“Happiness.”

  “Happiness?”

  “Sure. It makes them happy to have us around.”

  “Let me get this straight: there’s a kid, a scruffy old man, and a scruffy old dog, just kicking down the street, and this makes people happy, and they run inside their houses and make grilled cheese sandwiches for us?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “By the way, why don’t you just send the dog? She’s the one who closes the deal.”

  “Well, she knows how it’s done, but then she’d bring the food to me in her mouth and get spit all over everything. She can’t help drooling, she’s a dog.”

  “So my role in this swindle is to carry stuff. It would be the same if you had a monkey.”

  “Some gurus have them, but they’re not very sanitary either, and don’t forget you’re learning things all the time.”

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  “Ask away. I am here to enlighten you.”

  “You were living in a cave high in the Himalayan Mountains.”

  “Right.”

  “And you came to Poughkeepsie of your own free will.”

  “Your brother paid for my airplane ticket, so naturally.”

  “Why would you want to be in Poughkeepsie? Why would anybody?”

  “Oh, that was because it was my destiny. I was destined to come.”

  “To Poughkeepsie.”

  “Yes. I have known for years that I had to be in Poughkeepsie.”

  “Why? Why could that possibly be? I mean, I live in Poughkeepsie. It’s OK. I like it well enough, but why would you, a guru from more exciting places like the Himalayas or New Jersey, have to come here? Why is it your destiny, as you put it?”

  “Before I answer that, let me say that I am pleased with your progress.”

  “My progress?”

  “As my pupil. Now to answer your question, there is something I have to do or find, here in Poughkeepsie.”

  “And that something is?” I ask, almost sure I know the answer.

  “I’ll know it when I find it.”

  “Right. You’ll know it when you find it.”

  9.

  “Earlier today you said I was your pupil. How do you figure I’m your pupil?”

  “You’re learning things.”

  “I’m learning how to promote free lunches.”

  “And you’re learning every street in greater Poughkeepsie. You’ll be a cinch to get a job driving a cab, or working in the postal service, or something for the city, and at the very least you’ll always know where you are.”

  “Do you consider this to be a mystical-guru-wisdom-of-the-East kind of thing?”

  “Knowledge is knowledge. Now put out the light and let’s get some sleep. We have a lot of territory to cover tomorrow.”

  There were a couple of old-fashioned pressed-steel chairs on our porch. These were the kind of chairs that come in different colors, have a metal seat and back, steel pipe arms, and a slightly springy base so the chairs seem to rock a little. You can’t sit on them wearing shorts in hot weather because the sun will have heated the chairs to a burning temperature; likewise when it’s cold, they will freeze your tuchas. They belonged to my grandparents, who bought them at Sears and Roebuck for five dollars apiece. I knew this because the price tags were still glued on the backs. You wouldn’t think anyone would bother to steal one of these chairs, but someone did, or anyway tried to. Lhasa woke up barking like a maniac, shot down the stairs, and pounded on the front door with her paws. I stumbled after her, not sure what was happening, but sure it was something. When I opened the door, Lhasa shot through with a growl that turned into some serious barking. She never left the porch, just kept up an ear-piercing racket, and I could see the thief abandon the chair he had carried down to the street and run off into the night. He was laughing! He was waving his arms as he ran away!

  So it was some kind of prank or goof. That made more sense than anyone wanting one of those chairs enough to break the law to get it. It was a drunk, or a crazy person, just having some obnoxious fun. I stood there on the porch, in my pajamas, with Lhasa, who was wearing a satisfied expression. She had protected her territory, which apparently our house had become. If I had an expression, it would have been a puzzled expression. I didn’t get a good look at the chair thief, but from what I could see, he appeared to be someone I knew.

  But it couldn’t have been. The laughing, arm-waving, crazy porch-furniture-stealing, antisocial idiot could not have been who I thought I’d seen. It could not have been the intellectual and quiet, pessimistic and polite Vern Chuckoff from camp.

  My parents and brother, Maurice, were awakened by the attempted robbery and demonstration of dog vocal power, but they arrived after the show was over. I explained it to them, and their comment was what you’d expect. They wondered why anybody would want to steal one of those chairs, which they only kept out of affection for my mother’s parents, whose chairs they had been. My father’s parents had left us a hideous birdbath, which went nicely with the chairs.

  The Guru slept through the whole business. When I asked him how he had been able to do that, he said, “The dog handled it, didn’t she? There was no reason for me to wake up.”

  Not only did Lhasa handle it—if handling was the same as making an incredible amount of noise—but a couple of times it almost sounded as though she had said the word “woof,” instead of barking. Dogs can make a sort of “woo” sound, but their lips are such that they can’t do an “f.”

  The very next night, there was another unusual event. A disturbance, only not noisy enough to wake the whole house, and apparently Lhasa didn’t consider it a threat, so I was the only one who heard it.

  “Haka

  Waka

  Ha

  Ha

  Ha

  Hakawakaha, Hakawakaha

  Camp camp camp camp

  Svaha!”

  It was the Hakawakaha camp cheer. There were a couple of voices out in the street, not loud enough to wake people up, except me. Maybe that was because I knew the cheer, and it resonated with the memory in my head. I got out of bed, went downstairs, switched on the porch light, and stepped outside. Sitting in one of the pressed-steel porch chairs was none other than Vern Chuckoff, and in the other was a girl, sort of small, with biggish hands and feet.

  “Hey, Mick! This is my girlfriend, Molly.”

  “I’m not his girlfriend.”

  “Well, she’s a girl and she’s my friend.”

  “I wouldn’t say I’m his friend either.”

  “Molly comes from the Catskill Mountains, across the river. Her family are some of those old-fashioned people who don’t use electricity, and wear beards and straw hats and all that.”

  “That’s so,” Molly said. “Only it’s the men who have beards. The women are cute, like me.”

  “By the way, I didn’t know this was your house, or I would never have tried to steal the chair,” Vern Chuckoff said.

  “Why did you want to steal it at all?” I asked.

  “I’m a juvenile delinquent is why. Molly is one, too.”

  “Well, the part about me is true,” Molly said. “Vern is a pretty poor excuse for a delinquent.”

  “Molly lives in the park. She sleeps in a tree.”

  “It’s not because I have to. I can afford to rent the fanciest apartment in Poughkeepsie, or buy a mansion if I feel like it.”

  “And as you can see, she’s crazy. Don’t you think I’m cool to have a girlfriend like this?”

  “Not your girlfriend.”

  “OK, I’m cool that she hangs out with me.”

  “I hang out with a sagacious guru,” I said.

  At this point the Guru appeared in the doorway with Lhasa. “The dog wants scrambled eggs,” he said. “Why don’t you invite your friends to join us in the kitchen, and not too much noise, please.”

  10.

  “Lest anyone think I’m taking advantage of Mick’s parents’ hospitality, this dozen eggs was given to us by some kind householders,” the Guru said.

  “We go around begging for food,” I said.

  “Accepting sincere tributes is not begging. I am going to prepare scrambled eggs in the traditional Tibetan style.”

  Traditional Tibetan style turned out to be with buttered whole wheat toast and coffee.

  “It’s how they made them at the monastery where I used to stay,” the Guru said. “Now what is it with you kids ranging around at night, chanting and trying to make off with other people’s property?”

  “Yes, what is it with you, Vern? Just a few weeks ago you were a quiet and serious kid, if a little depressing to be around.”

  “I met Molly,” Vern Chuckoff said. “She showed me a whole new way to be. We make noise at night in residential neighborhoods, we drink wine, and as you saw, we’re getting into stealing porch furniture.”

  “And I am crazy,” Molly said. “A friend of mine told me I’d go crazy if I crossed the Hudson River and came to live in Poughkeepsie, and turns out she was right.”

  “Poughkeepsie is all right if you’re used to it,” I said. “But what prompted you to leave the majestic Catskill Mountains and come here in the first place?”

  “A witch told me I had to,” Molly said.

  “Oh, a witch. That’s right up my street,” the Guru said. “I understand something about your situation and condition. But why do you say you’re crazy? What makes you think so?”

  “I’m not myself,” Molly said. “I say and think things I don’t recognize, and I do things I never did before.”

  “Like sleeping in a tree?”

  “No, I’ve always done that, off and on. I mean, being obnoxious and antisocial, waking people up, knocking over garbage cans—that was never me before.”

  “And this all happened when you moved to Poughkeepsie from across the river?”

  “Right. When my friend suggested it would happen, but I thought she just meant I would go out of my mind with boredom living in this town.”

  “As many do,” the Guru said. “I have a few thoughts about you kids. If you have no objection, I could share some observations with you.”

  “Share away,” Molly said.

  “I’ll start with Vern,” the Guru said. “He is a nice boy, but he was obviously so boring that he bored himself, and could barely stand it. He runs into Molly, who is embarking on a career as a small-time criminal nuisance, and it’s a wonderful improvement, so he joins her. If she were bungee jumping off the Mid-Hudson Bridge, or trying to get skunks to spray her, it would have been just as attractive.”

  “Can we do those things?” Vern asked. “I’m not scared of skunks.”

  “Now, Molly’s case is more complicated. Molly, do you know you have a special destiny? I have one myself, so I know what I’m talking.”

  “The witch may have mentioned something about it. By the way, this was not some local neighborhood witch. It’s the Catskill Witch, the gold standard of witchery, a well-known witch, who’s very much respected.”

  “Who has not heard of the Catskill Witch?” Guru Lumpo Smythe-Finkel said. “I wouldn’t presume to add anything to her instruction, but I might mention one thing, if you will permit.”

  “It would be wrong to accept a man’s scrambled eggs and then refuse to listen to his advice.”

  “I won’t say much, except that going through a crisis is part of a certain kind of destiny; it’s normal, and you’re stuck with it, for the present, anyway.”

  “By ‘crisis,’ you mean being crazy?”

  “Call it that. Just don’t get depressed over it. It’s not likely to be permanent, or if it is, you’ll get used to it.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “I’m a sagacious guru.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “How about me?” Vern Chuckoff asked. “Do you have any advice for me?”

  “I do, as a matter of fact. You should find a hobby, something involving skill, something artistic, maybe.”

  “I was thinking of taking up graffiti.”

  “That would be perfect.”

  11.

  “So can I come with you some time when you go out begging?” Molly asked.

  “We don’t go around specifically to beg,” the Guru said. “We just beg—that is to say, allow people to contribute some food—when it’s time to eat.”

  “I’m not sure I see the difference,” Molly said.

  “It’s like this,” the Guru said. “In this culture, the guy who owns a factory or a big company is at the top of the heap, socially and economically. But in some cultures, the guy who begs for his bread, namely the wandering monk, or lama, or as in my case, a sagacious guru, is considered the best kind of person you can be, and people like to participate and maybe pick up some good luck by making with the donations.”

  “What would you say if I were to offer you a big fat gold coin worth thousands of dollars?” Molly asked the Guru.

  “I would say, ‘no thanks,’ but if I hadn’t just enjoyed scrambled eggs, I would be very happy to accept a cheese sandwich or a slice of pie.”

  “Interesting.”

  “And now, I must call an end to this scrambled egg party,” the Guru said. “Mick and I have places to go in the morning.”

  12.

  At 8:45 every morning, the Dunk’n’Dunk on Lord Cornbury Boulevard throws out the stale and broken doughnuts from the night before, and if you go around the back and slip a buck to the employee, or if you’re us, let Lhasa give out with her special irresistible look, you can go away with a bag containing a dozen assorted, in various conditions. On this particular morning, who should we meet, sitting on a garbage can behind the shop and nibbling on a cruller, but Molly?

  “They have pumpkin ones,” she said.

  “So, you know about the best doughnut deal in Poughkeepsie,” Guru Lumpo Smythe-Finkel said.

  “Of course, I could buy the whole store if I wanted,” Molly said. “But I prefer doughnuts when they’re just going stale.”

  “Crazy as a loon,” I whispered to the Guru, and to Molly I said, “Is Vern Chuckoff with you this morning?”

  “Vern is spray-painting slogans on an abandoned factory building,” Molly said. “I’m going to bring him these doughnuts.”

  “Give Mick a minute to negotiate for a sack of lemon creme-filled and we’ll come along with you, if we may.”

  “It will be an honor,” Molly said.

  Molly was an excellent walker. She had no problem keeping up with the Guru, and I even had the feeling she was holding back a little. Without showing off, or being obnoxious about it, she took the lead, and we went where she wanted to go.

  One of the things Poughkeepsie could be famous for, if Poughkeepsie were famous, is abandoned factory buildings. Over the years, even over the centuries, there have been all kinds of manufacturing and industry, going all the way back to when dead whales were dragged up the Hudson River and cut up, processed, had their oil extracted, and maybe kibbled, for all I know. The whale-processing business was carried pit seventy-five miles up the river from New York Harbor, because that way it was considered less likely that pirates would show up . . . and . . . steal the whales? It doesn’t make sense to me, but they teach this in school. Various other products came from Poughkeepsie, such as decks of cards, underwear, and beer, and when any of the companies that made them moved or shut down, they’d just leave the factory to fall apart.

  The most famous Poughkeepsie product was cough drops. The Smith Brothers cough drop factory opened in 1847, and the little white boxes with the pictures of the two bearded Smith Brothers were known all over the world. Not generally known is that Poughkeepsie was a center of cough-drop making before the Smith Brothers came to town. Algonquin Slippery Elm Lozenges went back to 1712, for example, and in the 19th century, any number of cough-drop factories opened in Poughkeepsie in an effort to trade on Smith Brothers’s fame. There was Smooth Brothers, Beard Brothers, and Schmidt Brothers, each of which had a factory, and each of which went broke or moved away, and each factory was left abandoned.

  Sometimes the abandoned factory didn’t disintegrate all at once. For example, a handsome brick structure where sidesaddles for lady equestrians were made closed down when ladies stopped using those, but was taken over by another concern that made horsehair-stuffed seat cushions for wagons, and later for automobiles. Next, the building housed a firm that made wooden water buckets, and then one that specialized in umbrella handles. Each time another manufacturing business took over, the place got crummier, broken windows weren’t repaired, roof leaks weren’t patched, and bricks fell out of walls.

  The reason I know all this is because of Mr. Hatch, my fourth-grade teacher, who was a local history enthusiast. He took our class on field trips. We’d stand among the weeds and broken pavement in what had been a parking lot and look at some pathetic former factory while he told us all about it. So I knew exactly where I was when Molly led us to what had once been Rosenblatt Brothers Churnworks, which made wooden objects like a barrel with a straight handle sticking out the top. People used to pump the handle up and down to make butter from milk or cream. Vern Chuckoff was busily decorating the brick walls of the old factory with slogans: 320,000 viruses affect mammals; if you are under 30 the world will run out of drinking water in your lifetime; 10 companies control all the food in the world; the Earth is hit by 6,100 meteors every year; 60% of world population lives within 60 miles of the sea.

  I was impressed by Vern’s very neat printing, and how straight and parallel the lines were. He had chosen pink and pastel blue and green for his colors.

  “This is just for practice,” Vern Chuckoff said. “Not very many people come here, but when I get better at it, I am planning to show my work downtown, the railroad station, and a couple of water tanks.”

 

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