His roommate, Wayne, has left early without a word. When Richard goes back to the room to change his shirt, Wayne is gone, the bed stripped. Richard checks to be sure his wallet and personal goods are still there.
Bodywork.
When he checked in, Richard signed up for a massage on the fifth afternoon.
The masseuse shakes his hand, holding it for a minute too long. "Make yourself comfortable," she says, welcoming him into her den. "Anything special I should know?"
"I'm fine," he says. "I mean, I have a back ache, a leg ache, a shoulder-and-neck ache."
"That's why I'm here," she says. "Go ahead and get ready, faceup under the sheet, and we'll begin." She steps outside to let him undress.
"Come in," he says, adjusting the sheet over himself.
"You can talk if you need to — it's soundproofed," she says. "Some people talk the whole time, they're so glad to be able to…"
"I'm fine," he says.
It is such a relief to be touched, he didn't know how much he missed it; the warm oil, her touch, it feels fantastic. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
"Is the pressure OK?"
The pressure is firm but female. "Perfect."
She slides her fingers up into the base of his skull; it's like she's kneading his brain, draining the complicated parts.
"I can keep going if you want," she says at a certain point, when he is facedown, his sinuses pressed into the donut-hole headrest.
"What do you mean?"
"Someone canceled for the hour after you, so I have more time, if you want it."
"Sure, that would be great."
"It's another ninety dollars."
"Fine," he says, speaking into the face holder.
"You've got a lot of tension on your gluteus; do you want me to try and release that, maybe do some internal massage?"
"Yeah, sure," he says.
And then her finger is sliding up his ass, and he's shocked and kind of clamps down on it.
"I'm sorry, I should have warned you… What I'm doing now is internal massage; is that all right?"
"I guess," he says, embarrassed at how tightly his ass is clutching her finger.
"Try and relax and don't judge," she says, gliding her finger back and forth, rubbing him where he's never been touched before. He feels himself getting hard.
"Not to worry, that's all part of it." There is a seriousness with which this woman is rubbing the inside of his ass. She's really working on something.
"Not everyone will allow themselves to go here," she says. "It's very deep."
"It's fantastic," he says.
"Thank you," she says. He can hear her blushing.
The massage makes him think of the crying woman. He imagines what she is doing right now — yoga. She is standing like a tree while he is lying like a corpse — savasana.
AFTER THE TALK on the fifth night, he has his interview with Joseph. Each retreatant is granted a brief interview, a chance to ask questions, to talk privately for a few minutes. He is sitting on a chair in the hallway outside Joseph's office. Even spiritual guides have offices.
There is a couple before him; they sit in the hallway, whispering, hissing — fighting. The door abruptly pops open, they are ushered in, and the door closes. He feels like he's in fourth grade and waiting to be called into the principal's office. What will the interview consist of? Will Joseph ask him questions? Will it be like a test? Whatever it is, he wants to pass, to seem smart, he wants to win.
When it is his turn, he goes in, sits in a chair opposite Joseph, and waits.
Joseph looks at him.
Everything seems trivial. He thinks of mentioning the man who moved his cushion, Mr. Happy Arrogant, but decides to keep it to himself. "I guess what I'm most amazed by is how my mind moves, how something can seem so important in one moment and then, a moment later, I don't remember what that was that I was so sure I would never forget."
Joseph nods. "And your practice?"
"I'm practicing," Richard says. "I left myself a long time ago. I hope this will remind me of who I am. Free me, open me, change me."
"It is just a practice, it doesn't do anything," Joseph says.
"Yes, I know." Richard says, looking down, knowing that the moment he looks down the interview is over. He has ended it before it began.
Joseph sits. He waits. How is he able to just sit, to just wait?
Richard stands to leave.
"Take care," Joseph says.
THE SIXTH DAY of silence. Today is all about violence. Incredible violence welling up, the urge to smash, to hit, to lash out. He can feel how it happens, how rage erupts. He thinks about children who bring guns to school thinking of getting even, expressing themselves, not being ignored. He thinks of men who wander into convenience stores and point guns at the clerks' heads. What would he do if he was in a store and someone came in with a gun? Would he attempt to strike up a conversation? What brought you here? Did you feel it building? How do you feel now? Have you ever killed someone? Did it feel good? Was there a rush of power, a release a thousand times better than sex? Is it ecstasy, making someone suffer as you have suffered? He spends the day soaking in rage, worrying that when he leaves here he will go and do something — what?
Instead of killing someone, he writes on the bathroom stall with a pen he finds on the floor. "Meditating is for people who just want to sit around. Navel contemplation is not novel. Stop the Silence!"
During the afternoon session, he realizes that he's angry because he's going to have to leave here; he's found comfort in the structure, the constant presence of other warm bodies, the wake-up bells at 4:30 a.m., the same lousy food every day, the opportunities for expressing hostility — stealing someone's spot, failing to replace the empty roll of toilet paper, eating the last of the rice.
The next morning, he's up and packed before the bells even ring. At the morning meeting, Joseph speaks briefly: "Let's take some time to prepare to re-enter, to talk about what we take with us from this experience. Life isn't ruminating, replaying your past; stay in the moment, notice your feelings, the passing states of feeling, and let them go. Embrace the fluctuation, all that happens." As he's sitting, he's very aware of his ass; it's almost painful, but also feels kind of fantastic, alive in a way it was never alive before. He sits, smiling, sometimes rocking from side to side. Maybe the shaved-headed guy, Mr. Happy Arrogant, gets his ass rubbed every day.
"Let's warm up our vocal cords with some chanting." Joseph begins, and they all follow, a kind of call and response that makes the hair on the back of Richards neck stand up.
After breakfast, Richard is hugging people he has never spoken to. "You have a beautiful back," he says to one of the women.
"I stole your spot," Mr. Happy Arrogant says. "You thought it was yours but it was mine, I always take that spot. I'm sorry. I shouldn't need that spot, but I did, I do, I guess I have a long way to go."
"We all do," Richard says.
He walks out the front door and spends twenty minutes wandering around the parking lot, looking for his car. He becomes anxious, losing the calm, feeling the difference between the silence and the rest of his life. He begins thinking that the car has been stolen, and then he looks down at the key, sees the Toyota insignia, and remembers that he didn't bring his car. It's like some weird joke.
HE DRIVES to the donut shop. When Anhil sees him, Anhil's upper lip quivers, his eyes fill with tears. Richard is surprised by the emotion, that this man cares so much for him, has missed him. Richard hugs Anhil.
"I took your car to the annual Blessing of the Cars to pray for a maintenance-free ride, holy assistance in road service, and ease of locating replacement parts, and something went wrong," Anhil confesses. "It is so horrible, so against the spirit of the event. Someone scraped the car with a key, they cut into the paint. Your car is wounded. I do not know how to apologize. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't call you in your silence. I took her to the shop, and it can be fixed, but it is very expensive. Does assurance cover that?"