Letters

S, M, L

When Ian-Michael asks me what size dosage of huachuma I want, I don’t answer the question. It feels like a question that has traveled here from another world, meant to be verbalized to another human. A question for Alice on her way to Wonderland. Or Neo, perhaps. But not me. I may be dressed in all-white on this warm, November morning, but I haven’t seen any rabbits of the same color.

The choices are small, medium, or large: soft, glistening globs of mushed-together aloe and San Pedro cactus in three unscientific sizes. Not that I’m looking to get science involved. I’m at this psychedelic retreat in the middle of the Costa Rican jungle to go way beyond science. And as far as I can tell, the fourteen other humans sitting in this circle with me are looking for the same. All women, except myself and Boston, the guy who just quit his hedge fund job of 20+ years. I don’t know it yet, but there is the very recent Pulitzer Prize winner. The not-as-recent Olympic medalist. The famous actress about to get more famous. The famous stylist about to get married. The niece of a computer billionaire. The daughter of a Middle Eastern magnate. I’m looking for his recommendation, this satyr of a man bending down before me, his bright blue eyes like pools of water extracted from the Costa Rican coastline I now find myself near.

I tell him I’ve never taken San Pedro before, this heart-opening psychedelic named after Saint Peter, when missionaries told natives that Saint Peter was the way to God. Yes, they said, we know Saint Peter. Well, they might’ve known him, but I don’t. My only psychedelic experience in my 40 years of Earth life up until now was a 15-minute interdimensional rocket ride after smoking 50mg of N,N-DMT. Not recommended as a first time journey, unless you’re looking to go through the door. Which I was. And I’m looking for the door again now. So I’m thinking large.

Ian-Michael picks up the biggest one on his white ceramic plate of treats. “Here you go. Enjoy.”

As he places the sticky plant ball in my open palm, I have the surreal feeling I’ve been given this before. This shiny, black sphere of unquestionable power. It was six years before. The night my dog, Finn, died. I had a dream that night of a porcine man. We were in a circular arena. He placed a shiny, black stone in my hand and asked me if I was afraid of the period.

I woke up after the question was asked, never getting to answer. It felt that the question about the period was figurative. That the period represented death. The end of our life sentence. But here I was now, at a psychedelic retreat thousands of miles away from home, realizing that I had misinterpreted the dream. It hadn’t been a stone the pig man had given me.

It had been this.

San Pedro.

Which meant I could answer the question now.

No, I wasn’t afraid of the period.

I wasn’t afraid to die.

Which was good, because I was about to do just that.

Mark

flowers, mom

took a walk
to the water
with a flower
for mom

gave it to a crab instead
mom got a kick out of that

maybe things don't hurt us
maybe we feel their hurt

a snake in the grass
when I returned
dancing its way into
the blackberry bushes

thanks for saying hello

true magic
(which is all there is)
has no author
no origin
no one raising a hand
to say
that was me

but if you pay attention
you will always get a wink
which is a nice word
that reminds me of santa

and what is more magical
than a gift?

Lunch with Imran

Imran picked me up right on time. Noon.

I was flying to Brazil for Fishbird – Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend. Our client had booked our flights, and we were leaving out of JFK, a 2 hour one-way trip in normal situations. I had no idea how long it would take on the back end of a holiday. So I’d given myself plenty of time. The flight wasn’t until 6:30pm.

I don’t usually chat on long rides. But I felt like playing it different on this ride. It felt more interesting to engage for 2 hours than throw on my headphones and listen to music.

Imran was from Pakistan. That was the answer to my first question. He’d been in the US for 3 years. He was here with his son, Wahab, who was also a driver for the car service I was using.

We got into sports. I don’t know much about Pakistan, other than they’re good at Cricket and the language is Urdu. Turns out Imran was a great cricket bowler in his day. Kids used to flip a coin to figure out which team Imran would play for when choosing sides. He was a good snooker player too. His favorite player was Ronnie O’Sullivan. I had read a fascinating piece on Ronnie in The New Yorker years ago, about how he was otherworldly on a snooker table. I’d watched his videos, his 147s. He truly was a magician. Imran was enamored by him. I was too.

He walked me through the rules of cricket. I walked him through the rules of baseball. He didn’t understand why baseball hitters sometimes let a ball go by, so I talked to him about strikes and balls.

Imran had worked in Saudi Arabia for 7 years. He owned a grocery store there, with 61 employees and 8000 items. The business had gone under. He had been in real estate in Pakistan after that. His wife and two other children were still there. In Islamabad. We talked about the weather, the mountains. I guess I’d forgotten K2 was in Pakistan. He said the weather in Islamabad was about 90% the same as NYC.

He lived in Queens. We talked food. He got a kick out of the fact that I enjoyed Indian food. That I knew the names of some dishes. Aloo saag, dal, masala chai. He told me there was a Sikh restaurant a couple of minutes away from JFK with a wonderful aloo saag if I wanted to try it before I got to JFK. “Next time,” I said.

We talked families. Multi-generational families living together in Pakistan. He had lived with his brother and his family before moving here. He spoke of the problems that sometimes showed up with mothers-in-law, and how women had very good memories. They would tell you about something you did 5 years ago that still bothered them.

I told him that families got into arguments in the US too. This surprised him. He said he had assumed that most people in the West don’t bother too much about the past. They always seem to be looking forward. Humans are the same everywhere, we agreed. We look back. We look forward. But we rarely look right here, right now.

We talked about his work. His first job in the US was in a bodega. Working the register. He quit after 2 weeks. “I had to stand for 10 hours straight, and my feet would start to burn and they wouldn’t let me sit. In Pakistan, if no one is in the store, you can sit on a chair and relax. It was too much for me.” He delivered lost airplane luggage after that. His favorite time to deliver was early morning, between 1-3am, when no one was on the roads. He’d drive to Jersey, to Pennsylvania. He called the forests “jungles”. The jungles of NJ and PA scared him: there were no people, only trees. And animals. He was worried most about snakes. He’d never seen a snake in the US, but he used to wear tracksuits and sandals when he delivered luggage, and he always worried a snake would bite his feet. I told him not to worry about the NJ snakes.

He was scared delivering luggage at night. One time, during Halloween season, a skeleton sitting on a front porch had made him run back to his car. Another time, the sound of in-ground sprinklers coming on had sounded like the hissing of evil at his back. Imran was a large man with a soft face. Black glasses. Jet black hair. Black beard. A man you would not think to ever mess with. And yet a gentle giant.

The Belt Parkway was bumper to bumper. I was glad I had left my house so early. I would still have hours to kill at the gate, but that was fine. “If you want to try that aloo saag, it’s only a couple of minutes away from where we are now.”

To date, I haven’t been the kind of person to complete side quests while in transit to the airport. But when Imran brought up the invitation again, it felt like yes was the natural answer.

He closed out my ride on his phone. For all intents and purposes, I was now rogue in a Chevy Suburban with a guy I met 2 hours ago. I’d be lying if I said there weren’t some bad thoughts careening around the back of my head. But there was a much stronger voice of trust. Of warmth. Of curiosity. Both about Imran and about myself. I was leaving my own map of experience. The world felt mysterious and wide.

It was a 6 minute drive to Sat Guru. Another chauffeur was standing beneath the awning, smoking a cigarette, his Suburban double parked. On the corner, a man was picking through the trash.

We walked in together. Pakistani music videos were playing on a TV in the corner. There were a lot of tables, mostly empty. Behind the counter, 2 young women. Imran greeted them and ordered aloo saag. “Do you want corn or wheat bread?” He asked me. “What would you suggest?” “The wheat is softer, let’s do that. How many pieces? 4? 5?” I said 4.

We sat down at a table and waited for our food. He took a call from Wahab. He was waiting at JFK for a client to land. Imran seemed happy to be sitting there with me, spending time across the table. When he got off the phone, I thanked him for bringing me. “Do you take some of your other clients here when you drive them?”

He laughed. “I have never taken any client to a restaurant before. You are the first!” It was an answer that was both unsurprising and also illuminating. Something about our conversation over the last 2 hours had made him want to share a part of his world with me, for a brief moment. I felt honored, and told him so. “You are my guest today, and having lunch with you is a gift from God.”

I don’t know how often you eat with strangers, but for me, it’s just about never. And in that space, waiting for our aloo saag to arrive, something spiritual was occurring for me. In front of me was a spiritual man, buying me lunch. Maybe I was spiritual to him.

The aloo saag came. I watched how he ate it, then did the same. I asked him what things were on the plate. He told me. He asked me if I wanted masala chai – sure. He got up and ordered 2 small chais.

I sat there, dipping my bread into the aloo saag and yogurt, feeling the wealth of a connection. One that I knew was meant just for this day, which made it all the more rich. He offered me his last piece of bread when he saw I had none left. It was on my plate. He looked very happy. I offered we split it, and ripped it in half. His smile widened. “Splitting bread is a form of love. If I did not know you were white, I would think you were Pakistani!”

More bread came. We split that too. We drank the hot masala chai. It was grey and raining outside. I felt relaxed. Like I was hanging with someone I’d known for awhile. I offered to pay, but he wouldn’t hear of it. “We are off the clock, and we are just spending some time together. Thank you for this time. I am happy to be here with you.”

We got back in the SUV. I asked him if I could tip him through the app, even though he’d closed out the ride. He said he did not want a tip from me. I asked him if I could request him again for future rides. He said no, the app didn’t work like that. I realized somewhere along the way, I’d become attached to Imran. I wanted the connection to continue. He was at peace letting it be.

I was trying to repay a man who didn’t want repayment, because he felt like he had been given the gift today, not me.

“Thank you for spending time with me. No one has time anymore. You gave me your time today. I will remember this for the rest of my life.”

It was a deep cut. I told him the same. Maybe that’s the thing about the best gift. Each person walks away believing they received the gift. There is no giver to point to.

We pulled up to Terminal 8. Cars were everywhere. I told him I could get out and walk from where we were. He said okay, put the SUV in park, and got out. I got out too. He came around the back of the car and offered his hand. “Thank you, Mark. Thank you for this day.” I shook his hand and gave him a hug he wasn’t expecting. And then I turned and he turned. And we were gone. But together forever.

Mark

It Happened

I think it really happened.

I’m not sure it happened but if it didn’t happen I wish it happened.

How do I know if it happened or if I imagined it happened?

So how have you been? It has been so long. I believe this happened. Did it happen? 

It was the time when we went to that place, I can’t remember the name.  

We had the best time. We sat at the bar.  It was a full rectangle bar so we could see people across from us. We drank Budweiser in a bottle. Ate linguine and clam sauce and wild chicken with black onions.

Peggy was the “waitress.” She looked like Marilyn Monroe. She was the girlfriend of the owner. The “owner” but the place was not in his name because he had a criminal record for being a bookie. 

The bartender was his son. His name was Mike. He liked to wind up the monkey with the tambourines and put it on the bar in front of us. You flirted. I watched.

Frank Sinatra was always playing on the jukebox. And Jimmy Roselli, a local singer who “made it.”

Mike the bartender was a wannabe mobster. He drove a Cadillac. 

You went on a date. I didn’t go as the third wheel.You decided he wasn’t rich enough for you.

We went back often. We had linguine and clam sauce and wild chicken with black onions.

Did this happen? I can taste that linguine.

I love you. 

P.S. It was DeMartino’s Lounge. Tell me this really happened.

Meg