The Last Laugh Read online

  “Why did they think you were crazy?” I asked.

  “Why d’ya think? Everyone wanted leave in Italy or Greece. It was the first request they’d had for India. Anyway, finally February of ’49 came around and I made that same trip by train and then on to the holy mountain. When I walked back into the hall it was like no time had passed. Ramana looked at me like I’d just stepped out for five minutes and everything was just like it had been the year before. I spent three months working in the kitchen. I learned to make idli, and curry and chai,” Joey chuckled. “Yessir, I grew to love my chai. The old man was getting sick, he had some problem with his arm and he was in a lot of pain. He kept refusing painkillers, but it didn’t seem to make any difference to the kindness and peace in those eyes.

  “I never talked much, I was too shy, but I noticed one thing. Whoever came and sat before him, he would melt and merge and blend into that person. Even though he was sick, if somebody came asking a lot of intellectual questions, he would just give intellectual answers like that’s what he always did. One day, a woman came with some baked stuff she’d made for him. She was tearful and loving, and he was crying, too, and loving her back. Another time, a guy came who was real churned up and angry about something, and then the old man got really stern and angry, too. Although his eyes never changed, his means of expression just shifted to match the person he was with. Watching in those months I learned that’s how you get along with people. You just put yourself aside and meet them in who they are.

  “One night, when the kitchen chief went back to Madras to see his family, they let me take the hot milk in to the old man before he went to sleep. He motioned for me to sit quiet by his side. There was only his attendant in the room with us. The old man looked at me, again for the longest time, and then he said a few words, which wound up shaping the rest of my life. He said, ‘That which you love is That which you are. You will share it wherever you go, you have no choice. But you are an American boy; you are not Indian. It will share itself in an American way.’ Then he closed his eyes. He must have been in a lot of pain at that time, and the attendant motioned for me to leave.”

  Joey picked up his empty cup, looked in it for a few seconds, and put it down.

  “Soon after that exchange I had to head back again to Madras and back to the ship. After that three months, nothing ever changed again. It’s like I’ve spent the rest of my life without ever moving from that spot beside his couch where he said those words. We sailed to America, and I made it back just in time for my brother Patrick’s graduation from college. I had one more year of my contract with the trading company, and then I didn’t know what to do after that.”

  “Was that the last time you saw him?” I asked.

  “I got one more chance,” Joey said. “We were doing more trade with the Far East: Hong Kong, Australia, Indonesia; but early in 1950 there was a ship sailing for Madras. I managed to swap with another engineer so I could be on it. When we arrived, the Indians had tightened up their act a bit and all the goods were ready for an immediate turnaround. I heard that Ramana was really in bad shape. So I went to the captain and told him that I needed three weeks off. He was outraged, and told me if I didn’t go back on the ship I’d lose my job and my severance pay. Now that was quite a dilemma because it meant I’d be stuck in India without a cent in my pocket and no way to get home. But I felt a command from inside, and I had to follow it. So I got on a train and the ship sailed without me.

  “When I made it to the holy mountain, he was bad. They’d built a little shack for him where he was staying, no bigger than ten foot square, and it was obvious he was in his last days. He had cancer. There was a lot of spare time in that period, because he needed a lot of rest. There were visitors coming and going, wealthy Indians, even Indian politicians, and a fair share of Westerners, too.

  “I filed by with the rest of them to see him. His body was really weak, but the look in those eyes never changed. Finally, he sent a message to me through one of his attendants, that I should go back to America, there was no need for me to be there anymore.”

  Joey stretched out his legs, leaning back. He closed his eyes for a moment.

  “When I got to Bombay, I picked up a newspaper and found that he had died. Strangely enough, it didn’t seem to bother me one bit. Even people who didn’t know him too well were all churned up and crying. But those kind and peaceful eyes seemed just as alive with his body dead as they were when he was alive. That night I looked up in the sky and I saw the biggest comet I’d ever seen. It lit up the street like it was daylight. People saw it all over India.”

  Joey suddenly noticed the empty plate, sprung to his feet with it, and left the room. Sam and I sat there, without a word. I tried to catch her eye, but she became fascinated by the weave of the blanket covering the chair and studied it with concentration.

  Joey returned after a few minutes with a full plate and fresh tea. His story continued. “When I got back to Madras, of course I was on the black list. No one would give me a berth home or a job. There was a very well-dressed-looking fella wandering around supervising the unloading of refrigerators, name of Klein. When I was done with getting rejected for the fifth time, he asked me if I wanted to go for lunch. It was his first time in India; he was lost like a fish out of water. I showed him around the town. By the time the day was done, he offered me a job as a technical engineer back home. Of course, having no backup plan, I had no choice but to accept.

  “We got to talking on the voyage home, turned out the guy was filthy rich and filthy unhappy. Had a drinking problem, a marriage problem, and a personality problem to boot. Almost every night he would drink too much, then yell at the crew about something or another. I was mighty embarrassed, I must tell you. But I just found myself listening and blending in with him just the way that the old man had blended in with me. And as the days went by, he seemed to soften and get happier. Once we got back to New York, he got me set me up, and latched onto me more as some kind of support and friend than as an engineer. Within a few months I became like his personal assistant with his real estate deals. I learned a thing or two, and I figured out that you didn’t need money to buy real estate, you just needed credit.”

  Joey stretched again, obviously enjoying this bit of the story. With Klein’s help, Joey started to buy property himself, and within a couple of years had the titles to four buildings. He met Katie, a secretary in Klein’s office, married her, and had two sons. Seems Joey had the golden touch: every real estate deal was a triumph. By the mid-’50s he went into building new homes in the suburbs of New York. Then he started to buy lumber in Canada, had it milled, and had enough for his own projects as well as plenty to sell at a markup.

  “By 1958 I had enough for five men to retire. We had a nice brownstone on Madison Avenue in New York. I was selling houses to all of New York’s rich and famous. When the Indian guru fad hit, a client who knew I’d been over there invited me to his house to give a talk. Soon we were having informal meetings around New York. That was really how I began a sort of teaching thing, and the seeds Ramana had planted started to bear fruit. It was almost ten years later, although it was very informal, just a meeting of friends.”

  Joey got tired of business, put it all in the hands of managers, and took his family to Europe in 1960. They lived there for several years, he got involved with rock bands, with theater people; whatever was hot, Joey seemed to have had a finger in it. In ’62 they came back to the States, moved to L.A. He became involved in the Actor’s Workshop and met Marilyn Monroe.

  “She was trying to climb out of the rut of being a sex symbol and become a serious actress,” Joey went on. “One night Milos Forman told me Marilyn was in a bad way and sent me over to try to calm her down. I had become some sort of guru-cum-therapist to that crowd. She was a beauty, that woman, not just to look at. She had deep passion to find out who she really was. We soon struck up a friendship, she would call me or Katie any time of the day or night. We lived nearby, off La Cienega i
n Hollywood.

  “That was how I met Jack Kennedy. One night I was at home late, and the phone rang. It was Marilyn, she was over at Frank Lurie’s house, the fashion photographer. She was real upset and disoriented. So I went over there, and we talked a while. I took her home and made her ginger tea. She liked that. Suddenly, after midnight, there were three rings on the doorbell downstairs. Next thing I know, I’m sitting in the kitchen with Marilyn and the President of the United States and a bunch of Secret Service agents patrolling in the garden. He was all caught up in a fight with Fidel Castro and right on the edge of going to war with Cuba. We wound up having quite a conversation there. I think he was surprised that I didn’t bow and scrape to him. I think I helped him see that warfare and intolerance were only going to lead to more of the same, but I was surprised when he came out a few days later and reversed his policy on Cuba. That would have been the spring of ’63. We met up a few times after that, too, before he got himself killed. Jack was a good man, but in talking to him I realized that if the head of the whole shebang was that stressed out, man we had to do something different.

  “So we bought up a bunch of land out in Virginia and looked for people who were interested in living for something more abiding than money and fame. We started our first community with thirty people. It was a great time; everything was up for grabs. Every value we had held sacred was being questioned. I got to know Fritz Perls and Ginsberg and Ram Dass. Seemed like there was nothing we couldn’t change.”

  Joey’s story continued to weave among actors, musicians, and writers, some of whom I’d heard of, all of whom had been formative. In the mid-’70s he was in the middle of anti-Vietnam activism, and had to go to Canada for a while to avoid arrest. In this way, he later became involved with the United Nations as an informal advisor. He traveled to India, and befriended the Tibetan community in Dharamsala, helping to establish several Tibetan compounds in Southern India. In the late ’70s he saw the great potential of computers, and learned how to program them, as a hobby. He helped out a couple of students start their own company out of a garage, who went on to spearhead the computer revolution.

  You name it, he’d been there.

  “So that’s what I mean,” said Joey. “You’ve got to live a full human life. There ain’t no way to avoid it. Life’s going to send things your way, and there’s not much you can do about it. I figure I’ve done everything I ever wanted to in this life.” He paused. “There’s only two experiences I missed out on.”

  My curiosity was certainly piqued. “What are they?” I asked.

  “I’ve never been arrested, and I’ve never jumped out of an airplane.” He paused, seeing if there was anything to add to the list. “Nope, that’s it. I’ve done everything else.” With that he glanced over his shoulder at the clock. “Now what time did you say your bus was?”

  “Twelve-ten is the last bus.”

  “Well my, look at the time. It’s seven after right now.” He laughed. I was shocked. I couldn’t believe we’d been sitting there for two hours.

  “Even sprinting, you’ll never make it,” he told me. He turned to Sam. “You’ll have to put him up for the night, Sam.”

  Sam was visibly shaken. She looked almost angry. “But Joey, I just have a one-room studio.”

  “Don’t matter. You brought him here, you’d better look after him.”

  “But—,” stuttered Sam. “But can’t he stay here with you?”

  “No one ever stays here, Sam, you know that. Can’t an old man have a bit of peace?”

  And with that, he pushed down on the arms of his chair in characteristic fashion, bade us goodnight, and disappeared into his bedroom. Sam looked like a cornered animal.

  “Look, it’s okay,” I said. “I can walk home. I don’t mind.”

  “No,” she said. “I’ve got to do what he says. You can sleep on the couch.”

  CHAPTER 8

  THE SOFA BED

  We stepped out into a much heavier rain than the night before. This wasn’t drizzle; this was a downpour, and neither of us had an umbrella.

  “It’s several blocks,” Sam muttered, still looking very bitter.

  We hurried through the rain in awkward silence. By the time we reached her building, we were both drenched. At first sight, it seemed the converted warehouse couldn’t possibly be home to anyone. She led me through the sliding heavy gate to an industrial elevator and pressed a button for the top floor. The elevator had no door, just a metal folding grill from floor to ceiling. On our ascent we could see the corporate offices of an outdoor equipment firm, then an aerobics and fitness center, then some more offices, until finally we were delivered to the studio apartments on the top floor. A rough Hessian carpet ran the entire length of the long corridor. Outside the many doors were parked strollers, bicycles, even skis. Her apartment was one of the last. She opened the door, still in moody silence, and let us in. She wasn’t lying about its modest size. It was truly one room. A sofa, chair, TV, stereo, and coffee table filled the main area and just an open arch led to a space that held a bed and a dresser. There was a kitchen sink and hot plate in a corner of the living room. The only doorway led into a tiny bathroom.

  “You’re very wet,” she said, avoiding my eyes. “I’ll give you something to change into.” She stepped into the bedroom alcove and reappeared moments later with some sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a towel. “You can sleep there,” she said, pointing to the couch. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

  “Sure,” I said, “and thanks. I know this is a little awkward for you.”

  “It’s okay. I’m going to take a shower now,” she muttered. “Do you want one after I’m done?” I declined. She put the teakettle on the hot plate and flipped a switch on the very impressive stereo that dominated her apartment like a large lion in a small den. It would have better suited a downtown disco. The song was something I knew, but could not quite name. She disappeared into the bathroom.

  I dried off my hair with the towel, took off my wet clothes, and put on the ones she’d given me. A few minutes later, she came back from the bathroom in a white bathrobe, modestly pulled tight around her body with a belt. Pink pajama legs poked out at floor level. Her blonde hair was much longer when wet, her eyes an even more penetrating blue. She made the tea and sat down in a chair. The stereo mysteriously whirred for a moment and then began to play something quite different. Random shuffle mode. Clever.

  “That was very unusual tonight,” she said, obviously feeling a little more relaxed. “I’ve never heard him tell his story before to anyone.”

  “I was riveted,” I admitted. “Someone should write all that down.”

  “Maybe that’s why he told it to you,” she smiled.

  We fell into a silence that was part embarrassment and part fatigue. The track on the CD changed to Sarah McLachlan singing “Sweet Surrender.” After several minutes, our eyes met.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not very good with new people. I don’t mean to make you unwelcome.”

  I saw the same unassuming compassion in her eyes as that first night. I wanted to say something, to acknowledge her beauty, her generosity, the enormous gift she’d given me, but nothing seemed appropriate.

  “Thank you for reaching out to me the other night,” was all I could finally come up with. “It’s probably the biggest gift anyone has ever given me.”

  “You’re welcome,” she smiled, and paused for a long time.

  Our eyes met again; thoughts were dropping away. I was transported back into the same feeling of the night before at Joey’s, of looking into myself. The room became very still. I sensed the faintest smells of vanilla and of sandalwood.

  “I know what you’ve been going through,” she spoke softly. “I’ve been there myself. I’ve been in that same despair. He helped me then, just like he’s helping you now.”

  I could feel, from the way she spoke, she had no intention of filling in the details, so I just stayed quiet as we sat there, looking not at each other, b
ut into one another. This was an involuntary looking, the kind where the volition to look away is melted by the looking itself. The corners of her mouth curled up just the tiniest bit into the hint of a smile. Vaguely I recognized that our bodies were breathing in absolute unison, although I wasn’t trying to breathe with her, and I’m sure she wasn’t with me. I could feel her chest rising and falling, as though I was fully within her body, feeling from the inside. By the time the CD player stopped, it must have been close to two in the morning, but that now seemed irrelevant. She stood up, smiled, and stretched. As she rose, her terrycloth robe loosened a little; I glimpsed the hint of her full breasts, the freckles on her upper chest. Her facial muscles winced as she tightened the belt of the bathrobe.

  “The sofa folds out into a bed,” she said. I helped her move the coffee table a few feet, and sure enough, the sofa offered up a metal-framed mattress from out of its belly. She produced sheets and a pillow for me.

  “Good night,” she said. “Sleep well.”

  She stepped toward me tentatively; I held her against my chest. She turned her head to the side to face away from me, and I placed a hand on her damp wavy hair. I could feel the softness of her breasts now against my chest, the soft beating of her heart, the rising and falling of her breath, and the pulse in her belly against mine. Her hair smelled of vanilla. She turned her head back a little, just at the same moment I turned mine, and, without intention on either of our parts, our cheeks gently brushed. Driven more by impulse than permission, I lowered my head just a little more, and touched her lips lightly with my own. I was starting to feel aroused. She pulled away.