The last I heard from the good doctor he was on his way to Hawaii for what he called R & R. This was in July if my memory serves, mid-summer here on the Platinum Coast, the height of baseball season. July feels like a long time ago. I went by Duke’s place in Mission Canyon a few times between Halloween and Christmas to see if he had returned, but each time the rustic house looked deserted and my knock on the front door went unanswered.
I figured Duke was out of the country, shacked up with a new woman and up to his eyeballs in difficulties. I’ve never understood exactly what women see in Duke. He’s almost an official senior citizen, opinionated, unsentimental, obdurate, a devoted abuser of booze and illicit drugs, and on the radar of the FBI.
And yet, women fall for him.
But perhaps I’m being unfair. Duke can be charming and amusing when it suits him, and at heart I think he’s an old fashioned romantic. He’s also the only man I’ve ever known who reads Plato for fun.
A couple of days ago I dropped my daughter off at a play date not far from Duke’s house, and on my way home stopped by to see if there was any sign of him. A gardener’s pick-up bristling with tools was parked in the driveway next to Duke’s black Prius. From the back of the house I heard the whine of a chainsaw. Diffused sunlight filtered through the oak trees, glinting off the feathers of a large crow that hopped along the ridge of the roof.
The front door was unlocked so I let myself in, calling out, “Hey, Doc” as I did. I usually found the doctor in his cluttered study off the foyer – the same room where he had botched his suicide attempt. The bullet hole in the ceiling hadn’t been repaired. I noticed that the desk was tidy and someone – certainly not Duke – had rearranged the books on his shelves. Duke must have hired a new housekeeper because the floor and countertops in the kitchen gleamed, and the odor of pine cleaner still lingered. I opened the big Sub-Zero refrigerator expecting to see a phalanx of Heineken bottles, but instead found a dozen bottles of Evian water. The crisper was full of fresh broccoli, asparagus, cauliflower, snap peas, radishes, kale, carrots and celery. There were no meat or dairy products to be found. No eggs, either.
I walked through the living room, noticing immediately the empty space on the wall where the 50” flat screen TV had hung, and down the hallway that led to the den and bedrooms. “Doc, where the hell are you? What’s with all the water and vegetables?”
As I neared the den the smell of sandalwood incense became stronger. I pushed the door open and carefully poked my head inside. The room had been redecorated, the walls stripped of paintings and framed photographs and painted the color of a ripe pomegranate; the ceiling was now the color of mustard. The comfortable leather sofa and chairs I had always admired were gone, and the hardwood floor had been replaced with tatami matting. The only piece of furniture was a low table on which sat a black teapot and two small cups, and a single stick of incense in a porcelain holder.
And there was Duke, sitting on a black meditation cushion in the center of the floor, back erect and eyes half-closed, clad in a brown monk’s robe. He was barefoot and had shaved his head. “Doc,” I said, “what the hell is going on?”
“Tang-o,” he said softly. “Take your shoes off and join me. Get a cushion from the closet.”
I tossed a purple cushion on the floor and sat down. Duke’s eyes were still half-lidded.
“How’s the family?” he asked.
“Good. Kids are driving us crazy, but that goes with the territory. Terry’s wonderful. I don’t have much to complain about.”
“And the job?”
“Status quo. Huge budget cuts, potential layoffs, furlough days. Where’ve you been the past six months?”
Duke opened his eyes, but otherwise remained as still as a statue, a stillness so complete that I found it unnerving. His brown eyes were as clear as I ever remembered seeing them, his appearance serene and peaceful, two states of being I had never associated him with. The transformation was astounding. This was the same man who once railed against the burgeoning American police state and advocated armed revolution!
“Traveling. Nepal. India. Japan. Searching for answers in the ancient world, following the footsteps of the masters through ashrams and monasteries. I experienced revelations, epiphanies and insights about the way I’ve lived my life, what I’ve done, what I’ve valued. The decision to renounce my former life and pursue a spiritual path came quite easily. Surprised?”
“Flabbergasted,” I said. “You quit the booze and weed cold turkey?”
A tiny smile played on Duke’s face. “Well, at first I tried to have it both ways. I thought I might ease into spiritual practice, meditate for an hour or two every day, take a couple of bong hits, and go about my business. Just like me to attempt to purify my monkey mind and then pollute it with weed and hours of CNN. That’s why I removed all the TV’s from the house. Swore off sex, too, believe it or not. That was many times harder than giving up TV.”
“This is freaking me out,” I said. “Doc, what happened to your sense of moral outrage?”
“It wasn’t taking me anywhere,” Duke said, “except in circles. I was constantly at war inside my own being. But swimming in my own pond was killing me.” He closed his eyes and paused, as if trying to bring up a memory. Outside the window, the gardener was raking leaves and singing to himself in Spanish. “Sooner or later,” Duke said, “one must drain the pond and allow it to be refilled with fresh water.”
“That sounds like a message from a fortune cookie.”
“Useful wisdom is usually simple,” Duke said. “Tell me, what’s happening in the world?”
I gave him a rundown on Syria and Egypt, the ratcheting tension between Iran, Israel and the United States, the still sluggish economy that was punishing the poor, and the latest goings on with the GOP candidates for president. He listened impassively, his eyes never leaving mine until I mentioned Rick Santorum’s sudden surge. The moment I did Duke’s calm and serenity evaporated, and a look of loathing settled on his face.
“Santorum! You’ve got to be kidding! The GOP must have a death wish. Santorum is a certifiable Christian crackpot. Leave it to him and he’d sew every vagina in the country shut.”
“Can’t trust a man who wears sweater vests,” I said.
Duke rose to his feet and began pacing around the room. “No surprise that Gingrich hit the skids. The more people see of Newt, the less they like him. Romney’s a piss-ant who will say anything he thinks will get him elected. But Santorum…how in hell…that stupid bastard once said on the record that he had no problem with homosexuality, only homosexual acts. Can you believe he said that? The man has the brainpower of a worm and the soul of a cockroach. How can such a pinhead be the frontrunner! Sweet Jesus! It’s unthinkable. It’s monstrous. It’s preposterous.”
I didn’t know what to tell him, other than that democracy is messy and unpredictable, particularly in difficult times when hope is a scarce commodity and the future looks uncertain and the incumbent political leaders appear corrupt and bumbling. People quite understandably look for a savior, someone who seems to know the way to go, what to do. Santorum’s religious rhetoric and Ozzie & Harriet worldview is reassuring and comforting to some people.
“To the barricades,” Duke suddenly yelled. “Let’s go!” He dashed out of the room, his brown robe flapping around his knees. “To the barricades before it’s too late.” I ran after him, sure he was having a flashback to Berkeley in the 60’s, to the days when he was young and believed that he and his peers had the power to change the world, eradicate poverty and bring the war in Vietnam to a halt. Before I could catch him he was out the front door. I saw him veer toward the gardener’s truck and grab a pitchfork from the back. Then he was again running at full tilt, heading for Mission Canyon Road in his bare feet.
“Doc,” I called. “There are no barricades. Drop the pitchfork.”
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