Coming of Age at the Good Karma Café
Welcome to Dolores Park, San Francisco 1968.
War, assassinations, and riots swirl around them as Grace Apple Green and her friends contemplate peace, love, and karma.
QUICKSILVER MESSENGER Service must be very tight with The Family Dog. They’re always here. Newt checked the marquee at the Avalon Ballroom driving up Sutter. Having finished his rounds selling debt collection service to businesses in Chinatown, Green was making a detour on his way back to the office. He turned left onto the parkway
“You ready for some Cosmic Soup at the Good Karma Café?”
Newt ran upstairs to invite Mira to join them with Brian and Tiffany for dinner on the corner of Mission and Dolores. Mira found herself seated across from Brian Chen who immediately asked her for her take on karma.
“Karma? What do I know about karma?” said Mira.
“Yes, your name is Mira, isn’t it?” said Brian.
“I only adopted the name of an Indian Princess,” said Mira. “Not the brain of an Indian Princess.”
“I can explain it,” said Tiffany.
Tiffany de la Torre was checking her eyeliner in a mirror in her purse. One side was still perfect, one eye looked smudged. “What goes around, comes around,” she said.
Vikram Patel shuffled over to their table carrying yellow curry and brown rice. He heard Brian’s question, but did not engage with him. There were more platters waiting on the counter for him to carry.
“I think there’s a bit more to karma than that,” said Mira.
“Right on,” said Brian.
“Excuse me, Dr. Patel,” said Newt “when you get a chance, can you enlighten us about something?”
“In a few minutes, perhaps,” said Patel.
“He’s a doctor?” said Tiffany.
“What kind of doctor?” asked Mira.
“If your middle name weren’t Solomon, I wouldn’t believe you,” said Brian Chen. “But sometimes you amaze me with the stuff you pick up, Newt.”
“Could be a nickname,” said Newt. “Who knows? I just go with it.” Years of people pleasing had taught him that people are less likely to be offended when addressed formally. Better to sound silly, than disrespectful.
When everyone had been served, Dr. Patel began refreshing their teacups. “Someone had a question for me?”
“Can you give me karma in a nutshell? asked Brian.
“No. Unless you are a nut vendor and it has transcendental meaning for you.”
Brian retracted his statement, “Not in a nutshell, then.”
“Well,” said Patel, “Some activities have consequences for you. Some are neutral; those are for increasing Krishna consciousness. And some are for you for your own satisfaction, but they don’t change your karma.”
“Does everybody have karma?” Mira asked.
“Well, if you are in a society of dogs and hogs, you are not conscious of karma,” said the slender man expertly wrapped in a white cotton tablecloth serving as an apron.
“The Chinese would say pigs and fishes,” said Brian. “The least intelligent of God’s creatures.”
“Dr. Patel’s face brightened. “Yes, I like that. I can see the pigs and fishes swimming around in cosmic milk.”
“Pigs in milk. That doesn’t sound kosher,” said Newt.
“I think there’s an Italian dish like that. Pork shank roasted in milk,” said Grace. “A restaurant in Saratoga makes it. Calamaria’s, I think.”
“Isn’t it bad karma to talk that way… making light of it like that?” Mira asked the waiter.
“They are playing at disrespect, which is neutral,” said Dr. Patel. “But if they continued, seriously, yes, there would something broken, something tangled that must be fixed to repair their understanding, or they will be thinking more like fishes, swimming in circles than intelligent creatures pursuing goals.”
Dr. Patel decided to get to the point, “Sri Prabhupada says that we are in a world that is about one quarter material and three quarters spiritual. Conscious entities are separated from God, but we have minute particles of God potency. Karma is the fruits of what we do. Activity you do that produces a result. We enjoy the fruits of the good or bad work we do. If you think like a dog you may become a dog at the end of the day. If you think like a pig you may become a pig.”
“What do you mean at the end of the day,” said Newt.
“When you pass from this life. But you never know when this may come. That’s why Krishna street people are chanting all the time. If a bus hits them, they will be in Krishna consciousness. They will not return as hogs and dogs. Or less intelligent creatures.”
“Such as women” remarked Grace.
“That’s right. Some men do believe that and it motivates them to struggle to be just. But women are already used to struggling. Some people may even come to understand we are not meant to be men or women, but spirit. When you reach that you may stop struggling. You may reach freedom.”
“Freedom from what?” asked Mira.
“Freedom from enslavement to material world and entrance to spiritual world,” said Vikram Patel turning for the kitchen with an empty teapot.
“Doesn’t it all fascinate you, Grace?” Mira asked her friend.
“Strangely it doesn’t, Mira. I like the festivals and the food. But when I open the books—say, in Shambala Books over in Berkeley or at City Lights—when I look inside, I find things that are too far out for me.”
“Like what?” said Mira.
“Like ‘Husband is the Supreme Lord,’” said Grace. “That stops me. Using the same language for the guy who forgets to put the toilet seat down as you would for the deity? Really? I can’t get past it. There is so much to learn in this world. I have to ignore this. Vishnu can keep blowing bubbles in an ocean of milk or air or Swiss cheese, it makes no difference to me. I choose not to go down that rabbit hole.”
Dr. Patel sat down on a stool in the back of the kitchen. He had reached the point he intended to reach. Those who understood him stared into space, foreheads unfurrowed. Those who were fidgeting were not ready to listen. Vikram had enjoyed the brief teachable moment. But he was here for a paycheck, nurturing his ego was a useless distraction.
Dr. Patel was a graduate student at Stanford, working on his second Ph.D. Electronic engineering this time. He cultivated his guru-in-residence persona here to fund his education, which would improve his prospects in the material world in which he personally lived three quarters of the time. As a practical man, he did not let what for him was the one quarter of the spiritual side of things upset his apple cart. To use a western metaphor he rather liked.
An excerpt from Coming of Age at the Good Karma Café: San Francisco 1968
EVE DONAHUE appeared one day to take Grace’s place as secretary. Eve was 34. She was well aware of it. Her best high heels were scuffed. She knew that, too. But she still had her figure. Her blonde hair made her look younger when it was in a ponytail. She had no trouble getting temp work.
Luck also helped. There was an opening because Grace Apple had suddenly been promoted to copywriter. Overnight. When it came to pass that a certain writer named Linda Roberts had not revised a Glamour magazine ad fast enough, the new creative director asked her to clean out her office. Roberts and Black had been hired at the same time. Now Cooper Black was Creative Director and Linda Roberts failed to take the Great Man seriously. Linda got the sack and moved out on a Friday. Grace Apple Green moved into her new office on Monday. It was that fast—and crystal clear to Grace Apple Green—it was always going to be that tenuous.
Grace told the whole story to Eve Donahue. They exchanged phone numbers. Grace knew about her seven year-old, her four year-old, and her two year-old twins still in diapers. She also knew Louie Donahue was writing a sequel to The Prisoner of Zenda. Off and on.
Weeks later, when Ms. Green received her first new paycheck, she asked Eve Donahue to lunch with her at Shield’s. Eve wondered if she looked presentable. “Is this OK to wear?”
“Sure.”
“Shelby has been teasing me. He calls me Sweater Girl. He thinks I’m fast or something.”
“Shelby is a pest.”
“Actually I’m just fat. I’m putting on weight. And when you’re from Minnesota you have more sweaters than suits, if you know what I mean.”
“I sure do. Well, forget Shelby. Walk fast. We’re going to Shield’s to celebrate my promotion to copywriter.”
“Thanks for including me,” said the temp. Eve wished she had worn a coat over her tight green sweater dress. But it had been sunny in Daly City this morning. Even at noon the fog in San Francisco was thick enough to rearrange Grace’s hair into a halo of frizz.
“Far out hair,” said a passing hippie who looked at her as they passed him on Market Street.
“Did you hear that, Eve. Where else can you get a compliment on a bad hair day? I love this town.”
“I’m just glad it’s not St. Paul.”
“You’ll love Shield’s. I came here with the media department people when I worked there. It’s all mahogany and mirrors. Used to be a speak-easy. Here we are.” Grace opened the heavy door and Eve followed her in.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” said an experienced fellow in a long, crisp white apron. “How many in your party? Anybody joining you?”
“Just the two of us.”
“Oh, I see.” He looked at the list at the end of the bar. “Hmm.”
“No. I’m afraid I can’t help you right now.”
Grace looked around. “But there are tables over there.”
“Reserved. They’re reserved.”
“How long is the wait?”
“Really, it’s not worth it. It’s too long.”
“They’re a lot of tables,” repeated Grace.
“We came early just so we wouldn’t have this problem. And it was for a special occasion,” Grace sighed.
“I’m sorry, but I just can’t help you right now. Where are you from, ladies?” the waiter smiled. He was getting tired of the charade.
“I’m from Minnesota,” Eve came to Grace’s aid. “My friend is from upstate New York.”
“Of course. Well, here it’s different. We don’t reserve tables for unescorted women,” he came out from his desk and stretched out a long starched white arm toward the door.
“But we’re both married women,” Grace blurted.
“But I’ve had drinks here before,” Grace argued.
“Was there a gentlemen in your party on that occasion?” They were on the sidewalk now.
“Yes.”
“There. You see what I’m saying?” He closed the door behind him. Be blunt. Be kind. “I’m sorry, girls,” he went into his routine, “but, I’ll be honest with you, we really don’t seat unescorted women at Shield’s. Look,” he gestured, “right across the street here is the Garden Court at the Palace Hotel. That’s more your thing, isn’t it ladies? Tell the head waiter Patrick sent you. He’ll give you a nice table. I promise. He loves the ladies. You’ll be much happier there. Excuse me,” he reopened the door a couple of inches and slipped back into the best-looking bar in San Francisco.
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