Barkley Bohner, Celebrity Philosopher

Chapter Eight

So, here I was, next day, in Hollywood, with Trudy back in New York still all pissed off at me. But soon she would see the light. The deal was a can't miss.

The men in suits, it turned out, loved my deal. They made a counter deal, way better than I ever could have imagined.

I thought real fast. Just for the hell of it, why don't I counter the counter deal and add a zero to it? You know, see what happens?

Done, said the men in suits. Just like that.

I called Trudy from my hotel room. "Baby! You are talking to Funk Barkley, Man of Destiny!"

Trudy said all the right things, of course, but with a certain lack of affect.

"Man of Destiny!" I repeated. "A fourteen-karat deal!"

Nothing from her end.

Maybe I needed to talk louder: "Baby, I'm on the first plane out of here. We are gonna party! Party!"

Nothing, then …

"Barkley." I noticed she wasn't addressing me as Barccles. "Barkley, why don't we both get some rest?"

Rest? What was she talking about?

"Barkley, I'm very happy for you. Really, I am. Why don't you stay put and enjoy yourself? I'll see you tomorrow."

Fine, I thought. Have it your way.

I did some laps in the hotel pool, then settled into the hot tub. Five minutes later, the woman all of Hollywood was lauding as the next Lauren Bacall slipped in opposite me. The view was spectacular. She, in turn, liked what she saw. Hell, what was not to like? I was Funk Barkley, Man of Destiny.

Side note: The hot tub of your dreams always smells like lavender.

Her feet drifted toward where I was berthed, her toes pointed suggestively in my direction. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” she asked.

“No,” I replied.

This only seemed to drive her right to me.

There was no question how I was going to spend my evening. This was simple and uncomplicated. Straight arousal neuroendocrinology, pure testosterone, no epiphenomenal bullshit. The urge surged through in full justifiable alpha flood. I held on through the urge. You know – just to show who's in charge.

It's an interesting game, one I fully intended to lose. I felt the urge sweep through me and over me. I held on. I closed my eyes and breathed through the urge.

This is gonna be good.

My head literally exploded, then unexpectedly emptied out. I think this state of emptiness is what they call enlightenment. Stillness, clarity, tranquility.

The lavender hotel hot tub was my Bodhi Tree. At least until something rushed in to fill the space. In my case, what filled the space was the math to the Bohner Paradox. It was all there. Elegant, beautiful, profound.

I opened my eyes. The next Lauren Bacall was as lovely as ever, but the urge was no longer present. I hastily excused myself. I had better things to do.

Up in my room, on hotel stationery, I scribbled down my equations. Yes! Yes! Yes! It was all there. All the pieces fit. Everything worked.

How did I feel? A better question: How did I allow myself to feel? After that, my decision was easy. I picked up the phone to off-load my business obligations. Done, finito, no more Man of Destiny.

Trudy picked me up at JFK the next day. I didn’t have to say a word. She saw it in me. She turned down a restricted access service road and stopped the car. There, with the planes screeching overhead, to the kerosene stench of jet fuel, she made me feel like a man – or, to be more precise, a lot more than that.

"Epiphenominal!" she screamed above the roar of the jets. "Sisyphian fulfillment!" I screamed right back.

In the words of the Sufi mystic, known simply as The Poet: The empty self is filled with infinite possibility.

At the time, I had no way of knowing where the Bohner Paradox would lead me. All I knew was that I had just bailed out of a sure thing as a man of destiny in favor of living on the fringe as a philosopher. With, of all people, the very last woman in the world you would think would be turned on by philosophers.

My mother expressed her approval this way: "You two should start thinking about having kids." Then she broke off the conversation to flirt with a waiter one-third her age.

I was sure my father-in-law would not nearly be so sanguine. But being left for dead, followed by two years in a coma, had changed him, turned him into a philosopher-criminal.

"Son," he said over vanilla root beer. "When you reach into your pocket searching for a one-dollar bill and all you come up with is twenties – try not to express your disappointment."