The Monk’s Retreat

Years ago, there was a restaurant in San Jose, California called “The Monk’s Retreat.” It was nearly all brick and occupied the basement of what looked like an old wine cellar. There was an alcove or niche where the owners had put a wooden chair with a monk sitting in it.

The monk consisted of a hooded robe stuffed with paper, tissue, and newspapers. I’m not sure why they did that. They probably thought it would bring in business, which, by the way, is the subject of another blog: why we do what we do. In any event, I don’t know if it brought in business, but I do know it lent the otherwise decent restaurant an aura of the absurd.

I wish that had been my only experience with monks and the absurd.

Just the other day I found myself walking down Fifth Avenue, minding my own business and trying to skirt tourists in baseball caps, plaid shorts, and sandals gaping up at the tall buildings, when from out of nowhere this monk came up to me. He was a Buddhist monk in saffron robes carrying brochures. I expected them to be about the Chinese occupation of Tibet, but they weren’t. These were about money, as in the monk wanted mine.

The monk stopped me, slipped a beaded bracelet onto my wrist and handed me a Buddha prayer card with the word “peace” on it. I accepted it, which he mistook as a commitment, and then he opened a photo album with a picture of a partly constructed, two-story building in red sitting in what looked like a Walmart parking lot. Apparently, they needed money to finish the building. He kept pointing to it and smiling, which is when I realized this was a silent monk.

Before I could react, he whipped out a notebook (he had the ritual down pat) and showed me a list of names of people he had met on the street who had signed what I thought was a petition. It wasn’t. It was a recording of names and prayer intentions of people who had given him twenty dollars. I didn’t realize that until after I signed the list and tried to walk away. As I did, he grabbed my arm and held me back. He pointed to the list and the column that read, “Donation $20.”

Monks in Times Square

Now, here’s the thing. I am not a stingy person. In fact, I can be pretty generous. I give money when I can, talk to homeless people, refer them to potential employers, and have even taken them out to dinner. I know what it’s like to be vulnerable. But I don’t like to be hustled. It makes me feel stupid. It’s as if everyone involved–me, the hustler, and bystanders–are all worse off for having been exposed to what are usually minor league antics. No, that’s an insult to the minor leagues, which, after all, are professional.

This guy wouldn’t let it go. He held the list of donors up to my face and kept tap-tap-tapping it in what one might describe as a forceful manner. I relented and gave him ten dollars, which is a miracle, because I hardly ever carry cash. Who does? He took the ten-dollar bill but then grabbed my arm again as I tried to leave. More tap-tap-tapping. I actually had a twenty-dollar bill on me as well, which was the extent of my cash. At this point, I was willing to give him the twenty if he returned the ten. I tried to take the ten back, but he moved away and held out his hand, insisting that I live up to our written contract.

I don’t like yelling. I don’t like yelling in public. I don’t like yelling in public at religious men. But now I was mad. I started yelling, telling him that I most certainly was not going to give him twenty dollars. I moved away, he followed. I yelled, he tapped. By now, a small crowd of tourists had formed, wondering how this New Yorker could be so rude to a poor little monk who was just begging alms for his supper. I didn’t care. The guy was a con artist (how did I know he was really a monk?). Mobile phones started coming out.

“No, I’m not giving you twenty dollars! Are you crazy?!?””

And with that, the monk finally stopped. I tried giving back the bracelet and Buddha card, but he refused them. He looked me straight in the eye, folded his hands together in prayer, bowed swiftly but gracefully, and then retreated into the crowd as quickly as he had appeared. It was as if he were shaking the dust off his feet and moving on. There was no hope for me. I was a lost soul.

I was so upset I spent two hours in the basement of the public library contemplating the misery of existence. But it could have been worse. I could have been out twenty bucks instead of ten.

May God have mercy on my soul.

“Monks in Times Square” Flickr photo by Steve Tannock shared under a Creative Commons (BY 2.0) license. Top image by Nikola Johnny Mirkovic on Unsplash.

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2 thoughts on “The Monk’s Retreat

  1. The restaurant was at El Paseo de Saratoga shopping center. The monk sat in what was the wine cellar where bottles for sale were stored. The restaurant was heavy on tile and wood, and had booths on the raised perimeter, with tables below, and a small music performance area. The menu specialty was fondue and wine with things like quiche and sandwiches too. I worked as a waiter in the early 80s there, and have many fond memories of the job and the owners who were very kind and generous people. The restaurant put many a young person through college.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you for this, Todd. It’s possible our paths crossed, since I ate there quite a few times with my uncle and girlfriend. At the time, I worked at Paul Masson Winery, which I have also written about. The early 80s were quite a time in the SJ area. Thanks for taking the time to write and the memories.


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