Angry Buddhist (9781609458867) Read Online Free PDF Page A

anti-social tendencies to compulsive poeticizing, they will all be lucky.
    Dale is slumped in the backseat, eyes closed, counting the minutes to Palm Springs, when he feels the car turning. They cross over the railroad tracks and into the town of Mecca. When Dale opens his eyes he sees a gas station just across the tracks and a
groceria
. Beyond that an auto parts shop and combination billiard hall/video arcade. Laid out on a grid, the town of Mecca evokes the other side of the solar system, as far from the well-irrigated green belt that runs from Palm Springs to Rancho Mirage to Indio as the Earth is from Saturn’s Rings. Everyone on the streets, a woman in front of her house, a girl waiting for a bus, a man standing by the open hood of a beat-up Toyota pickup, looks Mexican.
    â€œWhat are we doing here?” Dale asks.
    â€œGot you a place,” Randall says. “Friend of mine built some units down here. Clean, new, got the wheelchair access.”
    â€œIn Mecca?” Dale does not sound pleased.
    â€œYou can’t afford Palm Springs yet, little brother.”
    â€œYou want to tell me what I’m supposed to do when I’m down in Mecca Town? Wanna mess around . . . bring my peoples down . . . ”
    â€œStay out of trouble, that’s what.”
    Dale slumps deeper into the backseat, his poetic verve evaporating. Randall looks up from his BlackBerry. “Who’s this Desert Machiavelli guy, you think?”
    â€œThe blogger?” Maxon asks. “Damned if I know.”

CHAPTER THREE
    Â 
    S unlight fires from under a drawn plastic shade and lights the interior of a mountainside mobile home. Tropical fish drift past swimming east and west in a variegated palette of hues. They are on Jimmy’s plasma screen television, a continuous silent loop that he plays when whatever is available for his viewing pleasure annoys him. This is most of the time. What he had enjoyed most about the fish when he purchased the DVD on which they swim was that he didn’t need to feed them or clean their tank. It was right after his wife had left and the video fish were all the companionship he wanted. But he has come to appreciate the sense of meditative calm with which they move. Looks at his watch. Is it already nearly ten o’clock? That means he actually fell asleep at some point last night, which provides him with a fleeting moment of happiness.
    Rising from the couch, Jimmy steps over a maze of Chinese takeout containers and Mountain Dew empties and pads over the fraying Navajo rug into the bathroom. No one’s around, so he leaves the door open behind him. He’s achy this morning, his muscles sore. Insomnia has plagued him his whole life and right now he feels as if he hasn’t slept in a month.
    The trailer is a two bedroom with a kitchenette. Nothing on the white walls, a maroon couch—the color selected for its ability to conceal stains—a table, and two chairs.
Two
chairs. That day at Ikea, Jimmy was optimistic. Figured why decorate? He’s going to be renting for only a month. That was a year ago. Darlene had told him the marriage was over. He stayed drunk for a week.
    Here he is in the mirror. Sick of looking like a mug shot. Runs warm water, lathers his face, shaves. There. That’s good. No, it’s not. But it’s a start. Today, he thinks, is going to be a good day.
    â€œRight, Bruno?” he says to the German shepherd sleepily eyeing him. Bruno stirs himself from his mottled plaid bed, gets to his feet and performs a downward facing dog. Jimmy opens the door of the trailer and lets him out.
    After he measures out the coffee, a dark Sumatra that buzzes him at one and a half cups, Jimmy sits at his kitchen table and waits for it to brew. In front of him is a photo album
.
His anger management counselor, an overweight guy with ginger hair, a bald spot, and a wispy voice that made Jimmy want to wring his neck, had suggested that as part of his