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Rastadogby Judy Seicho Fleischman
It's finally arrived, a warm, sunny Spring day. I step outside, with scant minutes ticking away as the bus driver starts his engine. This being the first stop makes it a bit easier to predict the schedule. As I hurriedly make my way across the street, he makes his the half-block to the bus stop. Instantly, I realize I'm overdressed. Even this light wool jacket is unnecessary. Oh well. Thankfully, my need to move quickly is abated as I notice several women taking their time getting on board. Now I can relax. Standing in line, the rhythms of nature offer a soothing juxtaposition to my self-imposed morning madness. It's so lovely. Birds singing, Hudson River in the distance, Fort Tryon Park within sight. All so close, and just out of reach. No time to play today. One of these days I'm going to get out of the apartment early enough to walk in that park, maybe even jog. It is Spring time, after all, time for a decent cleaning, a personal shift. Once again, I resolve to try again tomorrow. I get on the bus. "Morning, James." "Morning! Beautiful day isn't it?" "Sure is," I reply. This is our routine. Not everyone in this big city can claim to know their bus driver on a first name basis, let alone exchange pleasantries. I'm grateful for the personal touch, grateful for any semblance of intimacy in a place that so often can seem distancing. Making my way to my usual solo seat about halfway down, I notice out of the corner of my eye something unusual on the street we're passing. I see Hasidic men, well, actually men dressed in black, wearing black hats, with curly locks hanging down their faces. Mind you, seeing white men dressed in black is not atypical in Washington Heights. This is, after all, home to Yeshiva University, the epicenter of Orthodox Jewish life. But these guys look different, inauthentic. Their outfits seem more dramatic, as does their air. Actors! Of course. Like the cops who don't seem like real cops. Whoa, who's that? Is it really? Yes. It is. Ice T. He looks genuine, genuinely cranky and bored that is. See, I don't own a TV so I wouldn't know he's a regular now on the show. But the woman by the window fills me in on the latest. Law and Order. They love filming in this neighborhood. The bus continues on. Another New York moment come and gone. We make our way down Fort Washington Ave., and slowly cross the bridge into Harlem. I put on my headset, turn it on as we wind our way down Lexington Avenue, down through Spanish Harlem. Bob Marley is singing "Exodus." Perfect, after all, Passover is approaching, and the way this bus is rolling along, these forty minutes seem like forty years. "Exodus. Movement of Jah people." I'm tapping along, my whole body keeping time. The woman in front of me turns around, frowning. She is not amused. Guess it must be my singing along. "96th Street next stop," the driver announces. Time to get off. I'm walking down the street. A man and his dog are crossing. That's a big dog. I see them, walking by. I pass them. I stop. Turn around. They walk by. This dog is huge and. . . he's got dreads!! Long, plentiful dreads. Picture a sheep dog whose fur got so long you could twist it, and did. Rastadog! Sent from Jah to move the people. No, really. I'm not making this up. You know that moment when you're sent a sign and it's your job to pay attention? Well, let me tell you, I'm wide awake. The messiah has arrived. He has Buddha nature. OK, so he's not human. So he re-incarnated. The canine form is most expedient, don't you think? Awesome hearing, joyful disposition, and eternally affectionate. Why now? Think about it. The timing couldn't be more auspicious. Easter just ended. The pope died over the weekend. Why here? Hey, this is New York City. Anything is possible. Besides, we could use the tourist dollars this is bound to attract. Still, must get to work. I'm a chaplain by day. I work at a nursing home, tending to the elderly and physically challenged. That is, those cast aside by our youth and health obsessed culture. Mary M. greets me as I enter the building, "Hello Chaplain. The Pope died. You know, he was Jewish." I nod, smiling. "We used to go to Temple together. He likes to sit up front but I prefer the middle. We used to argue about it." I nod, smiling. Let's just say Mary has a creative sense of reality. I decide to share the good news with her. "Mary, the messiah has come. He's a dog with dreadlocks." If anyone would appreciate this, it's Mary. "I was there the first time. He said he was coming back. He was Jewish, you know." "Uh huh," I reply, smiling. Sometimes, I imagine myself to be a superhero, usually with a marvelous mask and head to toe costume, a sexy one that is. All superheroes are sexy. It's one of the few perks. But Rastadog is all dog. No bones about it. I wonder if he speaks in tongues. After wrapping it up with Mary, I head into the elevator and ascend to the Pastoral Care office, what remains of it anyway. The facility decided to close the dept. last week, to save money. This place is struggling to keep the doors open. All the government funds are going towards a war in the Middle East. No one seems to understand why we're fighting it, but you know, nobody likes a quitter. It's positively un-American. Entering the office, someone is sitting in the former director's seat. He's an administrative intern, here for a few days before finishing his assignment here. "Hello, Chaplain. I was told it would be OK to use this office. You don't mind, do you?" All I can think about is the messiah. But he wouldn't understand. "No, it's fine." But then he begins to go into an anxiety-ridden monologue and I simply do not have time for this. "Sounds like you're anxious. ." "I am, Chaplain. I really am." He wants to talk. I don't. I talk with him for a few minutes and then let him know I need to attend to some business. He seems satisfied, and heads off. Finally. I turn on the computer. I've got to see who else knows the news. On to google.com. Search terms: messiah, dog, rasta. The engine returns: "Rasta Blast plays gig at Messiah Mamma's. Hot dog! This is one bitchin' band!" Oh, brother. This could take awhile. Before long, my stomach's growling. Time for lunch. It's easy to tell here, the smell of cafeteria-style food wafts in. When the residents eat, I eat. Except I prefer to go outside. They are not typically offered that choice. I count my blessings. I head down the stairwell, then down to the East River. I love walking by the water. Would love to walk on water too. Maybe the messiah will teach me. How will I meet Rastadog again? Trust, a voice calls out to me. I look around. Nothing. Trust. I keep walking. Finally, a bench. I sit down and pull out my sandwich. Just then, the Circle Line boat passes by. I wave. I enjoy connecting with the tourists. A little kid waves back. It's always the same. The kids and the old folks do the waving. Right on time. 1 pm sharp. Lots of dogs here, out for a walk. But no sign of the anointed one. The day passes like this. Heading back, I hear a church organ calling me in. I enter the chapel, ornate in its simple elegance. Stain glass windows. Red velvet cushions covering dark wooden pews. I sit down. The organ blasts. Someone's practicing. A handful of parishioners come and go, kneeling to pray, or sitting silently. My body relaxes, content simply to sit and listen. I'm not sure how much time passes. That's how it is with me sometimes. I pray for strength, to help me rest in faith that Rastadog is here to stay and that we shall meet again soon. I get up and head for the exit. I notice a homeless man lying down, sleeping in the back row. This church must have an open door policy. Warms my heart. Rastadog will be pleased. As the day winds down, I head home, crossing the park over to the West Side. On the train, I notice a young man in uniform. Civil Air Patrol. He can't be older than 19. He's looking at brochures for the Air Force. I wonder if he'll end up in the war. I wonder if he'll end up dead. Should I talk to him? Tell him not to go? That the messiah is here to end all wars? Yeah, right. Like he'd believe me. A slew of self-appointed preachers have been riding the trains, shouting on about this every day for weeks, preceding and since Easter. What to do? How to share the good news? I'll pray on it, maybe the chosen one will come to me in a vision. Hey, it could happen. I could be a prophet. OK, OK, maybe it was something less dramatic. Maybe it was something I ate. No more shish kebob. Gives me indigestion. Oh, how disappointing. And I'd been a vegetarian for so long. But today, for some reason, the craving set in. To think a lamb was killed for my sake. It's too much to bear. I must atone. I must atone. . . These thoughts cross my mind as I lie down to rest. What happened next seems now like a dream.
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