#hobo code

Some of you may have heard of Hobo Code, which is a visual cant-- a secret language-- that is used by transient people, migrants, and the like, to help one another find resources and stay safe. Based on what I can see of that symbol on the side of the bookshop, A.Z. Fell & Co. has been marked in Hobo Code. What does that mean exactly?

From the Land of Enchantment: 

Listening to Insanity in the Center of the Universe (Adapted from a speech)

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I have been telling people about how crazy living in Albuquerque was for a really long time.  Most people didn’t give my stories much thought until ‘Breaking Bad’ debuted.  It has only gotten better since then with ‘Better Call Saul’ and ‘In Plain Sight’ et cetera.  Now people put a little more faith in my stories from New Mexico. One of my favorites is about crazy people. 

In the early 2000’s I was a freshly minted high school graduate, chip on my shoulder, rucksack on my back, $2 in my pocket, and big ideas in my head.  My best friend and I had moved to New Mexico on a whim after spending 5 minutes there over the previous summer.  I wanted to study Psychology after being obsessed with the ‘X Files’ and reading “Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious” in high school.  C.G. Jung was a hero of mine, but so was the Joker, so go figure.  I wanted to be a criminal profiler, but figured that I would more likely be a family counselor. 

Having quite an extensive history of drug use already by age 18 I had few illusions about how the world works and had already experienced a significant amount of abnormal psychology first hand.  I had found an affinity with people of altered mental states and that I could understand them in a way that I felt was meaningful.  There was one guy in my old neighborhood that would always refer to himself as King Arthur and eventually he came to call me Merlin.  I felt that this bond had been positive and after a while Merlin was able to advise Arthur to get back on his meds.

Now before I get into the story I need to set the scene a little.  I was about 19 and since 1995 I had taken to wearing a black long coat of some type (even during summer), a top hat, and round sunglasses.  I had waist length brown wavy hair, and was usually covered in buttons and pins with funny or ironic phrases, like ‘Got Beans?’.  In that particular coat I carried a small bag of pinto beans that I could present to anyone that asked about the button.  Those are all other stories that you may or may not want to hear so I will avoid them for now.

It was shortly after I had enrolled at UNM that I was walking around campus, probably ignoring a math class, that I discovered a strange looking building with no doors in the middle of the quad.  After closer inspection I found that it was a large sculpture/engineering project called ‘The Center of the Universe’. The structure had an opening in every cardinal direction and 2 more for up and down.  As I walked through the Center of the Universe for the first time I looked out of the top, neck craned to look at the puffy white clouds rolling by, I was hit by the sudden urge to lay down.

Setting down my backpack I spread my coat out over the metal grating that covers the ‘down’ direction and propped up my head on my backpack.  I had recently begun meditation so I tried to empty my mind and just let the world roll around me.  My concentration was broken by a raspy ancient voice.  

“Hey Merlin, get up.” 

I still had my eyes closed and just assumed that it was a trick of the meditation or maybe a flashback to my conversations with King Arthur back home.

“You’re Merlin right?” the voice said.

I opened my eyes to see what I assumed was a homeless man of about 50 or so, dreadlocked hair, tattered clothes, and very very pungent.

“Get up.”  he says to me. I obeyed and gathered my things.

“Sir, do you know me?” I ask him using the honorific not because I was playing into his delusion, but because I was taught to respect my elders.

“Of course, you’re Merlin.”

This of course struck me as odd. My skin crawled a bit.  

“Why do you think that?” I asked with more genuine curiosity than I had ever felt before in my life.

“It’s you.  I know you.”

I want to stress to you that I had no idea who this guy was.  Never seen or smelled anyone like him.  This was at the time the singular strangest event that I had experienced, but I learned, in that moment I think, to roll with whatever the Universe throws at me and try to enjoy the ride

“Yes it’s me.”  

I don’t know what I expected to happen at that moment.  Maybe the Halls of Knowledge would burst open and Truth would flow like a river from the Doors of Perception, maybe I would become changed and realize my True self: an inner deity sleeping soundly as the world drifted by. Perhaps the very nature of the universe itself would change and I would receive an owner’s manual to reality and be able to unlock the 'Developer’s Mode'.  

Instead all he said was “Yes I know… I just told you that.”

I was lying down at the Center of the Universe starring Insanity in the face and somehow felt disappointed. 

“You are needed at Denny’s.”  Which is a sentence that no one should ever have to hear.

“What is waiting for me there?” I asked, somewhat dreading the answer.

The man said nothing and walked away, muttering to himself.  I thought about chasing after him, but didn’t want to destroy the illusion just yet.  He seemed very cogent when talking to me and then seemed to revert back to some less aware state.  This made my whole body shiver a bit.

I remember recounting my story to my roommates, this received the expected amount of laughter and head shaking.  Due to our shared drug-use history this story seemed much more likely that I had experienced some flashback or had a dream or some such.  Honestly, I hadn’t expected much, but wanted to make sure that someone else was aware of the story in case it became relevant later.  For you see, I have seen a lot of movies, and there is always a point in the film of some fantastic tale, where you feel like yelling at the main character for not sharing information and I didn’t want to be ‘that guy’.

Nothing happened for months, aside from normal life stuff.  I found my first job as a Kitchen Steward in the Albuquerque Convention Center Kitchen where I was hired for my ability to count to 100 in Spanish, English, and French.  I learned a lot in those months about life and consequently quit that job to try to make more money at Denny’s.

Big Mistake.  Not the biggest of my life, but it was up there.

I honestly had forgotten about the homeless man I met in the Center of the Universe so working at the Albuquerque Central Avenue Denny’s may have been some type of subconscious thing to indulge my curiosity.  My tenure at Denny’s was short but intense. 6 months that aged me 6 years.  During this time, I met a new roommate who would become the father of my nieces, dated a former model with a knife scar on her throat, rediscovered my love of poetry, stayed awake for 11 days, learned how to donate plasma, was on the TV show ‘Cops’ twice, faked my way into a Master’s level psychology class, saw the movie ‘Fight Club’, read ‘Food of the Gods’ by Terence McKenna, and decided I was never going to work another food service job in my life.

In my last week working at the Central Denny’s (now famous for the show Breaking Bad) I was asked to deal with a crazy person in the smoking area.  I was the only non-smoker working there, but as the only person studying psychology, management felt I was uniquely qualified to handle the situation.  More likely they probably thought I was crazy enough to be able to talk to the guy, and after having been on ‘Cops’ and telling the camera guy he had to stay outside, they knew I had no problem telling people to leave.  

I walked over to the smoking area and there was a very large man dressed completely in denim, my mother used to refer to this as a Canadian Tuxedo.  There were lots of pins on his jacket, studs on his lapels, a dark thick beard hid his face and dark sunglasses hid his eyes.  He looked a bit like a biker, but more of a nomad.  Arrayed on the table in front of him were about 20 coffee cups and 10 ashtrays all of them had coffee and cigarettes in them.  I was told by another staff member that he had been taking them from other tables whether or not the table was finished with them.  He would then sit back down and smoke and ask the waitstaff for ridiculous things like 40 eggs or to turn off the sound on the TV, which we didn’t have.  Eventually the other guests had left the smoking section and he was now alone.

Ever the consummate professional, I approached the man to determine if he was just high or actually crazy.  He didn’t seem violent yet, so there was no immediate reason to call the police.  My goal was to keep him calm and get him out of the store, so I could go on making 2.15 per hour with no tips, you know like usual.

“Hello sir, I am sorry but our waiter was called away and I have been asked to help assist you.  Is there anything I can help you with?”  

He muttered something about silverware and ashtrays and ‘where are my eggs?’, but most of it was unintelligible.  For those who know me they will tell you I have a hard time hearing, and I tend to read lips a bit to aid my comprehension.  So I leaned in closer to make out what he was saying.  

This very very large man grabbed my shoulder with a hand that belonged on a monster in a fantasy movie.  His massive mit engulfed my entire shoulder and its weight felt far too heavy to be real.  He brought my good ear close to his beard and whispered “Hello Merlin.”

My mind exploded a bit, with the memory of the homeless man and my friend in my hometown, and the message about being ‘Needed’ at Denny’s.  The world faded a bit as my attention was focused on this man’s gruff road-hardened voice wafting through his unkept, unwashed beard, into my unprepared mind.

“Merlin, I have a quest for you.  You are needed in Espanola.”

“What do I need to do?”

“You must walk into town and meet a wise man.”

“How will I know him?”

“He thinks he will know you, but he will not recognize who you truly are.  You will know what needs to be done.”

My mind reeled from this exchange.  So many questions, but they wouldn’t come.  Instead I shut my mouth as he released my shoulder.  I stood up straight and backed away.  The man stood up bumping the table a bit and causing several cups and ashtrays to spill onto the floor. The man’s face seemed to get angry although I was never sure because of the beard. He lumbered for the door making a low humming noise, knocking over a table as he ran out of the door.

This is where my story gets weird.  

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Months pass.  I quit Denny’s and found work at a Circle K, became a manager inside a few weeks when my store manager decided to steal $5000 worth of money orders and leave the state.  My district supervisor comes to the store and says ‘I guess you’re it.’  I get into a weird rhythm of working and quitting.  I don’t know if you’ve ever worked in the C-Store world but the unwritten rule in the early 2000’s was that you can always request vacation, but it wouldn’t come ever.  If you really needed time off, then you had to quit.  They would hire you back if you were a good employee, because it was cheaper than hiring and training someone new.  

So the cycle would go, work for 2 months with no breaks as there was infinite overtime available.  Save enough money for 2 months of rent and then quit.  Coast for a month, selling plasma, doing odd jobs for walking around money, do ‘other things’, and then get rehired.  Easy-peasy. On these furloughs I would focus on school, study metaphysics and other pseudosciences, and read every religious text I could find.  I devoured entire bookstores.  Searching, researching, studying, learning, theorizing, and finally feeling that I was ready to make decisions about my life.  I felt that I had learned something in the hodgepodge of religious soup that I had ingested for so long.

A certainty that every world religion has a nugget of Truth, a small piece that they got right.  It was only after trying to see it all through the lens of Science and Understanding that my personal beliefs began to take shape.  I felt that I had touched the Aether and it had changed me in the process.  The world was brighter, more deliberate.  My studies in psychology had reached a climax.  I was too poor to afford more schooling, didn’t qualify for grants or loans, so I lied.  I signed up to audit course after course using my knowledge of the subject matter to social engineer my way into higher level courses.   

I journaled during this period and continued working and coasting.  During one such coasting period, I scheduled a trip to the remote town of Espanola as I felt the time was right.  A few years had passed, I had given up all drugs including caffeine and pledged to remain this way for 6 years.  My friends could barely stand the sober version of me.  Apparently I was an insufferable ass, that would constantly deride anything that others thought or felt and was consumed with reading and learning so much that I would ignore important parts of my life, like family and relationships.  I tried sobriety and it honestly isn’t for me.

The trip was well planned and orchestrated.  I had written out several scenarios for emergencies and eventualities.  I hired a co-worker to drive me to the outskirts of the city and drop me off so I could walk into town.  I was to play a character that I had devised to hide my intentions in the town.  My name was Bill, I wore an old army jacket, tattered jeans, a wide brim military surplus outback style hat, and 10 year old chuck taylors (which were less shoes and more moccasins by this point).  The Army jacket had a lot of holes in it that didn’t go through the lining so they made good hidey spots.  I stashed about $500, an emergency phone, an extremely dented WWII canteen, 3 tin whistles of varying keys and an old battered wooden recorder.  

In my rucksack I had several books, a change of clothes in a ziplock tucked away at the bottom, a journal and few pens, a summer sausage, a box of crackers, hank of rope, a mess kit, some dryer lint covered in candle wax inside a ziplock, utility knife and a firestriker. My hair was long and I had made sure not to shower for a few days before the trip.  

After being dropped off in the desert about 5 miles from town, I rolled around in the dirt and dust and made sure to wear my jacket as long as I could stand in the sun on the walk in to get all sweaty to complete the ambiance of Bill the wayfarer.  As I made my way down the mountain into town, I was greeted by the Welcome to Espanola sign with the message ‘LowRider Capital of the World’.  If you are from California and want to dispute that, take it up with Espanola, that is their claim not mine. 

My plan was to make a small splash when I entered town to announce myself, but not so big that it seemed planned.  Just enough to let others know I am there.  I entered town through the Santa Clara Pueblo heading toward the Rio Grande and came to the first restaurant I saw called La Cocina, which means the Kitchen if you don’t speak any Spanish.  I don’t really speak it either, I spoke New Mexican which is fundamentally English with a lot of Spanish nouns and random verbs and curse words.  Like Spanglish but with less Adam Sandler and more Carlos Mencia. 

I picked a nice spot in the shade so that cars and people walking into the restaurant could see me, but the staff could not.  I dropped my pack and used it as a seat, took off my coat and laid out all of my instruments on it. Then turned my hat upside down in front of me and started to play.  I only knew about 10-15 songs, but could improvise a bit on the whistles and the recorder.  I would alternate songs and even tried to play two whistles at once, poorly.  Did everything I could to attract attention and eventually picked up a few dollars from passersby. 

Took me about 45 minutes to make enough for 2 enchiladas with green chili and Spanish rice.  Management demanded that I get it to go as ‘there was no seating available’. Big air quotes.  I was then less politely told not to eat on the premises or continue to panhandle lest the authorities be notified. I picked up my stuff and tipped my hat to them and left.  Choosing to cross the Rio Grande and head down a street called Riverside eating my enchiladas on the walk.  

On my way down Riverside, I saw some Low Riders and some Police cars.  I tried my best to be ignored by both groups, but a long haired 20-something dirty white kid playing a flute was bound to attract someone’s attention.  When approached by police I played my flute and danced, whenever they weren’t looking I switched flutes.  I made a game out of it.  Try to make myself seem too weird or crazy to be dealt with.

When approached by anyone else, I tried to engage them as directly as possible.  Attempting to match their speech patterns as closely as I could.  If I was unable to do that then I would simply play the role that I would assume they see in me.  If they were nice I was needy. If they were mean, I was crazy.  If they were curious, I was a fountain of information and dialogue.  I tried hard not to outright lie about anything including my name.  I of course allowed them to think my name was Bill, because every time it looked like the conversation was headed toward my name, I would stare off into space and say ‘Just Bill…’ occasionally followed by a hand motion as though it was written on a Movie Theatre marquee. 

I made my way to the end of town, which at this stage of Espanola’s development was just past the brand new Walmart supercenter.  There was a bar in the parking lot in front of the Walmart and just past that on the road that stretched out into the open desert was an old 50’s style motel that I had assumed was condemned.  I noticed that in the window was an old school orange Vacancy sign with the ‘No’ part off.  After walking in I figured that it was likely less than a few days away from a health inspector walking in and shuttering the place for good.  I haggled with the manager over an hourly rate room that I wanted to stay in for several days and he finally agreed to give me the one room that isn’t regularly used for hourly entertainment. 

He almost lost his shit when I told him I would be right back once we decided on $25 per night.  I explained that I needed to go make that money by playing my flutes and I would return before sundown for the room.  He reluctantly agreed and I headed to the Walmart parking lot.  It was hot and I was tired. I played outside the Walmart Super Center for about an hour and made a few dollars, but not enough to pay for the motel room. I noticed a few other vagrants trying to sponge the Walmart patrons for a few bucks.  When a security guard in his little go-kart came around to roust them out, I felt that it was time to blend.  Picked up my sack and shuffled after them.  They all hid behind the walled dumpster area of a western bar that shared a parking lot with Walmart.  I followed them in.

One of them spotted me and looked me up and down and then pushed aside a crate that was blocking a broken utility panel and stepped aside, waving his arms to usher everyone through.  He yelled something, that I would later learn was the Hopi word for ‘inside’ or ‘indoors’ or some such, but I couldn’t pronounce it then and can’t repeat it now.  We all rushed through the small opening, I had to drag my sack behind me.  The native man that had helped everyone escape pulled the hatch closed and pulled a rope through a hole that was attached to the crate.  Once completely taught it had hidden our escape route entirely.  I heard the go-kart pull up with its sickly electric whine and heard the angry shuffling of security guard shoes grinding away at the heated asphalt in the desert sun outside. 

Looking around in the space, once my eyes adjusted to the dim light that emanated from the emergency lighting and cracks in the ceiling and walls, I seemed to be in a seldom used storage area with a lot of empty beer cans and bottles, unwashed bedding, and piles of aluminum signs and lighting for the bar.  Spiders and moths seemed to be fighting an unending battle in the rafters and there was the telltale small black lumps of chocolate that told of mice in the area.  Standing up straight the Native man towered over me, by about a foot and a half, but it felt like 12.  He looked down on me, face stern, but with a smile in his eyes.  He extended his pizza-pan sized mitt and said, “Name’s John, people call me War Machine.”

Trying my best not to be intimidated by this huge man that I now found myself in a closed area with, I allowed my seemingly tiny, feeble hands be swallowed by his, looked to where I assumed his eyes were and said with a completely straight face, “My name is Bill, people usually call me ‘dumb kid’ or ‘hey you’.”  I could hear the silence pounding in my ears, all of the oxygen ripped away from the planet and I was left falling into nothingness.  I expected War Machine to rip my arm off and beat me to death with it. I imagined my death in a thousand different ways, but I remained calm and relaxed.

His grip tightened.  He jerked suddenly, throwing his head back and a deep low rumbling like from the bowels of a volcano shook me.  As the blood rushed into my ears the roaring sound was replaced by a raucous throaty laugh that left me dumbfounded.  His enormous hand clapped me on the shoulder and he kept chuckling.  “You’re funny Bill. Welcome to Espanola, did you just get here?”  He let go of my hand and motioned for me to walk toward the back of the building. 

“Yeah got in this morning.” I found that the rest of the escaping vagrants had moved to the back of the room behind the aluminum signs.   Above the door in permanent marker was a hand-drawn symbol that I had seen before.  It looked like a block M where the middle line was facing up instead of down, or rather like a rectangle where the bottom line was removed and placed standing straight up from the middle of the top line.  I was later told by War Machine that this was a sign that meant ‘good place’ or something similar.  To this day I am not sure if it was a New Mexico, Native, or hobo thing, but I have seen the same symbol in other places.

When we got into the room and my eyes adjusted, I saw that there were makeshift beds, an old discarded couch, several crates and even a few chairs.  A familiar hissing and popping sound was emanating from a large crack in the wall that was in darkness.  The only light source in the room was some cracks in the wall from the outside and an emergency light that someone had rigged up to an electrical socket.  One of the other guys in the room picked up the emergency light box and hung it on a hook above the crack in the wall.   

Inside the crack were exposed compressed gas beverage lines each with a tourniquet of some kind around it and a label next to it on the wall.  Most were indecipherable from this distance, but I recognized one at the top that said “Miller Light”.  Almost everyone in the room produced some kind of mess kit cup or canteen or plastic bottle and passed it down the line.  I took the last swallow of water out of my canteen and passed it down the line along with War Machine’s Aquafina bottle.  Both of our receptacles came back filled to the brim with chilled Miller Light. 

Now I despise Miller Light and light beers in general, in fact I don’t even like drinking much, but when you are tired, sore, hungry, and a little sunburned that Miller Light tasted like sweet Ambrosia.  It was Manna from Heaven, sent to us hungry world-weary travelers to save us from the ravages of the waiting desert.  I don’t remember much of the rest of the night except from a few tidbits here and there.  The group of us played a game that involved some kind of nonsense words and repeated phrases that always ended in laughter.  

Pretty sure that I paid for my room. I remember getting propositioned by an older hispanic lady repeatedly.  I believe that she even snuck into my room somehow and I may have scared her away with the business end of a summer sausage that I swore to her was a knife.   That could all be some kind of alcohol delusion, but it seems dumb enough to be true.  I slept off the booze and tried to make a fresh start of it in the morning.

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The next day I continued my completely undefined quest, relatively sure that these vagabonds in the city didn’t need my help.  As far as they went they were pretty set.  They had places to be, food, and fun of a sort.  So if the universe didn’t mean for me to help them, what was I needed for?

To try to sort this out I had an idea that the answer would hit me dead center in the face if I looked hard enough.  I planned to continue to dodge cops, pretend to panhandle, and toot my flutes.  For breakfast I had what was left of the cheese, crackers, and summer sausage with some water from my canteen.  I filled up the canteen with some questionable water from the motel bathroom sink and strapped my knife to my boot.  I took all of my possessions with me and set out.  

It was hot again. The town danced in front of my eyes in the heat if I looked at it directly.  There wasn’t much to the town on the main drag, but there were some chain restaurants like McDonald’s and SubWay.  Now I know that you are thinking that going to MickeyD’s would be the right choice to try to panhandle and get some food if you were impersonating a homeless person, but I had a different take.  

After spending so much time with real homeless folk in Dallas and in Albuquerque, I felt that SubWay was the better choice.  At McDonald’s most of the folk who go there order from the dollar menu if they have to or from the regular menu if they can.  Most patrons don’t spend time there unless they have kids, and people are not likely to give change in a drive through.  McDonald’s is cheap, ergo people who eat there generally don’t have much to spare.  If they do, they have kids and they don’t want homeless folk around their kids.  Combine that with the fact that they are almost always on a separate lot and you are just asking for cops to harass you. 

This made SubWay a much better choice.  People actually spend time inside because of the lack of drive through, the culture in the restaurant promotes tipping, so money is more readily available, and people who eat there are usually sans family.  Plus they are usually in strip mall box storefronts so it is easier to avoid police. 

I popped a squat on the pavement outside the subway within earshot of the tables inside, but not in direct eyesight, as this tends to draw the ire of the employees quickly.  I took out a D penny whistle and a plastic recorder and flipped my hat upside down on the pavement.  I practiced both the rhythm and harmony parts of the theme song of Buckaroo Banzai.  The rhythm part was my left hand on the recorder and the right hand played the penny whistle on the melody.  

Once I was satisfied I knew both parts well, I tried my best to play both parts at once.  Honestly I am sure it was horrible at first and most people just ignored me.  Eventually I changed the rhythm section a bit to match the breaths of the melody and that worked better as I wasn’t running out of breath constantly.  So I wasn’t playing the real song, but some new rendition of it. To my surprise someone actually put in some money while walking by, a dark skinned fellow in a white suit and white shoes.  As his clothes reflected too much light I couldn’t tell much more about him at the time.  

I switched to When the Saints Go Marching In on the recorder and dropped the penny whistle back into a hole in the lapel.  When I assumed the guy went inside, I stopped playing and I dropped some more of my own money in the hat.  To make sure that not too much attention was paid to my money, I kept playing until at least two more patrons passed by me, pretending to thank them for their generous donations.

After I felt enough time had passed I went inside the Subway after stowing my instruments and donning my hat.  I ordered completely prepared to pay for my six inch Italian and chips, but I was told that my meal had been paid for and I could get a drink as well.  Accepting a bottled water from the cashier, I was informed that the gentleman that tipped me earlier had paid for my meal.  I approached him, not sure how to handle speaking to him.  He seemed to be of Indian descent and was dressed in a nice looking white suit with no tie.  He had friendly eyes and the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.  

He gave off a certain confidence despite the strange situation that made me think that he had done this before.  He offered me a seat across from him at the table and I cautiously accepted and decided to stop the crazy act I had put on for the police. 

I feel it bears a reminder at this point to set the scene.  The Subway, despite being brightly lit, has heavy tint on the windows to keep out some of the heat.  I haven’t showered or changed clothes for over a week to make sure that my disguise is as accurate as possible.  I rolled around in the sand and dirt on the outskirts of the town to give my vintage moth-eaten army surplus coat a fresh coating of earth.  I have long hair that is matted and dreaded up and I am sure my breath smells terrible.  People are staring at us as we sit there talking about food and desperation.  

He offers to buy me another sandwich and I accept and tie it up and put it into my pack.  He laughs at this and then starts to talk about himself.  He indicates that he works with youths and would like to offer me a place to start over.  He knows that being homeless is hard and that I seem intelligent but desperate.  “All most people need is a place to get cleaned up and stability so they can get a job and re-enter society.”  He explained. “I work at a place of worship and the people there could help you get back on your feet.”

“I would be very grateful for any help I get sir.”  I felt that I wanted to appear very desperate and pliant.  I had never heard of a guy like this randomly picking up homeless people so I had a hunch that this is why I was here.  It was possible that he was just some kind of pervert, but I didn’t get that feeling with how he was speaking.

“That is good to hear.”

We packed up my kit and we headed out of the SubWay to his Lexus which was also white of course.  I guarded my answers and responses closely to not let out too much of my real personality.  Per my assumed identity I told him that my name was Rene Carter as a modification of my favorite philosopher René Descartes. Let’s call the man Raj, I will keep his real name to myself for this story. 

We arrived at their compound at the edge of town in the early evening and he showed me to his house on the lot.  It was a nice two story adobe filled with southwestern kitsch and Native American blankets.  After getting a short tour we ended in a room filled with hundreds of crystals and candles.  I honestly almost laughed when we walked in that room, but I stifled it.  Raj told me that he was something called a ‘Light Giver’, which he explained was a form of shamanic healer that uses light focused through crystals or that emanates from his hands to “heal the body and uncloud the mind” as he put it.

He offered to let me use the shower and he gave me some donated clothes.  Still not knowing what to expect, I briefly inspected the lavish bathroom for cameras and then showered off my finely cultivated layer of earth.  My long hair was still matted, but I soaped it and tied it back again with a length of gaffer’s cord.  The clothes fit well enough, they were plain and all tan.  I insisted on keeping my jacket, and Raj offered me some scented oils to make my hair and jacket smell better.  Honestly I just didn’t want anyone discovering the $500 I had hidden away in one of my flutes.  

   After I was a little more presentable, Raj took me outside and into the compound proper.  For our purposes we can call it ‘la Hacienda’.

Albino peacocks and white people in bright Sikh clothing everywhere.  It was kind of strange to look at like a bad episode of a scifi show where you are more worried about the actors getting heat stroke than following the plot. Not knowing they were Sikhs yet, I just assumed it was some sort of cult.  In the end I guess I was right.

Now I had studied with some Sikhs in University and my favorite Indian restaurant “Kebab’N’Kurry” in Dallas is run by the nicest Sikh and his family you may ever meet.  I knew Sikhs as a super friendly and approachable religious group that would never try to prosthelytize and despite having roots in the rougher times in India, it was all about the equality of men and women and a celebration of life and its mysteries. I knew that they rejected the Caste system of old and were all about working as a community to elevate everyone.  

Armed with this information already I was agog at what I saw on the Hacienda.  Not all men wore the Turban and few had beards, but the obviously traditionally garbed men let me know what was up.  Raj looked more like a modern reformed Sikh that had that super suave beardiness still but kept his hair short, he wore white, but not the full dress like some of the others.  Something else stood out that I didn’t quite catch at first.  

There were no adult women present outside, just men and children.  Red flags should have gone up at this point, but I was still in observation mode at this point.  After walking the grounds a bit, Raj invited me to come eat supper with him and I followed.   We ate and I tried to keep up my character, by being a bit cagey and fingering my flutes.   Mostly he just wanted to sell the lifestyle to me it seemed.  He talked about how there was always food, friendly people, stable housing, and community.  I was told I was welcome as long as I wanted to stay.   After the meal I was taken to a small single room house that had a lot of pillows and blankets with a thin plank built into the wall.  I slept there that night and didn’t want to disturb any of the cult members by asking where the bathroom was so I just pissed in the nearby brush.  

The next day I was taken to breakfast and was introduced to several random folk in the group that were doing menial chores.  It seemed to be Raj’s intent to introduce me to people that were genuinely happy doing simple chores, thereby making me more likely to want to achieve the same level of happiness.  Most of the day was spent going around la Hacienda with breaks for meals.  Eventually we came back to his house and talked to me again about ‘Light Therapy’ and being a ‘Giver of the Holy Light’.  At several points he seemed very serious and almost scientific, at others I was sure that ‘Giving someone the Holy Light’ was a euphemism for sex.

He offered me a ‘Light Healing’ session and asked me to take off my shirt and lie down on a massage table face down.  After hesitating I obliged and he lit candles and incense, then turned off the light and began chanting.  He selected a large crystal from the wall with his eyes closed and proceeded to wave it about, while chanting rhythmically.  He touched the crystal to my back and rolled it up and down my spine.  It was an interesting sensation as one side of the crystal was warm and the other cold.  He abruptly stopped chanting and produced a bottle of some kind and began to put baby oil on my back.  I instinctively leapt off the table and took out a few crystals on my way and grabbed my shirt and told him in what I thought at the time was a polite tone, that the session was over.

Raj took this in stride and announced that it was time to go out with the youth group anyways.  I followed him outside where he met with some other adult leaders as a group of 15-19 year olds walked up the hill in jeans and t-shirts.  Raj informed me that as soon as the adults changed into their ‘city clothes’ we would be heading into Santa Fe to see a new movie as a group.  The situation was very strange as I was absolutely mobbed by most of the younger kids asking me lots of questions about the outside world.  I did my best to remain in character as my new cult friends took me to go see X-Men which had only recently been released.  

Going to the movies with a lot of anglo Sikhs in Sante Fe to see X-Men was one of the most surreal non-drug related experiences.  I am sure that we looked very normal from the outside, but me knowing I was likely surrounded by a real bunch of cult members was super strange for me and hard to deal with.  Consequently I had a hard time paying attention to the movie, and honestly they were really chatty.  Rewatching the movie later, I realized how bad it was and felt less bad about missing the movie.  

Normally during a social outing like this at this age I would honestly be looking to hookup with one of the girls that were with the group, but I was way too distracted to even think about anything other than maintaining my false identity.  It didn’t even occur to me at the time that most of the girls that were with us were all sitting next to me, or that all of the boys were either trying hard not to look at me or were shooting me disapproving looks.   It also didn’t occur to me that the social interaction may have been an exercise orchestrated by Raj to find out which girls I had chemistry with.  I was so oblivious in fact that when the movie was over and we were on our way back to the compound that I didn’t pick up on the fact that Raj decided on the seating on the way back and surrounded me with girls that wanted to touch my hair and talk to me about where I was from.  

As always I did my best not to lie too much and laid out half truths with other half truths making little misunderstandable truth sandwiches that those girls ate up with gusto.  Meanwhile I tried to get some information about their little group from the talkative girls.  They were not surprisingly pretty tight-lipped about the compound, but did talk to me enough about their religion for me to understand that it wasn’t entirely a pure Sikh ethos.  There was a certain sense of misogyny in their words, a subtle hint that women weren’t being treated as equals.  I found no outward obvious signs of abuse, but there was definitely some mental conditioning.  At the time I just chalked it up to them being in a religious cult.  After all even non-cult religions have their conditioning in some ways.  

We got back to la Hacienda and the girls I had been sitting with insisted on washing my hair.  As it was done in a public place I saw no problem with it and just did my best to enjoy the pampering.  I had chest length thick brown hair, that despite my earlier shower was still pretty matted and they got all of the dirt out and I was very relaxed.  They used some kind of homemade shampoo that smelled like hibiscus and honey and was like no product I have ever used before or since.  The girls were extremely fit and very pretty and I remember letting my guard down around them a bit. They told me a bit more about the group.  I learned that their highest guru was in la Hacienda and that his 70th birthday was in a few days, there was going to be a big ceremony and he would address the entire congregation.   

===================

I think I passed out before dinner because I don’t remember much else that night and woke up to Raj telling me to get dressed so I could help with breakfast.  The group was very much a ‘nobility in work’ group and they paid people that did the job around them in high esteem.  With the pampering from last night, my hair was light and bouncy and I must’ve looked like a Penecostal white Jesus with sandals and white loose fitting white clothes and a scruffy beard, hair all flowing in the wind.  The illusion was immediately dispelled when I got to the kitchen and they gave me a hairnet.  I tucked in my hair and started cutting vegetables and fruit.  Eventually I was asked to help make something called ‘prashad’, my job was to keep stirring a pot like a madman until someone told me to stop and then pour it out into a bowl, which was then blessed with some kind of knife or dagger.  

It was actually interesting and I enjoyed helping these folks in the kitchen.  It dawned on me again that no younger women were in the kitchen area or anywhere I could see.  Breakfast was vegetarian again.  Two days in and I was already missing bacon.  I had eaten my remaining provisions on the first night and was now completely dependent on their food, which was excellent especially for vegan food.  

I finally spotted some of the younger girls that I had seen at the movies coming out of the large building toward the front of la Hacienda.  Most of them were wearing loose flowing white pants and bright cotton tops, very different from before.  They walked away from where I was and into another building that looked more like a dorm. 

The next morning I was practically pulled out of bed by a few of the younger girls who helped me dress and then pushed me into the large building I had seen them come out of before.  There were lots of small thin mats on the floor and I was confused about the room’s purpose.   The girls all helped me to go through some of the first poses in what had become my first yoga class.  I had relaxed a lot by this time and constantly being on my game about my false identity was less on my mind.  Consequently my hormones took over a bit and I started noticing exactly how fit some of these girls were.  

So much so that I had some physical manifestations of my desire for intimacy. Naturally I felt that like everything else with the group, as a natural function it shouldn’t be hidden so I didn’t leave the room or try to cover up any more and just tried to keep going with the lesson.  I tell you what though, it really did make some of the poses very difficult.  I heard a few giggles from the class about my inappropriate situation.  Between the young girls sweating and bending over into compromising positions and my head swimming with early 20’s hormones I am sure I was about to make some really dumb decisions.  

We will ignore the details of what happened next as this is not that kind of story, but the facts you need to know are that I was beset upon by a group of girls that wanted to talk to me.  Eventually there were very few girls, nature took its course and I was instructed in my first lesson in Neo-Trantic Yoga.  

I was too inebriated on hormones to even think about what the consequences for this action would be.  So I had little control over what started to happen after this.  Luckily for me this wasn’t something that was going to get me killed or anything.  No one even appeared angry and there didn’t seem to be any immediate attachment between me and the yoga girls.  I suspected that the situation was likely intentionally manufactured to convince me to stay in the group as a sort of honeypot trap. 

The rest of the day was spent with me learning various parts about the ceremony that was to occur the next day and my duties in the kitchen.

That evening I was again accosted by a group of the young girls and we talked about life in la Hacienda.  I questioned them vigorously, completely ignoring my facade at this point. 

So it turns out one or more of the girls were spoken for by other men in the compound, but many of the girls there were either runaways or homeless and had not always been with this group.  I asked about how they were recruited and they all recounted similar stories to my own.  Found wandering, a well-dressed man bought them food and convinced them to come live at la Hacienda, where they were shown care, comfort, and kindness.  Then they were each shown the value of community and hard work, but also given rewards like going to the movies.  From their stories the place was sounding less and less ominous.  That was until of course one of the girls started crying.  

The other girls in the group hugged and patted her until she could speak again and she explained that this is what they are supposed to say.  That some of them had been required to marry against their will and that the elders in the group would sometimes touch them in intimate ways without permission.  It was explained that the elders would test them to see if they were ready to bear children and marry.  A few other girls admitted this was true and one even described some forms of sexual and emotional abuse.  I pressed for details on the identities of the elders responsible, but they were very tight-lipped about it. 

Needless to say but I was appalled and the illusion of civility that permeated this place was shattered.  I felt my burden growing.  I know this started as a lark, that it was a way to have an ‘interesting experience’ in the desert and to face the unknown, but now things were becoming serious.  As a former Boy Scout who served the community in a variety of ways, I felt compelled to right this wrong.  I had heard of this kind of thing happening in cults and other positions of authority, but this was my only experience with it directly.  If I were to simply call the police the cult would likely shut down the investigation with well rehearsed stories and solidarity. I struggled with what to do the whole next day until it was time for the ceremony.  

Turns out the ceremony was like hand-fasting.  It was a marriage of sorts, but given the nature of the cult, it was likely not a marriage in a legal sense.  Everyone walked down this low hill to a mostly dried riverbed just before dusk.  It was quite a scene with everyone wearing white and carrying wrought iron lanterns, while walking through the desert landscape and drums by the riverbed played a driving beat.  I noticed that many of the women had henna tattoos on their hands and feet while we were all walking together.

At the riverbed an ancient looking man was kneeling on a pillow that was on a raised platform.  He had a long white beard, a gray mustache, and piercing eyes that looked like they knew the secrets of the universe.   As the ceremony began, a couple knelt on some decorative pillows and the Guru started speaking about how this wasn’t just a marriage but a joining of souls to make a singular person.  He talked for what felt like a long time as the sun washed across the landscape and bathed the entire ceremony in a soft pink light.  Seriously pink.  If you have never experienced a New Mexico desert sunset, you owe it to yourself to experience it at least once.

I zoned out through part of his sermon to inspect the couple.  The bride was one of the girls I had met before who had talked about inappropriate touching.  The groom was at least 10 years older than her, but I figured that she was at least 19 so it wasn’t an illegal kind of bad, but didn’t make me any more comfortable with what I was witnessing.   In my head I was trying to figure out which of the elders they could have been referring to.  I know that Raj had made me feel super uncomfortable and wanted to put his hands on me, but I suspected that it was less innocent than that based on their stories.  

I started to listen to the sermon again and started to hear some of the most sexist, misogynistic, and outright old fashioned ways of thinking about women and their duties to their husbands.  The Guru was telling this girl of 19 that she had no control over her body as it now belonged to the groom.  He was dressing it up in flowery language and sprinkling it with spiritual mumbo jumbo, but he was still describing sexual slavery.  Anger overcame me.  

I don’t remember much of the rest of that night, but the next day was the guru’s birthday and there was to be a celebration in the temple at noon.  I screwed up all of my courage and asked Raj if I could have a word with the Yogi.  He said I would have to wait in line to give him his birthday wishes.  So I did.  Waiting in line I imagined what I would say, but couldn’t think of anything.  I knew I needed to say something.  

When I got to the front of the line I blanked out.  Mind went completely blank and the world started to move in slow motion.  I could hear my breath and feel sweat rolling slowly down my back under the white rough cloth shirt.  Something happened to my mouth, and I saw the all-knowing look of the aged Yogi suddenly turn to anger.  I realized I was speaking extremely fast and pointing at him.  Suddenly I could hear my voice again.  

“…this type of thinking went out with universal women’s suffrage.  Their bodies belong to them and not to you or any member of your so-called religion.  If you do not change your ways and teachings then you are leading all of your followers to destruction.  This will not end well.” I could feel the eyes of everyone in the room staring at me.  Inspecting me, judging and hating me.  I was being dissected by their vision.  Not knowing what else to do, I said “Happy Birthday.” and turned to leave the room.  Raj and a few other men practically tackled me on the way out of the room and I was force-marched to the front gates and handed my already packed bag with all of my possessions.  They had been cleaned and smelled like sandalwood. 

Getting my bearings I walked the few miles back into town. Getting a fresh coating of dirt and dust on the way. When I reached the edge of town I spotted a Motel 6.  I pulled my emergency cash from inside on of my flutes and rented a room.  Then I took the longest shower of my life.  I called my ride and he came to pick me up the next morning.  

I don’t know what it all meant, but while writing this piece and researching it for accuracy, I found that the Yogi I had berated in public had died the next year and it was discovered that he did indeed have sexual relations with many of the members of his sect.

I strongly feel that some external force was working through me that day.  Call it what you want, but I do feel as though I was meant to do something that day and it was done.  I struggled with writing this as I now know what happened after I left and it is a strange set of events.  Not the strangest of my life, but that is another story. 

You are a villain who can see people's deepest regrets. One day, you confront your heroic archnemesis and see that their greatest regret is... not saving you, years ago. via writing-prompt-s

WOW so the guilt turned him evil or his selfishness became full-blown after realizing the only thing he cared about is his continued existence?

For years, you’ve been leaving food for the ravens, hoping to become friends. The thankless birds would always just grab the food and fly away. Today it’s even worse. As you return home, the ravens are cawing, flying over you, swooping in and tugging you away.

Oh here we go, birds, I assumed crows. Ravens are larger than crows and are distinguished by a thick, heavy bill, a wedge-shaped tail, and shaggy throat feathers, while crows have a slimmer bill, a fan-shaped tail, and smoother throat feathers. Ravens also make a deep croaking sound, whereas crows produce a classic "caw"

Mad Men Analysis: The Hobo Code, Don's Real Thoughts on Advertising || Erick Diaz Context: Don would rather maintain his pure bond with Hershey than line his pockets by bringing his personal token of salvation to the national stage. Exposing himself as more of a sentimentalist than a capitalist in this regard.

I dunno, he seemed to spend his whole life managing how ppl see things—including his own identity; I think by the time he was further along in his established career he grew tired of the banal run-of-the-mill hook & bait schemes of the marketing world, in that he wanted to elevate the lie & in so doing justify his secret life, which he never seemed to fully be able to accept—much less convince others of. His identity both drew ppl near & repelled them when they couldn't quite connect with Don intimately, who was ill at ease with his carefully sequestered past. Don's polished front is like a pearl which started out as an irritant that couldn't be removed & so was covered over the years with a secretion of his own making in order to become more palatable.