1 Mark Nichols Joe Bean 2 3 Mark Nichols Joe Bean 4 PROLOGUE Joe Bean walks on stage. He is watched by 1000 eyes. He does not know he is being watched. To him, all the world is not a stage. To him, the walk from here to there appears to be just another walk through the market where he almost always has lunch. It is important you know this. Not that he has lunch in the market, but that he does not know you are watching him. Shhh, it’s a secret. * * * We, the audience, see that what appears to be a yoga studio is actually a set piece and that it sits rickety on a darkened stage. A young actress eyes the Yoga teacher in front and holds her Virabhadrasana, Warrior Pose. The man onstage is very calm. Handsome. Older. And more-than-likely married. She assumes that hunk of gold bling on his finger must be a wedding ring. The actress follows the trickle of sweat dripping down his back as Joe Bean begins to chant and stretch himself out like some sort of yogi/clown, Llama, lamma, pizza rama, Vishnu wish you peaceful manna Yin, Yang, Paddywack Hari Hama This little piggy went to market, Mamma Nam Yo ho, Renge Kio yo, Shivananda, Hopscotch Vegananda, 5 Mark Nichols The yoga class laughs and Joe winks. The audience remains silent. We’re waiting for something else. The young woman feels her heart beating through spandex bra and studies herself in the big mirror. The carefree double- horned-curled-over-ponytail satyr thing she’d been doing with her hair lately was good. She thinks, ‘If only he could know her. If only there were ways to tell this man who she was. Or to tell him who he was.” Such old souls, and yet it is not for him to remember, and never will be. It is only for him to act out his story: The story of human suffering. Serious, now, he sweeps deftly through his sun salutations, and she breaks momentarily to wipe a small and irritating bead of sweat from her eyebrow. Breathe, pranayama, cinco, quatro, tres, dos, uno, and.. Release. * * * Joe Bean 6 Joe Bean A Novel by Mark Nichols Copyright © 2004 Mark Nichols CHAPTER 1 Some people are lucky. Some people are obnoxiously, outrageously, sickeningly, ridiculously, appallingly, and incredibly lucky. Everybody knows Joe Bean is this sort of person. Our hero hums a little tune as his soft hand slides the ignition key into his efficient new Mercedes hybrid/diesel off- road, leather-seated multi-purpose machine, which Joe simply calls “the truck”—a vehicle the environmentally conscious man should be at peace with (29 city and 35 highway!), with a nearly sterling engine and an unparalleled safety rating. Lots of space for all the bikes, kayaks, ski stuff, ya just couldn’t beat it. Joe Bean fancies himself a bit of a tunesmith, so this is not uncommon for him to be humming. The song of the day is called Lucky Mugsie. He’s been writing it for his kids. In the song, Mugsie, the family dog, has finally passed away after 7 Mark Nichols years of what most people would call a tortured, but happy, life: It gives my heart a happy tug To think of Mugsie’s ugly mug We’ve still got poop in the sandbox The only dog who’d been through detox— Joe slows to let a car pull in front of him, and nods his head when the driver gives him the polite “Seattle wave”, then he’s back to the song. Why do cars run over man’s best friend? And do it over and over and over again?... The vet said that it might be worms— Worms. Hmm. Joe is sweeping through his memory for a rhyme for “worms” when a woman steps right out in front of him. No time to turn. Their eyes lock for an instant, and then THUD. It’s over. Joe stops. Unblinking. The engine has choked off, and before sheer panic sets in, Joe can’t help but flash back to his song. Why do cars run over man’s best friend? The irony of the timing stuns him, then instinct takes hold, he opens the door and quickly prepares himself for some sort of tragedy. “Are you OK?” No answer. Joe Bean 8 “Hello,” Joe says, throat dry. He walks toward the front of the car. There is nothing. No one. “Hello?” Silence. Quickly, he goes around to the right wheel and looks under. There is no one there. “Where are you?” Joe Bean rubs the back of his hand over beads of forehead sweat and exhales. Deep in thought, he climbs back into his Mercedes Inquisition and pulls off his suede jacket. God, is he sweating. Buckets. He’s absolutely soaked. He wipes his brow again, and then sinks forward, his hand cupping his mouth. He breathes slowly through his nostrils. The woman must have hit his car with a fist, and disappeared quickly. A joke maybe. An angry joke if it was, but wow, is he shaken. Not funny at all. Joe Bean shivers. It’s November cold. One’s supposed to shiver in November. But Joe Bean is not the shivering sort, and certainly not the type to succumb to moments of doubt. He leans back and closes his eyes. The homeless woman’s face was like a mask, hanging in front of him. Joe starts the Inquisition and moves slowly and carefully to First Avenue, down, until he comes to Madison. A right, then left at the waterfront, and he pulls into the ferry terminal. As he lines up with other commuters to wait for the boat, he cheers himself up by making up a few more verses of his epic, silly mantra. Kundalini Ya, Ya 9 Mark Nichols Yoga mat Gucci do a chakra cha cha Baba Yaga! Burn petchuli Rasta… This goes on for a while, and like all his little tunes, it does the job. Joe feels himself relaxing, coming to terms with the universe, and he laughs when it comes to the line his daughters had written for him recently, Latte, Latte, soy, stigmata, Feng Shui, Dada, soul, Oy! Lambada! The Bean family loves words. They spend hours playing games with words, like the “association” game—only when they play it, the object is to avoid association. It’s harder than it seems. Family. Explosion. Mouse. Hospital. Funeral. Umbrella. Dog—Nope! Nope! Nope! that’s too close to “cat”, which everyone thinks of when someone said “mouse”. You get the idea. 5:30 is rush hour on the Puget Sound ferry. Around four- hundred commuters sit quietly in small groups, chatting or by themselves in a book or with nose in a laptop. There is a pervasive feeling of sacrifice & trade off. For most, this ride is a transition from “intense”, “stressful” city job, home to the quiet isolation of the island. Many have the kind of job where it only takes one partner working to pay the mortgage. Most of the people on the boat are overeducated but don’t flaunt it, and instead are “folksy” in a sort of bitter hippy way. They are all white, but would genuinely love more diversity on their inland. It would be hard to pigeon-hole these people. Part city, part Joe Bean 10 rural county, they are the type ‘A’ lawyers, family folks and rugged “stay off my land” individualists who dream of (and purchase or inherit) a way to live the country life, but keep the city within an easy 35-minute boat ride. Some fantasize at one time that commuting will be a relaxing pleasure, and for many it is, but there are days when it just plain sucks. Some day exude an overriding sadness. After all they are riding a ferry, and ferries have never symbolized complacency or relaxation. No, it’s more appropriate if you picture the damned crossing the river Styx. That’s more what it’s like. Tired souls forced to travel to and fro from world to world, unceasing. Back and forth from heaven to hell with the two destinations switching places, depending on which is going better: work or home. Sometimes it’s a drag. Except when you’re around Joe Bean. Everybody loves Joe Bean. So when he appears on the main floor of the ferry you can almost feel the atmosphere change. It’s like relief, Man. It’ s like: oh, Joe’s here, great, hey Buddy! There is a sense of time passing quickly when Joe Bean is around. “Hey Joe!” says Steve Jensen. Steve’s a dentist, early 50’s, also an upright bass player. A cool dude, or ‘cat’ or whatever. “How ‘ya doin’, Buddy?” Joe calls back, then grabs a seat with a cluster of folks who adjust themselves as if they’ve been sitting there for 100 years. “Hey, Man!” “Good to see you!” says Dr. Richard Van Winkle, yawning, stretching and extending a long hand. The boat pulls out and people settle. Occupied. There’s a pattern to this Joe thinks as he looks around. The way people 11 Mark Nichols move. The rhythmic page turns, the nods and head bobs of a conversation. Verse, chorus, verse. He thinks of that movie, Koyaanisqatsi, where the filmmakers used stop motion to make intricate patterns out of pedestrian traffic. Good movie. Mind- numbing and boring after the first 5 minutes, but really excellent. This is what Joe Bean thinks.