Buddha Was a Cowboy by Junior Burke

Author:Junior Burke
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gibson House Press

CHAPTER 21

Crustaceans On Canvas

Parami’s Plateau Performance Space was another example of a modest element designated much more grandly than it was. As the Parami campus had previously been a hospital, PPS had served as that former institution’s cafeteria, a gaping, cavernous room with a high ceiling. Upon one entire side, a stage had been constructed and a set of curtains rigged, but there was no backstage to speak of. The lighting plan, of the coffee can variety, had been installed three decades before. Every significant event was held in the space, and it was booked nearly every night.

For the Student Arts Performance, Aaron sat in back as he’d done during the summer. There was an established practice of reserving the front row for preceptors, guests, and high-ranking administrators. Aaron heard that the students, while cooperating with the policy, grumbled among themselves concerning the hierarchical nature of it. He knew that some students took note of him in the back and saw it as a gesture of solidarity. Aaron preferred the back. If he were to nod off, as had happened more than once, he was less likely to be found out.

The lights, dim to begin with, dimmed even further, and Katryn Burley, the evening’s host, ambled onto the stage. Aaron had met Katryn but couldn’t say they’d shared a conversation. Seemingly affable and engaging, Katryn went to Academic Engagement almost weekly with some seething complaint, often about Aaron. Katryn served on the Arts Program as a visual artist, in particular a calligrapher, but at some point in recent years decided that country music was the great American form of expression. While she didn’t attempt to teach it or anything related to it, Katryn was convinced it was the medium capable of reaching the most people and having the biggest impact on individual as well as global consciousness. Trouble was, her songs were esoteric and totally unsuited to a mass audience, with titles like “Lotsa Bodhisattvas” and “The Bardo or the Boudoir?”

Although from Philadelphia, Katryn had, ever since her foray into her version of Americana, assumed a dustbowl accent. Tonight, Katryn was decked out in a beige Stetson, red kerchief, and bib overalls as she cradled an autoharp. When Katryn commenced strumming, it sounded as though half the strings were sharp and the other half flat, like a set of wind chimes whose effect was unnervingly dissonant.

“Before we bring out our student performers, I thought I’d serenade all y’all with a song I’m proud to say I’ve had more’n one request for.”

“Buddha!” yelled a young male in the audience as Katryn beamed.

“You got it. And what was Buddha besides an enlightened being?”

“A cowboy!” several voices called out in unison.

Backed by her discordant strumming, Katryn crooned in an alto whose tonality suggested more than a passing familiarity with the late Johnny Cash.

Buddha was a cowboy, he rode the Dharma range.

Buddha was a cowboy, to you it must sound strange.

He knew that things were changeless,

But learned to love the change.

Buddha was a cowboy.

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