
One particular warm spell in August there was to be a dinner on the houseboat. Steve invited a few of his varied friends from the temple for dinner on the houseboat and as usual, Ruby and the gang were to be also in attendance. Steve was having it catered and there was a bartender. The art school gang made frequent use of him. They were all struggling with funds, as they were living on student loans and not one of them was from wealth. Ruby and Todd had part-time jobs. Ruby in a printshop. Todd in a restaurant, so these indulgences were most welcome. The edibles were mostly tapas. An assortment of unusual and delightful bites. As the evening wore on, Floyd and the art gang became boisterous. Floyd even removed his clothing at one point and dove off the upper deck into the harbour. People never swam in the harbour as it was considered unsanitary and polluted back then. After he took the plunge, the rest of the art gang followed. Splashing and laughing in the cool water.
At one point Floyd, always the instigator, untied The Shambhala and let her take course with the evening winds and currents, which had increasingly picked up since they embarked the vessel. It was reckless, but they had consumed cocktails since the late afternoon making their judgement negligent. She could easily collide with other boats as she glided along towards the mouth of the harbour.
It took some time before the others noticed that they were no longer moored at the dock. Steve had not once taken The Shambhala away from the wharf. In fact, he had no idea how to navigate or manage her steering. The guests became more nervous as The Shambhala was heading towards open sea. Once there, the currents and waves would decide her fate. After some time, as Steve had no idea how to find the right frequency on the ship to shore radio, he did manage to contact the Harbor Master and pleaded for help. However, other sailing boats had already alerted the Coast Guard and they were swiftly on route. The art school gang were slowly absorbing their shame as the fog began to ensnare them and everything that it touched.
By the time the Harbor Master had tethered The Shambhala to bring her back to her place of rest, Steve The Buddhist got a stern talking to and a hefty fine for deliberately staging a scene of menace. For himself, as well as his guests, and for endangering all in the path of The Shambhala.
The summer was at an end by the time the last soiree had unveiled all of its glory. Filled with frolicking in the warm night air. Watching falling stars and streams of light falling from the sky. Steve The Buddhist was not seen since the harbour fiasco.
Not because he was angry or disappointed with Ruby and the gang. He wasn’t built of those sorts of feelings. He simply was out of touch. Meditating in a month-long retreat far from the city. School had finished and all four of them graduated at the same time. Ruby, Floyd and Todd all headed to New York dreaming of success while Geoff relocated to Canada’s largest city. As time travels on its unstoppable way, Ruby often thinks of Steve The Buddhist, wondering if he still lives in that sectarian town. She never lived there again, yet when she visits, she imagines running into him somewhere on a street or under the stars at night. She can almost see him breaking through the morning fog.