The
Zen Master and the Hotdog Vendor
Jeffrey
L Brown
The hotdog vendor led a simple life,
but he was not a simple person. He woke before sunrise, toileted, showered, shaved,
and dressed in semi-darkness. Then, he stood in the quiet of a windowless
kitchen and drank a single cup of stale rewarmed coffee – fuel for the twelve-block
walk to his pushcart that waited patiently for his return. This routine had not
varied from the day he inherited the bright red cart from his mother’s cousin, a
gentle elemental soul whose lingering illness puzzled doctors until life
escaped from his body – at home, alone, no fuss, no bother. The vendor referred
to his dead benefactor as a distant relative; first-cousin once-removed, sounded
odd and he wasn’t quite sure what the term meant anyway.
Both men
were named Richard which made the transition from one owner to the next an easy
task for regular customers. As a new entrepreneur hoping to make his mark, this
Richard thought he could avoid confusion by calling himself Richard the Second.
Good sense prevailed, however, and he abandoned this terrible idea because it always
precipitated fits of laughter in his customers that left them choking and gasping
for air.
In another
setting, this second Richard might have seemed regal wearing a freshly pressed
apron and greeting customers in a courtly but business-like way. He was
self-conscious and awkward during the first few months, but with practice, he
learned how to grasp a grilled hotdog with metal tongs, release it into a warm sliced
bun, wrap it in a white paper napkin, and add varied combinations of brown deli
mustard, Heinz catsup, sweet pickle relish, diced onions, and hot sauerkraut in
a seamless motion. He used seedless top-loading
New England style buns because some customers thought seeds harmed their digestion.
Also, the side-loading American variety was prone to technical error. Richard believed
the napkin should remain pristine white as a sign of cleanliness – impossible
to achieve when the bun is filled from the side. Years of dedication and long
work hours left him with no competing interests and doing his job well became synonymous
with his sense of being. It cleared his mind of the mundane and the rote
simplicity created a path toward purity.
At first, Richard was terribly afraid of
disappointing his mother’s family. But once he mastered the necessary skills, he
struggled with the potentially numbing effects of boredom. He avoided this conundrum by following advice
he once viewed as contradictory: have constant awareness of your surroundings but
remain totally immersed in the task at hand. Unfortunately, the stress from
balancing these objectives left no room for reflection and there was no place where
he could take contemplative refuge. At dark moments, Richard sometimes wondered
if his dead cousin’s undiagnosed symptoms could have been caused by this same malady.
But, unlike a Sartre protagonist, he did not allow the pain of constant
awareness to crush his spirit. In the end, he chose to embrace his work rather
than accept the consequence of effortless competence. And when he suddenly
realized that he had acquired an uncanny ability to intuit and then satisfy the
needs of others, he used this special gift as his greatest asset.
So, it was
not surprising that he was unnerved by frequent visits from a person who looked
familiar but whose intent he could not decipher. The man approached the cart with
trepidation -- joining the line for a few moments, but then retreating at the
very last moment. A customer told Richard
that this man who dressed in monk garb was a Zen master who taught religion at a
nearby university. The master’s pencil-thin neck and large shaved head protruded
from the robe like a pumpkin on a stick. His narrow feet were housed in open leather
sandals, and like the ill-fitting robe, they were at least one size too large. The
man’s ruddy complexion radiated sunshine despite the overcast sky and unfocused
gray eyes suggested that maybe he could not see.
Different
from many of his calling, this Zen master grew up in a comfortable setting. His
father earned a decent wage and his family accepted his eccentricities. He made
friends but was disinterested in friendship; earned good grades but did not
care what was taught; and acquired skills that were rarely used to advantage.
Paradoxically, these anxiety-free accomplishments became a source of stress
because their spiritless nature made his life seem meaningless.
It was
serendipitous when he came across a book of Zen that touted the virtues of uncluttering
one’s mind as an enlightened antidote to the suffering caused by complexities
and extremes. His first spontaneous smile in a long while appeared when the
author quoted the adage that everyone is unique – just like everyone else. So,
with a new sense of purpose and help from an empathetic teacher, the monk subjugated
his few desires and ultimately earned the title of Master. Unfortunately, one essential
element was missing. He could not become so lost in thought that he would become
one with his surroundings. The many years of austerity had also taken their
toll and he was beset by the desire to experience something material that was
top-of-the-line – the very best it could be. He hid these shameful thoughts
from his teachers and colleagues but could not hide them from himself. And he knew that if he could not overcome these failings, he would always
be a fraud living within the community of his peers.
The Zen master
did not know why he was drawn to the hotdog vendor. At first, he thought it was
the enticing aroma of food. But then he noticed the red pushcart perched precariously
at the curb. It listed so far to one side that remaining upright seemed gravitationally
impossible. He did not know that the vendor had purposefully created this
illusion as a reminder that perfect balance is necessary to maintain harmonious
existence.
If there
was any doubt of the cart’s purpose, a weathered sign with the hand-painted likeness
of a hotdog was fastened to the umbrella’s pole just above the eye-level of
passersby. The master studied this vendor who worked so quickly that the line
of customers streamed past the cart with barely a pause, each customer empty-handed
on arrival, and hotdog-handed at departure. Cooking hotdogs were centered on
the brown-stained grill and those already cooked were arranged three-abreast,
away from direct heat. Condiments were neatly arranged in square metal tins
within easy reach and an oversized salt shaker sat next to four plastic squeeze
bottles. Cold drinks, sweating from humidity, were stacked in a prominent
display as a reminder to purchase a drink together with the food.
The vendor
knew he was very much of this world but was uncertain where the Zen master belonged.
He certainly did not belong on this line waiting for a hotdog. A modest serving
of brown rice with some thinly sliced cucumbers would have been a more
appropriate choice. Despite best
intentions, he was so disturbed by this familiar-looking monk that a dollop of mustard
escaped from a roll and soiled the customer’s napkin. The middle-aged woman appreciated
Richard’s apology and fresh napkin, but in truth, she had not noticed the mishap
and would not have cared. Now, the vendor’s anxiety was obvious. First, an
impossible-to-read customer and then a soiled napkin. It was too much to bear.
The master
was next in line. An inner strength kept him from fleeing. “Why am I here?” he wondered.
Richard’s apprehension vanished. “I know this man and I know why he is here,” he
thought. Richard rarely spoke of the seven years he lived in a Buddhist
monastery before becoming a secular entrepreneur. The master stood before him, magically withdrew
a twenty-dollar bill from his robe that had no openings and whispered in a
barely audible voice. “Can you help me?” he asked. “Of course, I can help you,” said the vendor while
placing the money in a small metal box. With one swift motion, he plucked a
perfectly cooked hotdog from the grill and released it into a pre-wrapped bun. With
surgical precision, equal-sized ribbons of brown deli mustard and Heinz catsup
were squeezed from their bottles, and thin layers of sweet pickle relish, diced
onions, and hot sauerkraut were applied to the hotdog – all within the confines
of the warm, moist, lightly toasted bun. For this special customer, he
sprinkled a dash of celery salt on top of the steaming sauerkraut.
The vendor handed the perfectly complete
hotdog to the monk. “I have just made
you one with everything,” he said with pride.
“That is
very kind, but where is my change?” asked the master.
“You must accept
what is and abandon what used to be. Your change must come from within,”
answered the vendor.
When the master
did not respond, the vendor shrugged. “You may question the wisdom of what I have
said, but it is what it is.”
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