Carlos Castaneda. Months after joining the Los Angeles
Centre, he was approached one night in Pacific Palisades by two white
men. Robert was black. The men were angry that his girlfriend was
white. They each pulled out a gun and took aim. They said: "Get out
of the car." Robert was concerned that they would rape and kill his
girlfriend. He made a quick decision. He slammed down hard on the
accelerator. When the bullet entered his head, he kept driving. He
passed familiar streets. He had grown up in Los Angeles. Blood
streamed down his face. He drove to a hospital where, in the weeks
that followed, he did miraculously well. The experience cemented his
devotion to Rama, who took credit for the recovery.

I missed the Stony Brook disciples. I missed Paul, the computer wizard
with the silly grin. Sal, another computer genius, had taken to heart
Rama's caveat that disciples were stealing his power. But beneath his
fears was a gentle, humorous soul, and I missed him. I missed Rachel,
the doctor, who had continued to support the Centre financially, and
who had apparently forgotten about the "Garage Door Opener Incident."
Dana, the former model and occupational therapy student, often grew icy
with the power that Rama gave her over other disciples. But I knew
that as Rama's office manager, hers was a particularly trying position
(she typically slept three or four hours a night), and I missed her. I
missed Anne, the nurse, who had known Rama the longest, and who was
also under intense pressure to perform. Once I overheard Rama advising
Anne to accept her "true" cold and callous nature. Despite his remark,
she mostly lived up to her spiritual name, Prema, which symbolized a
higher form of love.

I missed the disciples whom Rama had dubbed "assholes of the
mountains." I missed UCSD recruits Doug and Eric, whose adventuresome
spirit and love of the outdoors was evident in their winter assaults on
12,000 foot peaks. And I missed Mike. Tall, with thick red hair, Mike
looked, ate, and at times acted like a wild Viking. In reality, he was
a wild UCSD medical student. Once he told me that he occasionally
slept in his Volkswagon bus in campus parking lots.

"You really do that?" I asked.

"Yeah. The cops don't like it, though."

"What do they do?"

"They shake the van and try to get me to come out."

"Do you?"

"Nah. I usually go back to sleep."

Perhaps Mike's unique way of doing things, as well a