I once did a good turn for an Indian holy man. It wasn’t anything very special. This is not false modesty although that’s something I do quite a bit — it is one of my moves — but what I did for Swami Narendrabodhi really was not much. I saw him walking down canal street with his begging bowl, past Canal Plastics, and I started a conversation with him, and I told him about a Thai wat in my neighborhood in Brooklyn, and took him there on the subway. We talked a little bit about his thoughts on various topics — socialism vs. capitalism, the world tree, life before and after birth — and I dropped him off and gave him six dollars, which is what I had, and also my address.
I thought nothing of it, and did not even connect it when I received a package in the mail covered with brown paper with Sri Lankan stamps and the return address in a peculiar penmanship — Jaganatha Narendrabodhi Wat Surathani Kandy Sri Lanka.
Inside was a large egg, about the size of a volleyball, with specks and the instructions to keep it under a sunlamp.
The creature that emerged looked like a duckling although it was the size first of a cocker spaniel and soon after I fed it — him — I named him Joseph — it grew to the size of a laborador retriever.
Joseph is covered with downy yellow feathers like a duckling, and has a ducklings joy and mischievousness.
He is my best friend in the whole world. He wakes me up in the morning by putting his bill in my face and quacking.
We take baths together.
I put the collar around his neck and take him for runs in the park.
When he becomes a full grown duck we will still be friends, but it will be more like I am the older brother and he is the younger brother.
We will go away together.