photo by Jane Bell Goldstein
The Pin Shop
by Don Plansky
I met Master Lee in sacred time.
It happened, of all days, on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, the holiest day of the Jewish liturgical year, which climaxes the Days of Awe.
It was the beginning of the New Year, the 10th day of Tishri in the year 5755, by the reckoning of the Hebrew lunar calendar.
This day is so important that even cardiac Jews, which is to say, nonobservant members of the tribe who say “I’m a Jew in my heart even if I seldom attend synagogue,” had better fast and show up for services, or else risk Yahweh’s Divine Wrath. And since Yahweh is no upstart deity, as you can tell from the antiquity of the Hebrew year, it’s probably a good idea to stay on His good side.
Well, anyway, this initial meeting occurred a long time ago. It happened, I believe, in the 4691st year since the Accession of Huang-ti, the Yellow Emperor, as reckoned by another ancient tradition.
I’m sure I’ve got some of the details mixed up, yet I’d like to think that the kernel of this story is true. There are no doubt some things I’ve “stretched,” as Huckleberry Finn might say, but mainly I’ve tried to tell the truth.
I had taken the day off from work with the intention of going to afternoon Yom Kippur services, but, first, I desperately wanted to use the morning hours to return to the Oriental Art Gallery in San Francisco’s busy Inner Sunset District in order to make a purchase.
It would be difficult to exaggerate how many violations of Jewish law I was committing. I briefly considered wearing a Groucho Marx disguise with false glasses and mustache, but felt, on reflection, that this would draw even more unwanted attention to my transgressive behavior.
My Mormon friend Daisy, who’s studied these things, reminds me that there are 613 commandments (mitzvot) in the Jewish religion, not just the Big Ten. In other words, there are plenty of ways to get on the wrong side of Yahweh.
Many of these prohibitions and affirmations belong to another time, before the Romans destroyed the Second Temple in Jerusalem (70 C.E.), and would be tough for a 21st century urbanite like myself to follow. I think one of the commandments prohibits double parking your chariot outside the Temple but, believe me, I’m no authority on these matters.
There are some of the 613 mitzvot that I feel pretty good about. I’m absolutely certain, for example, that I haven’t violated two of the dietary laws, “Not to eat a worm found in fruit” (Lev. 11:41) and “Not to eat of winged insects” (Deut. 14:19), since my tastes lean more toward Thai and Chinese cuisine. I can also stand before Yahweh and, in all humility, say “I’ve never practiced the art of casting spells over snakes and scorpions” (Deut. 18:11).
But there are some borderline cases, too; for example, the prohibition against a man wearing women’s clothing (Deut. 22:5). Fortunately, my brief experiment in cross-dressing had ended shortly before the Jewish New Year, so I felt Yahweh might cut me some slack. (I wonder if He knows about the sequined pink dress at the back of the closet?)
On this particular morning, on the Sabbath of Sabbaths, as Yom Kippur is sometimes called, I was especially conscious, however, of the prohibition against all forms of “work” (melakhah). “And whoever does any work on [Yom Kippur] will I destroy from among his people” (Lev. 23:31). Some commandments are not to be trifled with, and this, I believe, is one of them.
I have never fully observed Yom Kippur, although I certainly fasted on several occasions. I did, however, fully observe the Sabbath one time in my life, so I can’t claim ignorance of the extraordinary spiritual power of building, as has been said, a Cathedral in Time. It is precisely the prohibitions against all forms of “work” that help to remove the mundane distractions and ambitions of the rest of the week and thus sanctify the day.
I’m sure I was aware, on some level, that the act of driving my car to the Inner Sunset and the intention of engaging in a commercial transaction were violations of Mosaic Law. And yet there are some rabbis, so I’m informed, who maintain that the Day of Yom Kippur itself is so holy that it has the power to atone for all transgressions, whether or not the individual repents (teshuvah). Judaism is, in fact, a religion of lively debate, ongoing conversation and dissenting opinions (“Two Jews, three opinions,” as the joke goes). It is democratic and egalitarian in spirit, not dogmatic and hierarchical. Maybe that’s why it fosters so many heretics and revolutionaries.
As to the finer points of properly observing the Sabbath, or of Yom Kippur, I’m not competent to speak. Why exactly turning on a light switch is considered a form of work, or playing the piano, which, for me, is the very essence of play, I couldn’t say. Such issues are the province of experts on normative Jewish law and practice (halakhah), not of an excommunicant, such as myself, exiled from the sacred time of his people. Still, for all my ignorance, I knew that morning was a sacred time, even if I stood outside the Palace Gates, as I do now.
It happened, of all days, on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, the holiest day of the Jewish liturgical year, which climaxes the Days of Awe.
It was the beginning of the New Year, the 10th day of Tishri in the year 5755, by the reckoning of the Hebrew lunar calendar.
This day is so important that even cardiac Jews, which is to say, nonobservant members of the tribe who say “I’m a Jew in my heart even if I seldom attend synagogue,” had better fast and show up for services, or else risk Yahweh’s Divine Wrath. And since Yahweh is no upstart deity, as you can tell from the antiquity of the Hebrew year, it’s probably a good idea to stay on His good side.
Well, anyway, this initial meeting occurred a long time ago. It happened, I believe, in the 4691st year since the Accession of Huang-ti, the Yellow Emperor, as reckoned by another ancient tradition.
I’m sure I’ve got some of the details mixed up, yet I’d like to think that the kernel of this story is true. There are no doubt some things I’ve “stretched,” as Huckleberry Finn might say, but mainly I’ve tried to tell the truth.
I had taken the day off from work with the intention of going to afternoon Yom Kippur services, but, first, I desperately wanted to use the morning hours to return to the Oriental Art Gallery in San Francisco’s busy Inner Sunset District in order to make a purchase.
It would be difficult to exaggerate how many violations of Jewish law I was committing. I briefly considered wearing a Groucho Marx disguise with false glasses and mustache, but felt, on reflection, that this would draw even more unwanted attention to my transgressive behavior.
My Mormon friend Daisy, who’s studied these things, reminds me that there are 613 commandments (mitzvot) in the Jewish religion, not just the Big Ten. In other words, there are plenty of ways to get on the wrong side of Yahweh.
Many of these prohibitions and affirmations belong to another time, before the Romans destroyed the Second Temple in Jerusalem (70 C.E.), and would be tough for a 21st century urbanite like myself to follow. I think one of the commandments prohibits double parking your chariot outside the Temple but, believe me, I’m no authority on these matters.
There are some of the 613 mitzvot that I feel pretty good about. I’m absolutely certain, for example, that I haven’t violated two of the dietary laws, “Not to eat a worm found in fruit” (Lev. 11:41) and “Not to eat of winged insects” (Deut. 14:19), since my tastes lean more toward Thai and Chinese cuisine. I can also stand before Yahweh and, in all humility, say “I’ve never practiced the art of casting spells over snakes and scorpions” (Deut. 18:11).
But there are some borderline cases, too; for example, the prohibition against a man wearing women’s clothing (Deut. 22:5). Fortunately, my brief experiment in cross-dressing had ended shortly before the Jewish New Year, so I felt Yahweh might cut me some slack. (I wonder if He knows about the sequined pink dress at the back of the closet?)
On this particular morning, on the Sabbath of Sabbaths, as Yom Kippur is sometimes called, I was especially conscious, however, of the prohibition against all forms of “work” (melakhah). “And whoever does any work on [Yom Kippur] will I destroy from among his people” (Lev. 23:31). Some commandments are not to be trifled with, and this, I believe, is one of them.
I have never fully observed Yom Kippur, although I certainly fasted on several occasions. I did, however, fully observe the Sabbath one time in my life, so I can’t claim ignorance of the extraordinary spiritual power of building, as has been said, a Cathedral in Time. It is precisely the prohibitions against all forms of “work” that help to remove the mundane distractions and ambitions of the rest of the week and thus sanctify the day.
I’m sure I was aware, on some level, that the act of driving my car to the Inner Sunset and the intention of engaging in a commercial transaction were violations of Mosaic Law. And yet there are some rabbis, so I’m informed, who maintain that the Day of Yom Kippur itself is so holy that it has the power to atone for all transgressions, whether or not the individual repents (teshuvah). Judaism is, in fact, a religion of lively debate, ongoing conversation and dissenting opinions (“Two Jews, three opinions,” as the joke goes). It is democratic and egalitarian in spirit, not dogmatic and hierarchical. Maybe that’s why it fosters so many heretics and revolutionaries.
As to the finer points of properly observing the Sabbath, or of Yom Kippur, I’m not competent to speak. Why exactly turning on a light switch is considered a form of work, or playing the piano, which, for me, is the very essence of play, I couldn’t say. Such issues are the province of experts on normative Jewish law and practice (halakhah), not of an excommunicant, such as myself, exiled from the sacred time of his people. Still, for all my ignorance, I knew that morning was a sacred time, even if I stood outside the Palace Gates, as I do now.
***
I had entered the Oriental Art Gallery for the first time only a few months before the Day of Atonement, probably in the month of Av, in the year 5754.
Frankly, it took me a long time before I even really noticed the place. I’m that sort of person. Sometimes I look but don’t see. I suppose you could say that I’m “nonobservant” in more than one sense.
Some residents of the neighborhood claim that the little family-run shop on Ninth Avenue is never open for business. Others claim that it doesn’t exist, especially when you call it “the Oriental Art Gallery,” which is likely to be met with a blank stare, unless you add, “You know, the Pin Shop.” (For a long time I was a member of this second group, oddly enough, when I lived in the heart of the Inner Sunset.) I’m informed that a third group, a cult of “head in the clouds” esotericists, insists that the shop has an unstable, mostly virtual, not wholly actual existence, and that, in fact, it blinks in and out of the space-time continuum. In that case, I suppose, it would both exist and not exist. Or, as one of these kooks prefers to say, “Oh, the Pin Shop exists all right, in one sense, but it’s empty of a separate existence, as are we all.” Go figure. Well, I’m pretty sure that must be one of the false parts of this story.
As I was saying, on that initial visit I was greeted by Su Lee, proprietress of the “Pin Shop,” a lover of knick-knacks, assorted tchotchkes, and sundry collectibles that fill the shop to the brim. Su has often nourished me with little snacks over the years, although I don’t recall if she did that day. In any case, soon after I entered the darkly lit, cluttered store, which looks and feels rather more like a cave than a normal place of business, my eye was drawn to a row of Chinese landscape paintings on the right wall. With a mind more than usually exhausted and, in the words of Nyoshul Khenpo, “beaten helpless by karma and neurotic thought, like the relentless fury of the pounding waves in the infinite Ocean of Samsara,” I longed to rest in the “natural great peace” promised by the Tibetan poet.
It was in this frame of mind that my eyes fell upon one of the landscapes, and followed the leisurely steps of a Taoist sage (as I fancied him) walking quietly, supported by a long staff, toward his cabin. On the verge of a nearby river bank a tree’s wispy leaves sway gently as the sage passes by on his way home. In the distance, lightly sketched mountain peaks.
And so, on the Day of Atonement, I had returned to the Oriental Art Gallery, checkbook near at hand, in search of my lost Taoist sage, or perhaps it was he who was searching for me. I imagine him “lost” in the manner of the Chinese Buddhist poet, Han-shan, perhaps even speaking to me in the words of that old recluse of the T’ang Dynasty,
Frankly, it took me a long time before I even really noticed the place. I’m that sort of person. Sometimes I look but don’t see. I suppose you could say that I’m “nonobservant” in more than one sense.
Some residents of the neighborhood claim that the little family-run shop on Ninth Avenue is never open for business. Others claim that it doesn’t exist, especially when you call it “the Oriental Art Gallery,” which is likely to be met with a blank stare, unless you add, “You know, the Pin Shop.” (For a long time I was a member of this second group, oddly enough, when I lived in the heart of the Inner Sunset.) I’m informed that a third group, a cult of “head in the clouds” esotericists, insists that the shop has an unstable, mostly virtual, not wholly actual existence, and that, in fact, it blinks in and out of the space-time continuum. In that case, I suppose, it would both exist and not exist. Or, as one of these kooks prefers to say, “Oh, the Pin Shop exists all right, in one sense, but it’s empty of a separate existence, as are we all.” Go figure. Well, I’m pretty sure that must be one of the false parts of this story.
As I was saying, on that initial visit I was greeted by Su Lee, proprietress of the “Pin Shop,” a lover of knick-knacks, assorted tchotchkes, and sundry collectibles that fill the shop to the brim. Su has often nourished me with little snacks over the years, although I don’t recall if she did that day. In any case, soon after I entered the darkly lit, cluttered store, which looks and feels rather more like a cave than a normal place of business, my eye was drawn to a row of Chinese landscape paintings on the right wall. With a mind more than usually exhausted and, in the words of Nyoshul Khenpo, “beaten helpless by karma and neurotic thought, like the relentless fury of the pounding waves in the infinite Ocean of Samsara,” I longed to rest in the “natural great peace” promised by the Tibetan poet.
It was in this frame of mind that my eyes fell upon one of the landscapes, and followed the leisurely steps of a Taoist sage (as I fancied him) walking quietly, supported by a long staff, toward his cabin. On the verge of a nearby river bank a tree’s wispy leaves sway gently as the sage passes by on his way home. In the distance, lightly sketched mountain peaks.
And so, on the Day of Atonement, I had returned to the Oriental Art Gallery, checkbook near at hand, in search of my lost Taoist sage, or perhaps it was he who was searching for me. I imagine him “lost” in the manner of the Chinese Buddhist poet, Han-shan, perhaps even speaking to me in the words of that old recluse of the T’ang Dynasty,
If you’re looking for a place to rest,
Cold Mountain is good for a long stay.
The breeze blowing through the dark pines sounds better
the closer you come.
And under the trees a white-haired man
mumbles over his Taoist texts.
Ten years now he hasn’t gone home,
he’s even forgotten the road he came by.
Cold Mountain is good for a long stay.
The breeze blowing through the dark pines sounds better
the closer you come.
And under the trees a white-haired man
mumbles over his Taoist texts.
Ten years now he hasn’t gone home,
he’s even forgotten the road he came by.
I should say, rather, that I was trying to return to my Taoist sage hidden away in the little junk shop (as I thought of it), but the front door was closed.
(For those of my readers who are impatient with antique calendars, and are anxious for a familiar signpost, this story begins, assuming it ever will begin, in the year of their Lord, 1994, on Thursday, September 15, as reckoned by the goyim.)
Now small, family-run shops, like the Oriental Art Gallery, as I have already intimated, have listed hours of operation which are more honored in the breach than in the observance. No matter the stated hours of operation. I was locked out.
I was cursing silently while, simultaneously, straining to see my Taoist sage through the glass of the closed door. After a while, to kill some time, I began looking more closely at the profusion of buttons and badges on display in the expansive, somewhat dirty, exterior window, in the faint hope that someone might show up before I had to leave for services.
One button was stamped with the likeness of Lenin. Right next to it another boasts “I’m No. 1 – Why Try Harder?” Another proclaims “I’m the person your mother warned you about,” while its neighbor (with borrowed Churchillian wit) gloats, “I’m fat and you’re ugly, but tomorrow I can go on a diet.” Still others emerge, forming a profane tapestry of smug self-assertion, quick sex and dusty death: “Make Someone Happy – Keep Quiet,” “Married but not DEAD yet,” “We’ll get along fine as soon as you realize I’m God,” and, scotch taped to the window, a tiny rectangular button, declaiming: “WHEN I DIE Bury Me Face Down So the Whole World Can Kiss My Ass!!” Sex appeared to be the most popular topic: “Beer Drinkers – Better Lovers.” The misogyny of “I Don’t Do Fat Chicks” was deftly countered by “WHEN GOD MADE MAN SHE WAS ONLY JOKING.” “Sex Has No Calories” was fueled by “I need it bad.” Finally, I read that well-worn apotheosis of ultimate nihilism, “Eat Shit and Die!”
By now, I had more than had my fill of what passes for the world’s profane “wisdom,” and was making one last effort to see my Taoist sage through the glass of the closed door, when I noticed a small Chinese man, almost touching my arm, closing the gate of the residence where he, his wife Su and younger son (as I later learned) lived above the shop. He explained that his wife, who I had met on my first visit in July, and who generally runs the business, was at the doctor’s today and that’s why the store was closed. Once I convinced him I was a serious customer, he took out his keys, unlocked the front door, and we entered the shop.
(For those of my readers who are impatient with antique calendars, and are anxious for a familiar signpost, this story begins, assuming it ever will begin, in the year of their Lord, 1994, on Thursday, September 15, as reckoned by the goyim.)
Now small, family-run shops, like the Oriental Art Gallery, as I have already intimated, have listed hours of operation which are more honored in the breach than in the observance. No matter the stated hours of operation. I was locked out.
I was cursing silently while, simultaneously, straining to see my Taoist sage through the glass of the closed door. After a while, to kill some time, I began looking more closely at the profusion of buttons and badges on display in the expansive, somewhat dirty, exterior window, in the faint hope that someone might show up before I had to leave for services.
One button was stamped with the likeness of Lenin. Right next to it another boasts “I’m No. 1 – Why Try Harder?” Another proclaims “I’m the person your mother warned you about,” while its neighbor (with borrowed Churchillian wit) gloats, “I’m fat and you’re ugly, but tomorrow I can go on a diet.” Still others emerge, forming a profane tapestry of smug self-assertion, quick sex and dusty death: “Make Someone Happy – Keep Quiet,” “Married but not DEAD yet,” “We’ll get along fine as soon as you realize I’m God,” and, scotch taped to the window, a tiny rectangular button, declaiming: “WHEN I DIE Bury Me Face Down So the Whole World Can Kiss My Ass!!” Sex appeared to be the most popular topic: “Beer Drinkers – Better Lovers.” The misogyny of “I Don’t Do Fat Chicks” was deftly countered by “WHEN GOD MADE MAN SHE WAS ONLY JOKING.” “Sex Has No Calories” was fueled by “I need it bad.” Finally, I read that well-worn apotheosis of ultimate nihilism, “Eat Shit and Die!”
By now, I had more than had my fill of what passes for the world’s profane “wisdom,” and was making one last effort to see my Taoist sage through the glass of the closed door, when I noticed a small Chinese man, almost touching my arm, closing the gate of the residence where he, his wife Su and younger son (as I later learned) lived above the shop. He explained that his wife, who I had met on my first visit in July, and who generally runs the business, was at the doctor’s today and that’s why the store was closed. Once I convinced him I was a serious customer, he took out his keys, unlocked the front door, and we entered the shop.
***
Inside, the walls were covered and display cases filled with an unselfconscious profusion of buttons, sports trading cards, posters, trinkets and memorabilia, leaving over just a bit of room here and there for Chinese scroll paintings, sticks of incense, and miniature Buddhist and Hindu statuary.
For the next hour or so a kind of silent tug of war took place between Mr. Foon Lee, proprietor of the Oriental Art Gallery, and me. I needed to make a decision about which painting to purchase – the Taoist sage approaching his cabin, or perhaps the priest pointing with his walking stick at the first signs of spring among frosty leaves in the depths of winter. I was anxious to make my purchase so as not to be late for Yom Kippur afternoon services. But Mr. Lee had a different agenda that did not seem to include trying to sell one of the paintings – instead, he led me to the back of the shop where he leafed through his large book of testimonials extolling the curative powers of his herbal remedies and acupuncture techniques. There were photos of local politicians, newspaper clippings about Chinese painters, thank-you notes from former clients, including many celebrities, such as San Francisco defense attorney Tony Serra.
When I heard that acupuncture was among the healing arts practiced by Mr. Lee, I mentioned that I had developed diabetes earlier in the year. He set me straight, explaining, first, that diabetes was to be dealt with through herbal remedies, not acupuncture – but, in any case, he was now, more or less, retired. Mr. Lee seemed no more interested in my health problems than he was in selling me a painting.
He continued to flip through the album, this time quickly coming to the page on which was found the testimonial of an older woman with advanced diabetic complications who had benefitted, it seemed almost miraculously, from the treatment she received from Foon Lee.
As Mr. Lee kept flipping the pages of the thick album, showing yet more testimonials and photos, my feet kept sliding (as unobtrusively as this could be done) toward the front of the store where the scroll paintings awaited further inspection and a final decision. I didn’t want to be late joining my family for afternoon services.
Pointing to yet another page in his album, Mr. Lee would begin to tell the story behind each photo or handwritten note. Politicians, celebrities, scholars, artists and former patients all found a place in his book.
Mr. Lee was himself an artist, he said. He was also a poet and calligrapher, in addition to being an acupuncturist (semi-retired) and herbalist (also retired?). He was, he said, an astrological prognosticator (a science, he explained at a later visit, that he had come to believe in after beginning as a skeptic). He was something of a chef and an expert swimmer. And he was indeed a fine musician, as I heard for myself on another occasion, and a reader of palms. Palm reader? He took my left hand in his right and remarked on the long life line, but evidently saw something either in my manner or in the lines on my palm, or both, that prompted him to say that I worried too much. One needs no ghost to return from the grave to tell me this, I thought to myself. He saw some difficulties that had occurred in my thirties, and then seemed to see something even more disturbing, and peremptorily – as though what he had just divined on my left hand was beyond all remedy – dropped the left hand in favor of the right.
Adding yet another talent to Mr. Lee’s impressive array of gifts, he was a practitioner of T’ai-chi, the ancient art of spiritual grace and movement which combines rest (yin) and activity (yang), the alternation of which, he explained, produces the five elements (wu-hsing) which form the basis of all material existence. No sooner had he disclosed his knowledge of the ancient art, a key to health and longevity, than he crouched down, raising his open arms and moving his hands in the ancient ritual. He abruptly ceased his movements.
“How old are you?” he asked suddenly. “Forty-four,” I replied. “How old you think I am?” This was a game I don’t like to play. I shrugged my shoulders. He said he was 72.
When the album of photos and testimonials and newspaper clippings had been pretty well milked, I managed, finally, to work my way back to the front of the shop so as to complete the commercial transaction for the Taoist sage on his way home. Mr. Lee seemed to take little interest in the commercial aspect of our first encounter. However, as a businessman dealing with a new customer, he liked his cash on the barrelhead, not promised with a check. We compromised. I paid a portion in cash as a goodwill gesture, the rest by check.
After he ascertained that I was a writer and might entertain some faint prospects of fame in a distant futurity, he made a point of taking a picture of me beside the painting – perhaps a future addition to the photo album.
And then I was off to what might remain of Yom Kippur services. The day was running short and I had a lot of sins (meshuvot) for which to atone. Yahweh, an uncompromising God, was awaiting me.
For the next hour or so a kind of silent tug of war took place between Mr. Foon Lee, proprietor of the Oriental Art Gallery, and me. I needed to make a decision about which painting to purchase – the Taoist sage approaching his cabin, or perhaps the priest pointing with his walking stick at the first signs of spring among frosty leaves in the depths of winter. I was anxious to make my purchase so as not to be late for Yom Kippur afternoon services. But Mr. Lee had a different agenda that did not seem to include trying to sell one of the paintings – instead, he led me to the back of the shop where he leafed through his large book of testimonials extolling the curative powers of his herbal remedies and acupuncture techniques. There were photos of local politicians, newspaper clippings about Chinese painters, thank-you notes from former clients, including many celebrities, such as San Francisco defense attorney Tony Serra.
When I heard that acupuncture was among the healing arts practiced by Mr. Lee, I mentioned that I had developed diabetes earlier in the year. He set me straight, explaining, first, that diabetes was to be dealt with through herbal remedies, not acupuncture – but, in any case, he was now, more or less, retired. Mr. Lee seemed no more interested in my health problems than he was in selling me a painting.
He continued to flip through the album, this time quickly coming to the page on which was found the testimonial of an older woman with advanced diabetic complications who had benefitted, it seemed almost miraculously, from the treatment she received from Foon Lee.
As Mr. Lee kept flipping the pages of the thick album, showing yet more testimonials and photos, my feet kept sliding (as unobtrusively as this could be done) toward the front of the store where the scroll paintings awaited further inspection and a final decision. I didn’t want to be late joining my family for afternoon services.
Pointing to yet another page in his album, Mr. Lee would begin to tell the story behind each photo or handwritten note. Politicians, celebrities, scholars, artists and former patients all found a place in his book.
Mr. Lee was himself an artist, he said. He was also a poet and calligrapher, in addition to being an acupuncturist (semi-retired) and herbalist (also retired?). He was, he said, an astrological prognosticator (a science, he explained at a later visit, that he had come to believe in after beginning as a skeptic). He was something of a chef and an expert swimmer. And he was indeed a fine musician, as I heard for myself on another occasion, and a reader of palms. Palm reader? He took my left hand in his right and remarked on the long life line, but evidently saw something either in my manner or in the lines on my palm, or both, that prompted him to say that I worried too much. One needs no ghost to return from the grave to tell me this, I thought to myself. He saw some difficulties that had occurred in my thirties, and then seemed to see something even more disturbing, and peremptorily – as though what he had just divined on my left hand was beyond all remedy – dropped the left hand in favor of the right.
Adding yet another talent to Mr. Lee’s impressive array of gifts, he was a practitioner of T’ai-chi, the ancient art of spiritual grace and movement which combines rest (yin) and activity (yang), the alternation of which, he explained, produces the five elements (wu-hsing) which form the basis of all material existence. No sooner had he disclosed his knowledge of the ancient art, a key to health and longevity, than he crouched down, raising his open arms and moving his hands in the ancient ritual. He abruptly ceased his movements.
“How old are you?” he asked suddenly. “Forty-four,” I replied. “How old you think I am?” This was a game I don’t like to play. I shrugged my shoulders. He said he was 72.
When the album of photos and testimonials and newspaper clippings had been pretty well milked, I managed, finally, to work my way back to the front of the shop so as to complete the commercial transaction for the Taoist sage on his way home. Mr. Lee seemed to take little interest in the commercial aspect of our first encounter. However, as a businessman dealing with a new customer, he liked his cash on the barrelhead, not promised with a check. We compromised. I paid a portion in cash as a goodwill gesture, the rest by check.
After he ascertained that I was a writer and might entertain some faint prospects of fame in a distant futurity, he made a point of taking a picture of me beside the painting – perhaps a future addition to the photo album.
And then I was off to what might remain of Yom Kippur services. The day was running short and I had a lot of sins (meshuvot) for which to atone. Yahweh, an uncompromising God, was awaiting me.
###