The Monist Support Group

Short story idea - The Monist Support Group

The other day I was walking my dog - a fluffy white cockapoo I named Gallifrey after the Doctor's home planet - when I saw something that caught my attention and demanded my investigation. There was a van - a white fifteen passenger van that looks suspicious even when it has legitimate reasons for being where it is - that had a picture of seven white people of middle age and a token, younger black man sitting in a circle, each delightfully holding their own djembe plastered on its side. The van was labeled "Therapeutic Drum Circle" and advertised a website. Gallifrey and I had to investigate.

I followed the van as quickly as my poor little dog could go who was becoming agitated with our suddenly rapid rate as it caused him to miss out on sniffing near identical bushes every three feet along a path we had traveled together countless times. His body language screamed that I was messing up his investigation. He had no idea that we were on a joint investigation as he hadn't seen the van, or if he had he had no reason to be suspicious of it as he can't read or generally understand pictures well. In spite of his tiny, ten pound frame he was able to stop my greater than tiny, two hundred and fifty pound frame from continuing in pursuit at a sufficient speed to follow the van. Sadly, Gallifrey and I lost the suspicious van. We turned around and walked back to our house, stopping every three feet or so to investigate suspicious, near identical bushes.

Two weeks later I was driving to the store when I happened upon the van again. Gallifrey was in the car with me with his butt in my lap and his head out the window. He generally refuses to sit in the passenger seat, instead opting to sit in the driver's lap completely unaware of the safety issues his presence causes. This time I was able to abandon my current task at hand and follow the suspicious van. Gallifrey might annoy me or cause me to break some laws by sitting in my lap while driving, but his tiny frame can't stop my car as easily as he can stop me on foot.

Had I been living in New York City (which I never have) I imagine that I wouldn't have found this notion of a bunch of people getting into a drum circle for therapeutic reasonings all that suspicious. New York City has nearly 8.5 million people in it and the odds of eight weirdos getting together to do something weird is not strange. Had I been living somewhere in California like San Francisco or Los Angeles (which I never have) I probably wouldn't have found this strange either as I believe it is a prerequisite to being a left coast Californian. Had I been living in Washington DC (which I have) I wouldn't have found it all that odd either because there are a lot of protesters and invariably protestors come equipped with either an acoustic guitar or a djembe as a symbol of their protestation.
Personally, I always thought those who brought a djembe to anywhere other than a place specified for musical performance were just attention seekers; and I held the conservative notion that most protestors were akin to those types of people that bring a djembe to a non-musical settings. Logically, I assumed that those who brought a djembe to a protest were doubly attention seeking and likely faking anything to get the attention they craved. Had I been living in east-central, rural Indiana (which I have) I would have feared for their safety. But I was living in Augusta, GA.

Augusta has its fair share of weirdos and kooks, but its a different kind. They eat pimento cheese sandwiches on white bread - velveeta cheese mixed with mayonnaise, pimentos and spices spread on processed white bread. They drive countrified, jacked-up trucks much like the trucks I was accustomed to in east-central Indiana, only when they get out they look like they stepped out of a Brooks Brothers store - a pastel colored polo, seersucker shorts and boat shoes. Not only is this juxtaposition jarring, but their pride in it is flabbergasting. Many of those same countrified trucks with snooty prep school drivers are emblazoned with the words "Prep Neck" in bold letters somewhere on the truck. Augusta is full of weirdos, just not your typical hippie or revival hippie variety. But as I was driving in pursuit of this anomalously weird van I slammed on my breaks when my eyes read something even stranger - a tiny store front with tiny little letters that read "Monist Support Group".

I immediately pulled a u-turn causing poor Gallifrey to slide into the passenger seat. He yelped in protest of being unseated so rudely and climbed back into my lap and resumed his place by setting his chin on the window behind the mirror. Sometimes I think he likes the idea of the wind rushing through his hair and ears more than he likes the actual wind rushing through his hair and ears. I parked the car and rolled up the window just enough so he couldn't jump out, assuring him that I would be right back. As I walked up to the odd storefront I could feel his panicked eyes following me to make sure that my trip would be a short one. I read the sign again and my eyes were not deceived. It was a building dedicated to a Monist Support Group. In even smaller letters it announced the meeting times - Monday, closed; Tuesday, 12:30 pm; Wednesday, closed; Thursday; 7:25 pm; Friday, closed; Saturday, closed; Sunday, 6:45 am. Odd hours for an odd little store. I looked at my watch. It was Tuesday, 11:16 am. I had to investigate.

I drove Gallifrey back home and was back at the support group's building too quickly. It was only 11:37. I felt bad for leaving Gallifrey as Tuesday's were normally our special day together. It usually started with a walk, which was painfully slow as he had to sniff every three feet to see which other dogs in the neighborhood had peed there recently. After that it was lunch which was sometimes at home and sometimes at one of the restaurants downtown where I could sit outside with him. He enjoys bahn-mi, hamburgers, apples and bacon. He is not a big fan of peaches, sushi or pimento cheese. After that I get him an ice cream cone which he loves, but tends to make him shiver even in the oppressive Georgian summer. We would still get the ice cream I told him before leaving to go to the meeting. I tried to peer inside but the windows and doors were mirror-tinted. But, while unsuccessfully trying to see in I caught a reflection of a cafe across the street that I had never eaten at before. It was truly a day of discovery.

The menu of the cafe said that they had the best pimento cheese in Augusta. They didn't. Everyone in Augusta knows that the Augusta National has the best pimento cheese in Augusta. I discovered pimento cheese when I moved here at age 28. I discovered that it wasn't just an Augusta thing, but the whole south was crazy about pimento cheese. It's basically just mayonnaise and processed cheese and somehow each little corner of the south has put their own twist on it! The only time I can get my hands on a pimento cheese sandwich from the Augusta National is during Master's Week when someone other than me goes to a practice round and brings me back one (along with a souvenir cup). Most of the other places in Augusta make reference to how theirs compares with the Master's version.  It's sold in every grocery store here and just about every restaurant puts some type of store brand or homemade version on a burger with bacon. I ate so much of the stuff the first three months I lived in Augusta that I've grown tired of it, but there is a good place in Columbia, SC about an hour away called DiPrato's that makes one with jalapeños in it and serves it with pita chips that is pretty darn good. The best I've ever had though was in Charleston, SC from a place called Burgage's Grocery. This little cafe had mediocre pimento cheese in spite of their claim to be the best and I'm fairly certain that it was just Kroger brand slapped on whatever bread they got on sale last week.

I entered the Monist Support Group storefront right on time. Upon arrival I was given a clipboard and instructed to fill out the questionnaire and return it to the front. The lady who worked the desk seemed like a character out of a bad 80's movie with a nostalgia theme harkening back to the better era of the 50's. She had those pointed, black spectacles with a chain and a quasi-beehive hairdo and popped her purple gum loudly. I later found out that she didn't believe in any of this Monist hoodoo but it was an easy second job that somehow miraculously paired perfectly with her regular job as a Waffle House waitress. That should have been an indicator that maybe the Monists were on to something, but the intricacies of the Universe were lost on me at that moment.

INSERT QUESTIONNAIRE HERE

Outline for the rest of the story

There were eleven people in the room - myself and the Waffle House waitress were the only ones to have not experienced the ineffable oneness of the One yet. There was one leader who didn't have a clipboard. That left six others scribbling answers on their clipboards other than me, in total nine individuals, seven of which didn't believe in individuality at all.

Each individual told their story of how they became aware that everything was one and all else was illusionary.

1) The leader (classical hippie type) - arrived at the One via a bastardization Dvaitadvaita Hinduism
2) Shelia (classical hippie type) - arrived at the One via a bastardization of pseudo intellectual yoga
3) Jeremy (neo-hippie type) - arrived at the One via reading the heart sutra while smoking pot
4) Tanya (neo-hippie type) - arrived at the One while in coitus with Jeremy (her boyfriend)
5) Mark (business professional) - arrived at the One when a homeless man asked him for change in LA, he reached into his pocket to produce a few coins only to find the homeless man there holding a $20 bill asking him if he could break it so he could get a soda out of the machine
6) Connie (young, stay-at-home mom) - arrived at the One during breast feeding