Details by Damian Pullen
I’m waiting, again. He arrives finally, breathless. “Sorry, babe, but it was so cool, that guy was out there, standing in this fucking… temple to materialism, in his robes, rapping about consciousness…with these shopping zombies everywhere… outta sight!”
He slams The Bhagavad Gita on the table and ploughs into his cold burger, slurps Coke, says: “I’m gonna join. It’s so full-on. 4am chants, tilling the fields, eating vegetarian…”
“So… is American week over? We haven’t watched Fight Club yet…” I’m still wearing my homemade “Don’t Forget To Kill Philip” t-shirt, from zombie week.
“Yeah, man, this is more… real! These guys live what they believe – unlike all these fucking…. Christians!” The kids at the next table stare. He burps. They giggle.
He slips his hand down my pants, squeezes my bum – my ass, I mean. Or is it fanny? That’s the problem. I get hung up on details. He’s always on to the next thing – like thinking about sex while still eating. Once he went down on me under a restaurant table.
Still, ever-hopeful, I say: “You know they’re into chastity, right?”
“So, let’s go do it, before I take my vows!” He’s gone. I clear the table.
I find him at The Paradise Market. “What the fuck are these?” He strokes one, sniffs it. I mention Bligh, the Bounty, and slaves who didn’t like them after all. He interrupts: “We gotta try one!” I wait outside the travel-agent holding breadfruit and Bhagavad Gita, while he gets brochures on Tahiti.