Teach us, Barefoot, I said to myself. Tell me something I don't know. I, being deficient of comprehension, yearn to know. You can begin with me; I am the most attentive of your pupils. I trust everything you utter. I am the perfect fool, come here to take. Give. Keep on with the sounds; it lulls me and I forget.
"Young lady," Barefoot said.
With a start, I realized he was speaking to me. "Yes," I said, rousing myself.
"What's your name?" Barefoot asked. "Angel Archer," I said.
"Why are you here?"
"To get away," I said.
"From what?"
"Everything," I said.
"Why?"
"It hurts," I said.
"John Lennon, you mean?"
"Yes," I said. "And more. Other things."
"I was noticing you," Barefoot said, "because you were asleep. You may not have realized it. Did you realize it?"
"I realized it," I said.
"Is that how you want me to perceive you? As asleep?"
"Let me alone," I said.
"Let you sleep, then."
"Yes," I said.
"'The sound of one hand clapping,' " Barefoot quoted. I said nothing.
"Do you want me to hit you? Cuff you? To wake you up?"
"I don't care," I said. "It doesn't matter to me."
"What would it take to awaken you?" Barefoot said. I did not answer.
"My job is to wake people."
"You are another fisherman."
"Yes; I fish for fish. Not for souls. I do not know of 'soul'; I only know of fish. A fisherman fishes for fish; if he thinks he fishes for anything else, he is a fool; he deludes himself and those he fishes for."
"Fish for me, then," I said. "What do you want?"
"Not ever to wake up."
"Then come up here," Barefoot said. "Come up and stand beside me. I will teach you how to sleep. It is as hard to sleep as it is to wake up. You sleep poorly, without skill. I can teach you that as easily as I can teach you to wake up. Whatever you want you can have. Are you sure you know what you want? Maybe you secretly want to wake up. You may be wrong about yourself. Come on up here." He reached out his hand.
"Don't touch me," I said as I walked toward him. "I don't want to be touched."
"So you know that."
"I am sure of that," I said.
"Maybe what is wrong with you is that no one has ever touched you," Barefoot said.
"You tell me," I said. "I have nothing to say. Whatever I had to say-"
"You have never said anything," Barefoot said. "You have been silent all your life. Only your mouth has talked."
"If you say so."
"Tell me your name again."
"Angel Archer."
"Do you have a secret name? That no one knows?"
"I have no secret name," I said. And then I said, "I am traitor."
"Who did you betray?"
"Friends," I said.
"Well, Traitor," Barefoot said, "talk to me about your bringing your friends to ruin. How did you do it?"
"With words," I said. "Like now."
"You are good with words."
"Very good," I said. "I am a sickness, a word-sickness. I was taught it by professionals."
"I have no words," Barefoot said.
"Okay," I said. "Then I will listen."
"Now you begin to know."
I nodded.
"Do you have any pets at home?" Barefoot said. "Any dogs or cats? An animal?"
"Two cats," I said.
"Do you groom them and feed them and care for them? Are you responsible for them? Do you take them to the vet when they're ill?"
"Sure," I said.
"Who does all that for you?"
"For me?" I said. "No one."
"Can you do it for yourself?"
"Yes, I can," I said.
"Then, Angel Archer, you are alive."
"Not intentionally," I said.
"But you are. You don't think so but you are. Under the words, the disease of words, you are alive. I am trying to tell you this without using words but it is impossible. All we have is words. Sit down again and listen. Everything I say from now on, today, is directed at you; I am speaking to you but not with words. Does that make any sense to you?"
"No," I said.
"Then just sit down," Barefoot said. I reseated myself.
"Angel Archer," Barefoot said, "You are wrong about yourself. You are not sick; you are starved. What is killing you is hunger. Words have nothing to do with it. You have been starved all your life. Spiritual things will not help. You don't need them. There are too many spiritual things in the world, far too many. You are a fool, Angel Archer, but not a good kind of fool."
I said nothing.
"You need real meat," Barefoot said, "and real drink, not spiritual meat and drink. I offer you real food, for your body, so it will grow. You are a starving person who has come here to be fed, but without knowing it. You have no idea why you came here today. it is my job to tell you. When people come here to listen to me speak, I offer them a sandwich. The foolish ones listen to my words; the wise ones eat the sandwich. This is not an absurdity that I tell you; it is the truth. This is something none of you has imagined, but I give you real food and that food is a sandwich; the words, the talking, is only wind-is nothing. I charge you one hundred dollars but you learn something priceless. When your dog or cat is hungry, do you talk to him? No; you give him food. I give you food, but you do not know it. You have everything backward because the university has taught you that; it has taught you wrong. It has lied to you. And now you tell yourselves lies; you have learned how to do it and you do it very well. Take the sandwich and eat; forget about the words. The only purpose in the words was to lure you here."
Strange, I thought. He means it. Some of my unhappiness began, then, to ebb away. I felt a peacefulness come over me, a loss of suffering.
Someone from behind me leaned forward and touched me on the shoulder. "Hi, Angel."
I turned around to see who it was. A pudgy-faced youth, blond-haired, smiling at me, his eyes guileless. Bill Lundborg, wearing a turtleneck sweater and gray slacks and, I saw to my surprise, Hush Puppies.
"Remember me?" he said softly. "I'm sorry I didn't answer any of your letters. I've been wondering how you've been doing."
"Fine," I said. "Just fine."
"I guess we better be quiet." He leaned back and folded his arms, intent on what Edgar Barefoot was saying.
At the end of his lecture, Barefoot walked over to me; I still sat, unmoving. Bending, Barefoot said, "Are you related to Bishop Archer?"
"Yes," I said. "I was his daughter-in-law."
We knew each other," Barefoot said. "Tim and I. For years. It was such a shock, his death. We used to discuss theology."
Coming up beside us, Bill Lundborg stood listening, saying nothing; he still smiled the same old smile I remembered.
"And then John Lennon's death today," Barefoot said. "I hope I didn't embarrass you, bringing you up front like that. But I could see something was wrong. You look better now."
I said, "I feel better."
"Do you want a sandwich?" Barefoot indicated the people gathered around the table at the rear of the room. "No," I said.
Barefoot said, "Then you weren't listening. To what I told you. I wasn't joking. Angel, you can't live on words; words do not feed. Jesus said, 'Man does not live by bread alone'; I say, 'Man does not live by words at all.' Have a sandwich."
"Have something to eat, Angel," Bill Lundborg said.
"I don't feel like eating," I said. "I'm sorry." I thought, I'd rather be left alone.
Bending down, Bill said, "You look so thin."
"My work," I said remotely.
"Angel," Edgar Barefoot said, "this is Bill Lundborg."
"We know each other," Bill said. "We're old friends."
"Then you know," Barefoot said to me, "that Bill is a bodhisattva. "
"I didn't know that," I said.
Barefoot said, "Do you know what a bodhisattva is, Angel?"
"It has something to do with the Buddha," I said.
"The bodhisattva is one who has turned down his chance to attain Nirvana in order to turn back to help others," Barefoot said. "For the bodhisattva compassion is as important a goal as wisdom. That is the essential realization of the bodhisattva. "