9189. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt. 332

332. MING-HO

It took too long 

a time for me to 

really get straight 

with things. All 

my youth I'd been 

mixed up, and only 

later did it become 

clear : there was 

no presence in 

my life for another, 

not really any space. 

That's a crazy, myopic 

temptation, the sort 

of things I'd figure 

that mass murderers 

face off, and lose 

to. Sometime about 

1966 or something 

there was this guy 

in Texas named 

Charles Whitman. 

I remember him. In 

a high clock tower 

at some university 

down there, just 

shooting off people, 

one at a time, down 

below. I don't know 

what America was 

going through right

 then, can't aptly 

recall, but his was

the one of the first 

media-mass-murder 

things that got big 

coverage. It was 

all over the place 

and no one knew 

what to make of 

it. What he 

supposedly 

represented. The 

'Youth of Today, 

on the march?' 

Of course not, 

but that's the sort 

of stuff they 

immediately tried 

to stir up. He killed 

a whole bunch and 

wounded more. 

Big numbers. And 

then there was this 

Richard Speck guy, 

in Chicago or by 

there, he did all 

sorts of weird things 

like that too. Killing 

girls, hiding their

bodies. These were 

regular ordinary 

people, young men 

of upstanding nature  

-  the sorts who'd be 

dying my the boat-load 

in Vietnam in a few 

years, but before that 

these were the 

most-likely-to-succeed, 

tightly-wound weirdos 

you'd see in any 

high-school yearbook

and expect to turn 

out as successful

businessmen. And 

then, after high 

school, they tried 

to clutter their way 

through college and 

went bonkers. Zingo. 

Cracked under the 

American strain. 

My lesson, right 

off, from them, 

was that their 

actions represented 

the end-result of 

that faulty belief 

that had been inside 

me, that there was 

no presence in 

my life for another. 

So wrong. 'Look 

what it brings,'

 I'd think.

-

So two years later, 

I'm sitting in the 

middle of New York 

City myself, working 

like a dog to prevent 

my own crack-up, 

my own mass 

slaughter. It was 

possible, anything 

was apt to happen.

I was walking on 

new ground, uncharted 

territory, and every 

freaked-up temptation 

in the new world was 

constantly being thrown 

up at me. Sex and 

drugs and rock 

and roll, as the 

paltry saying went. 

I punched right back  

-  sex was the easiest 

part to get away from  

-  a fucking annoyance, 

excuse the pun, and 

who needed it. It 

loses luster as a major 

statement after a 

few times, when 

it bores itself down 

to just plain animal 

sustenance. Jeepers, 

put that thing away, 

girls, and boys; 

doesn't anyone get 

tired of hearing 

about it all. Drugs 

was next  -  what 

a bore, the people 

who did them made 

me sick, wastes of 

time, tripping over 

their own saliva 

and jauntily fan-dancing 

to fan-tasies. It was 

self-indulgence and it

paled against my own 
creative stuff. That was
where the action was.

The last one  - rock and 

roll  -  that was so bad 

it was impossible to 

like. So not a problem. 

Mostly Jewboys anyway, 

and I grew tired of 

them real quick  -  

the hippie population 

was rife with them, 

and all the stuff they 

brought with them, 

including the sex 

and drugs. Yes, I'm 

pinning it all on 

them. How's that 

for certainty. It was 

all  mommy dream,
the entire hippie

 mess, a cuddle-back to 

to the innocence of 

the breast. I walked 

away, long away. 

Please don't 

bother me now.

-

My Chinese friend 

Ming-Ho, that's 

what he was called 

anyway, he'd gotten 

away from all that 

stuff some time 

before, by begging. 

It shakes all that 

junk, as he said, 

'right outta ya.' 

He'd given 

everything up, 

willingly, just 

threw it all away, to

have nothing and

go begging on the

street. Voluntary,
abject poverty : Seemed 

to work, though I 

never knew the 

real inside story. 

Maybe he had 

like a Ming Dynasty 

fortune, family trust, 

or something. One 

time, along the 

Bowery, or on 

Chatham Square, 

I can't clearly 

remember, he took 

me to some 2nd 

floor Buddhist 

temple, a real one. 

It didn't look like 

much, not all that 

church kind of stuff 

we do here. It was just

a once-commercial-loft, 

big windows that 

opened out and 

made a really large 

glass front above 

the street which 

was teeming. There 

were little Buddha 

statues around, mostly 

high up on these little 

shelves, with incense 

and oranges everywhere. 

Regular oranges, 

unpeeled, just sitting 

in bowls, next to 

the shelves lower 

beneath the Buddhas. 

I questioned that 

and he said people 

left offerings, oranges, 

fruit, or money too; 

dollars and stuff. 

The dollars were 

eventually gathered 

up, to support the 

place, and the fruit 

too, eventually. Incense 

was always burning, 

and a few robed guys, 

with tonsured heads, 

or shaved bald, or 

funny wraps, they 

were just sitting 

around, meditating 

or zoned out. Two 

guys came out, 

apparently they 

knew Ming-Ho, 

and they began 

talking, in Chinese, 

I guess, or in Buddha, 

if maybe that was a 

language too. No one

even blinked at me,

no acknowledgment 

at all. I just sat there. 

Some lady came in, 

with a bag of stuff, 

and she actually did 

lay an orange or 

two around. And 

then she went through 

a curtain into the back. 

Also never acknowledging 

me. No big deal, I just 

never knew what 

was up, who was 

talking about what, 

none of that. 

Eventually, Ming 

got some sort of 

prayer done or 

something like 

that, on us, we 

got some little 

piece of prayer 

paper, and left. 

It was pretty weird; 

I figured maybe I 

should be feeling 

like I just went to 

church or something 

but it more felt just 

like I'd been to 

someone's lounge 

or club or pool-hall 

even. It had that sort 

of feel. Then I began 

feeling that maybe 

it was ominous 

instead, mysterious, 

like some secret 

crime-cult and 

Ming-Ho knew 

something, or 

was involved in 

some secret. He 

laughed me off, 

and said not to 

worry, they were 

good. He said they'd

 mentioned sensing 

me, and that was 

the conversation 

mostly, their 

initial resistance 

to having a stranger 

in to see their inner 

sanctum. Or whatever 

it was. Then he 

said one of the 

guys was related 

to him, and it was 

OK, but they'd not 

taken us really 

into the rear room, 

where it's kept dark 

and more sacred, 

for chants and 

meditations. He 

said maybe another 

time, maybe when 

they felt better about 

the intrusion. Never 

was another time, 

and I never really

cared. I never saw 

much of Ming-Ho 

anyway, after that. 

But by the corner 

at the Mayflower 

Cafe, over by Mott

and Canal Streets,

where I'd occasionally 

eat, with the Batman 

sticker on the bathroom 

door, there'd always 

be another guy, doing 

exactly as Ming used 

to do, and in the same 

spot too  -  same long 

Chinese beard thing, 

that same 'look' whatever 

it was, begging, in the 

same manner. I never 

got to the bottom of 

it, at all  -  if it was 

'honorable' to be 

begging like that, 

if he was begging 

to his own kind, 

the fellow Chinese 

who were everywhere, 

or if, instead, his 

intentions were that 

the western, 'American' 

types passing through 

(plenty of those too), 

were to be affected 

and respond to this 

begging. I don't know 

if the Chinese were 

expected to help 

their own, or if it 

was just a show 

for the American 

tourists. Or if it was

a Buddhist poverty

thing, renouncing the

world and all, 

or what.
-
No matter, the times
in Chinatown had their own
gloss, and this Buddhist
temple thing was just one
example of it. Everyone
there, (in Chinatown), 
always seemed to be
intimidated, or hiding
some great secret or
something known only to
those denizens of the
strange streets. Baxter
Street, Pell, Mott, Doyers
Lane. Enough to make
you crazy - especially if
you did't like Chinese food.
Authentic Chinese food, I
mean; the real stuff, not 
like highway Chinese
restaurants peddle. No
menus, just point.