Red Velvet is only okay when you're talking about a cupcake!

January 25, 2011:

Amy and I are riding the elevator in silence, moving upward steadily.

Amy finally speaks, giving me a caveat for what is about to take place.

“When we walk inside, everyone will probably be chanting. I’m just warning you so you aren’t surprised, or weirded out.”

I explain to her that I am fully prepared and that I won’t feel uncomfortable at all. I have already been to one other Buddhist meeting and have read up on some of the teachings.

We get off at floor 8, and cross the hallway. Amy taps the knocker on apartment C.

I can hear voices on the other side of the wall, and It sounds a bit like someone is holding a choir practice.

As we wait to be invited i feel as though I’m on the TV show “The Price is Right”, and Drew Carey is about to reveal what is behind my mystery door .I know that I am not about to win ten grand, or a new car, but Amy once testified about the benefits of Buddhism in her own life over margaritas and queso dip. I agreed to at least entertain the idea.

I hear the latch jiggle and my heart stirs some. The door swings open.

Behind it is a short, chubby man with thinning hair and an infectious grin. I am immediately sure that the smile never leaves his face.

“Amy!” He shrieks,“It’s so good to see you! And, you have a guest! That is just so wonderful.”

We enter and I see a group of about 10 people sitting in fold out chairs, facing a scroll covered in Asian characters. The scroll sits above some sort of wooden alter, and is surrounded by candles and incense. The room smells strongly of their burn.

“NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO.” Everyone utters in unison.

They continue to say the words over and over, and the harmonious sound of it is melodic, and angelic, even.

Amy signals for me to take a seat by her in the middle of the room.

“NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO.”

A man sitting in the front row turns around, handing me a laminated card with the chant written on it phonetically. I know his actions are my invitation to join in.

I scan the room again in search of what to do by example. Next to me, a small Indian woman with closed eyes hangs her hands in prayer, her songlike voice repeating the words NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO. The man on my left has his gaze set on the scroll at the front of the living area. He is wearing a red tie and slacks, and looks as though he just came from wall street.

“NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO”.

Aside from the voices, my ears rest on another sound. Four or five people are clasping strands of beads, and moving them in their hands in a back and forth motion, in the fashion of a child wielding a snake out of clay, or an outdoorsman lighting a fire with twigs. The beads knock against each other creating small pops and crackles.

Amy leans over and whispers, “The key is to choose something to devote your chant to. It can be a person, or a goal. Maybe it can be for inner peace, or to love others more openly. It’s up to you.”

I nod and close my eyes, becoming extremely self conscious, but inwardly knowing that nobody is judging me for being here. Everyone is in the same room, but aloof, alone in their own thoughts.

 My throat is becoming hot and dry and panicky. I feel my neck start to perspire.

“NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO”, everyone continues.

I feel suffocated by the words

“NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO.”

I want to open my eyes and sprint from the room.

“NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO.”

Suddenly, I remember something that was spoken at the last meeting:

“Buddhism is about overcoming obstacles in our lives through will power, positive thinking, and self control.”

I ponder this statement, then scrunch my eyes shut even tighter. My whole face is wrinkled in effort, and I am sure I look like I am in physical pain.

“Relax, Jess”, I mutter under my breath, “Nobody can hear you but yourself”

I spotlight the corners of my mind for a focal point, something worth devotion.

Filed away in a small drawer  I find a memory, long forgotten, but still precious. It is one that involves me and my family on a road trip to the red wood forest.  In this memory we are driving through a sunlit canyon near the California coast. The air smells of wet pine from a recent rain shower, and my head is resting against the window and the air conditioning is tickling my face. My little brother is asleep on my mom’s lap in the passenger’s seat, and my dad is playing John Denver on a cassette tape. I feel carefree, and the sort of contentment that only a child can have. I run fingers through my mom’s hair, as I often do out of habit. Even at age nine, I recognize the quality of the moment. I know I am lucky.

I open my mouth now, the words “NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO” spill from my lips with easiness.

“NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO”

'Family', I think.

“NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO”

'Love.'

“NAM-MYOHO-RENGE-KYO”

'Peace.'

January 30th, 2011:

Eamon is sitting next to me on the bed and moving my fingers into the position of b Sharp. I strum once with my right hand and an angry mix of notes reverberate off the strings.  I quickly silence my guitar, apologizing.
“Ah, sorry! That was horrible sounding.”

“It’s a tough stretch, but your  fingers will get there. It just takes time.” He says.                        

“Yeah well, Eamon, It’s true. Practice makes perfect.”

“Jesus Jess, why are you always speaking in fortune cookie? Is it all that new Buddhist crap?” He jests

“Just call me Gandhi”, I retort.

I set the guitar down and turn my palms upward, bending my fingers for examination. My nails have been clipped short. Eamon asked me to cut them last week.

“There is no way you’re going to improve with a manicure like that.” He said.

It had been hard to do. I’d always taken pride in the length of my nails and the femininity of my hands. Cutting them off was an act of dedication, and proof of my devotion to music.  Furthermore, the tips of my fingers had become calloused and rough from fretting. They were now masculine looking, like I had spent weeks laboring in a lumberyard or steel mill.

Eamon is getting up to leave now,

“See you later at the apartment, jess.”

I stay upstairs in my stuffy loft transfixed on my instrument, which has cemented a small pothole in my life that previously, I didn’t know existed. Nobody is home, and there is only the sound of my whirling floor fan and my sore fingers on the second fret.   

February 1, 2011:

I pluck the E string on my guitar, and a shrill, noteless sound fills the room. Eamon told me I need to invest in a humidifier to keep my guitar from being ruined by the weather. I’m finally convinced he might be right.

“Ashley, will you go with me to guitar center?” I need to buy something Eamon was telling me about.

“I can’t believe the amount of times I have been to this store in the last three weeks, and I don’t even play an instrument,” she replies.

I know this is not her answer, so I am silent, waiting for a response

“Sure, I’ll go.”

“Thanks Ash, you’re the best!”

Later in the evening we enter the guitar center, which is every musicians version of heaven, and probably what Led Zeppelin envisioned at the end of that stairway. The entire place is made up of two floors and ten rooms.  Odd shaped neon guitars hang on the walls with outstretched necks, and sounds of people tinkering with electric keyboards and demo drum sets fill the place.

Behind the desk I see a boy standing, fiddling with an electric guitar. His eyes are on his left hand as he moves up and down the frets with ease, playing some improvised rock solo. His face is hidden behind his long, wavy hair. He is a natural blonde, and with locks like that, most likely the envy of every girl he’s ever dated.

“Do you have any humidifiers?” I interrupt.

He stops playing and looks up at me. His eyes are blue and stormy.

“Well, not over here, but probably in the acoustic section.”

He walks out from behind the desk, and says  his name is Trevor and that he’ll lead the way. I follow him to a hidden section below the register.

Trevor is sporting a pair of fire truck red, velvet trousers. Now, normally the combination of the color red, and velvet wouldn't be acceptable unless you're talking about a cupcake, however, in his red velvet pants Trevor looks like a sexy rock star magician, or Steven Tyler at a Christmas party.  I’m not unhappy with his sense of style
.

“Is this what you’re looking for?

“Huh?” I say. I am too busy thinking about me and Trevor under the mistletoe at a Christmas party to respond.

“Guitar humidifiers. That is what you need, right?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Are these them?”

“You got it. Anything else I can help you with?”

I want to say: You can serenade me with pink Floyd then run away with me to rocker neverland. Instead, I say:
 "Nope, I think i can take it from here."

My rebellious prince charming gallantly saunters back to the heavy metal section. I am left with my daydreams, and a wall of guitar supplies I know nothing about.

“I have to give him my number.” I say to Ashley in an urgent tone.

“ You’re crazy,” she says, with raised eyebrows, shaking her head.

“No, I’m telling you, we had a connection. Did you not feel it? I have to do something!”

“Well then, go for it, but don’t expect me to be anywhere nearby when you go through with it.”

I quickly choose some inexpensive guitar humidifier off the wall, and proceed to the checkout.

“Should I just give the checkout lady my number and say to pass it on?” I ask Ashley.

“What are we in second grade?! Just walk up to him, and say ‘I think you look hot in those red pants of yours, here’s my number’ and walk off.”

I write my number on my purchase receipt, and glance around the room. 15 feet to my right stands Trevor, passionately plucking away at a fender. 15 feet on my left is the exit, accompanied by a doorman.

I am faced with one of those decisions. You know, the decisions you’re forced  to make hastily, but if you weren’t crunched for time you could weigh and measure pros and cons for hours. 

The more cowardly side of me tips the scales.

“I am just going to give my number to the doorman and tell him to pass it on.”

“It’s Your death sentence,” Ashley says.

I approach the doorman and make eye contact. Ashley is behind me, but trailing by a good distance to avoid what she has instinctively picked up on as impending doom.

“Hi, sir, how are you, could you do me a favor?”

“Umm.. sure”, he says with a puzzled look on his face, “What is it?”

“Do you see this piece of paper?”

“I sure do” he responds.

“And do you see that boy over there in the red pants?”
“Trevor ?”

“Yes, that’s him, and this is my number.  I am about to leave, but I was wondering if you could give it to that boy.”

At first the doorman doesn’t react. I wait anxiously for some type of response. Then slowly, the corners of his mouth rise into a mischievous smile. He resembles the Grinch who stole Christmas in the scene where he gets that wonderful, awful idea to terrorize whoville. I am instantly petrified.

“Why, of course I can” he grins.

The doorman picks up the telephone sitting at the desk in front of him.

“What are you doing?” I blurt.

“Attention attention, “

The man’s voice echoes loudly over the store intercom,

“Attention, Trevor in guitars:  We have a 601 on our hands. There is a blonde girl in the front of the store who wold like to give you her telephone number.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Ashley bolts like lightning out the revolving doors. I am alone in this self created awkward moment. Mortified by how this is turning out, I feel my face grow hot and flush.

There is a customer standing next to me, a middle aged man with a guitar on his back who has just witnessed it all. He is laughing audibly. I turn, shooting him a poisonous look for finding humor in my folly.

“This is funny.” He says between fits of laughter.

“Well, you can thank me for providing your entertainment quota for the day. Am I turning red?”

The customer suddenly perceives my state of panic, and silences his giggling, becoming slightly sympathetic.

“No, no you’re not. You look fine. “

Five other people who heard the announcement have now conglomerated near the exit of the shop to watch the events unfold.
Only 20 seconds have passed since I regrettably handed over my number encrusted receipt, but it feels like 20 minutes.

I am faced with another urgent decision: To wait by the door for Trevor, willingly accepting my unavoidable fate which is surely extreme embarrassment, or to escape.

“Trevor, Trevor?” the doorman repeats over the intercom.

“I think that’s my cue to leave” I tell my audience.

I push past the doorman, stammering thanks, but that I really have to go, hurriedly moving through the turnstile.  The automatic doors burst open, and I run like a soldier on the beaches of Normandy toward Ashley, who I spot a block away.

I hear a voice calling at me from behind. I glance backward while I am jogging, and see the doorman standing outside the shop.

“Run forest, run!” he yells.

I finally reach Ashley, panting some from my Olympic sprint.

“Well that really backfired on you, didn’t it”, she says.
“I don’t even want to hear it Ash.”

There is a subway sandwich store nearby and Ashley is hungry. Ashley orders something, and with no appetite I sit at a Formica table in horrified reflection of what just happened.

Ashley finally joins me with a turkey sub, and we make eye contact. We stare at each other for a second, taking in the previous scenario, then rupture into thunderous laughter.

“Bet you didn’t see that one coming,” I tell her

“With you Jess, I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

We decide I should write a new add for mastercard:

Metro Card to guitar center: $2.50

Guitar humidifier: $13.00

Life lesson on how NOT to pick up on a man, especially one in red velvet pants: Priceless