Monday, August 12, 2013

The Zen Master and the Hotdog Vendor

The Zen Master and the Hotdog Vendor

 

    Jeffrey L Brown

jeffbrownmd@outlook.com

 

 

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.”

 

###

 


 


 

No comments:

Post a Comment