Fiction

Frank Raisinwing had never thought that fate would lead him traveling backwards in time in search of a missing Buddhist monk.

Being a man of science, when it came to fate versus free will, Frank was squarely on the side of free will. Specifically, he subscribed to such modern gems as the Marxist philosophy: “If a black cat crosses your path, it signifies that the animal is going somewhere.” Easy as that. Because how, after all, could someone as astute as Groucho Marx be wrong? And maybe, on most days, he wasn’t. But most days had just ground down to a screeching halt; and fate, it turned out, was just about to gain the upper hand, as it arm-wrestled free will.

It all began one wet Seattle evening when a rabbi, a priest, and a Buddhist monk walked into a bar—the College Inn Pub, to be specific, where Frank was enjoying a beer with a long-time friend. “Scotch on the rocks,” the rabbi ordered, and the priest gave a sharp nod, though the monk begged to differ. 

“Just tea for me,” he whispered to the bartender before slipping into his seat. 

“Don’t remind us again,” the priest slid in next to him, “how Buddha preached about alcohol clouding the brain.” 

“All right,” the monk agreed, though of course he knew well that no one likes to see a monk with an overcast brain. “I won’t.”

The bartender took a long look at the three clergymen, the bearded rabbi dressed in a dark suit, the rosy-cheeked priest in his traditional white-collar, and the red-robed Buddhist monk with his clean-shaven head. “Wow,” he set down his rag. “Is this supposed to be some sort of joke?”

“Not a bit,” replied the rabbi drumming his fingers on the bar, impatient for his scotch. 

“No joke.” The bartender stood there, awkward for a moment. Indeed, it wasn’t. Here they were, all men of learning. “Alright,” he gathered himself together, opportunist that he was. “The drink is on me for the holy dude that can tell me what I should be most concerned with when I die: the past, the present, or the future.”

Frank stared across the bar at Roger, the former rock star turned bartender, ear piercings, assorted jewelry, and wild long hair with several strands of braids, reminded Frank of some seagoing buccaneer from a third-rate Hollywood movie. “This ought to be good,” Frank said under his breath to his companion, Layla Servanski. 

The rabbi’s hand smacked down flat against the bar top. “The past,” he blurted before the others could get a word in. “Because it is the way that you have lived your life, according to our traditions, that you will be judged on. If you have lived in accordance with the laws that Moses brought down from Mount Sinai, you should be welcomed when you arrive at the gates of heaven.”

“Ok, cool,” Roger paused. “But say I didn’t live up to the law. Will I go to hell?”

The rabbi stroked his beard for a brief moment. This was truly an annoying question which he often received from gentiles. “We don’t have a hell.”

“Far out,” Roger poured the rabbi a scotch. “That’s definitely a plus.” 

Frank leaned over to Layla. “Score one for my people.”

But the priest was no fool; he also wanted his drink. “It’s the future,” he corrected. “As long as you are willing to repent for all of your sins and accept Jesus as your savior at some point in the future, you will be welcomed by St. Peter when you arrive at the gates of heaven.”

This answer well suited Roger, practical fellow that he was. “Cool. So, I could sin all I want now, as long as I repent before I die?”

The priest loosened his collar and looked up at the ceiling—but no divine intervention was forthcoming. He took a deep breath; thinking that his scotch might not be free after all. “Well you see, my son, it doesn’t work like that. You must sincerely repent in order to be pardoned for your sins. If you wish to seek salvation, you must make the teachings of Jesus part of your life. The sooner the better in order to be forgiven and reach heaven. Oh, and one other thing… we do have hell.”

Layla leaned toward Frank, her hand caressing his thigh. “If my people are right, you’ve got a lot of repenting to do.” Thanks to Layla’s magic touch, if her people were right, Frank’s bet was on him going straight to hell.

Then Roger’s eyes moved to the Buddhist monk, still awaiting his tea. “It’s the present moment,” he insisted. “The past is gone. You cannot affect it. The future is a mystery. You have no way to predict it. The only thing you have an influence over is the present moment.”

“The present moment?” Roger considered, a bit confused. Good Lord, this was the kind of guy who would order tea in a bar, after all. “Isn’t that here and then gone? Like what about heaven?”

The monk stared into Roger’s eyes for a moment, as if to look into the bartender’s soul—or, at least, to win himself a steaming cup of tea. “You see my friend, you have the world at your feet, but you are afraid you might step in it. If you don’t commit to being aware of the present, you will miss the infinity of the present moment. You see, there is no heaven or hell, only the here and now.” 

“Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner,” Roger beamed at both the rabbi and the priest. “A cup of tea on the house for the righteous monk. Far out, the infinity of the present moment.”