It was Ransom who asked, “What about living as a rich man? You ever done it? That kind of change, it wouldn’t be so bad.”
Her Bahamian accent strung the words together as music:
Whads a‘bot libbin’ as’a reech mon? Daht wooden be so bod!
Tomlinson brushed off the suggestion. Told her his family had been wealthy. He had no interest.
“I’m talking about
you.
You ever felt what it’s like to make your own pile of money? To want expensive things?”
“Materialism and greed,” he replied. “They’re contrary to
Shiku Seigan,
my sacred Buddhist vows to live modestly, and root out blind passion. The blind passion deal—I’m not claiming to be perfect, obviously. But living like some starched suit who only thinks about money? No way.”
The way he said it—his condescending tone—annoyed her. “That’s the way most people live, you dumb stork. You always talking that spiritual garbage. About how you relate to your brothers and sisters around the world. But how can you feel it if you never been in their shoes?
“Most people love money. Darlin’, you’re
lookin’
at a girl who loves money. Work like hell tryin’ to make it big, and it ain’t easy. Most of us, we like to buy nice things. But not you. What you’re really tellin’ me is that you’re too good to live like the rest of us. Sayin’ money’s dirty is the same as sayin’ people like me are dirty. You ain’t spiritual. You a
snob.”
That got to him. He sat there with lips pursed, eyes drifting, twisting a strand of bleached hair. After a moment, he spoke as if talking to himself. “Hmmm, an interesting concept. Learn to empathize with greed and materialism by experiencing it. You gotta live it to understand it. That’s what you’re saying, Rance. I never looked at it that way.”
“You nothin’ but a boney ol’ stork of a snob,” she repeated, sensing an advantage.
“Know what? You might have something. Damn it all ... I
am
a snob. I’ll say something like, ‘I want to understand why people love shopping malls.’ Or those big-ass, gas-guzzling cars? What’s it like to touch a hundred-dollar bill and feel emotion? Work nine to five just to buy monogrammed hankies—that’s a weirdy. Pay money to blow snot all over your own initials.
“I pretend to be interested in what drives materialistic people. But I’m not. Not really. I
choose
not to understand their behavior because it’s beneath me.” He slapped his knee. “Wow! I see it now. What an
asshole
I’ve been.”
Ransom’s expression read, There! You finally admitted it, as she said, “People out there trying to make a buck, buy a fine car, but you talk about ’em like they’re fools. Try it your own self if you want to understand. See what it’s like to risk your butt startin’ a business, knowin’ it might fail, lose everything. On the other hand, you might make it big, too. Maybe you might like it, being rich.”
“Feel what they feel. Hmmm. I
like
that.” He was warming to the idea. He stood and began to pace, letting it happen in his brain. “In Buddhism, we have what are called ‘the Three Precepts.’ The Three Precepts of Materialism might be ... self-indulgence, self-promotion, and ... selfishness? Yeah. Fits. What you’re suggesting, Rance, is that I might come to better understand self
-less-
ness if I experience the flip side.
Selfishness.
A very, very heavy approach...”
“No,” she said, irritated, “what I’m tellin’ you is to stop mopin’ around, get off that dead ass of yours. Find out your own self how hard it is to build a pile of money.”
Tomlinson had drifted into another world, trying it on. “Self-indulgence. Self-promotion. Selfish desire. The Three Ss. Yes. The symbolic trinity in a nation of gold cards.
Perfect.
The dollar sign, after all, is nothing more than the letter S transected by vertical lines-three symbols. Get it?”
As I said, “Oh, sure. I’m right with you,” my cousin told him, “Tomlinson, you a hopeless fool. I’m talking about money, and you already confused. Talking like you gonna start a new religion or somethin’, not your own business.”
“I already have my own religion,” he answered, a little sadly. “Not through choice, either. Because of the Internet, there’re people out there devoted to my writings. Thousands. Unfortunately, I was doing my own version of mandatory drug testing at the time, so I don’t recall much of what I wrote. Or why I wrote it.”
I watched as Ransom began to speak, then did a slow freeze as if she’d been struck by something. The woman sat in silence, pondering. Then, gradually, a shrewd glow came into her eyes—a different sort of awakening.
“You
did
start your own religion,” she said softly. “That’s true. It is
true.
How could my brain not thought of this idea before?”
Later, Tomlinson would say she had thought of it before. Her trap.
“We all seen the idiots come around here thinkin’ you’re some sort of religious guru,” Ransom continued. “A spiritual man who can change water into wine, instead of what you are. Which is a donkey dick that turns rum into piss when you ain’t using it to diddle. But those idiots don’t know that. Fools think you’re special. People
all over the world.
I seen it myself, the stuff they write to you on the computer.”
Unoffended, Tomlinson said, “Yes, my students say they learn much from the little I have to teach.”
My cousin replied, “Yeah, mon. But you ever thought of
chargin’
them for it?”
“Charging? You mean,
money?”
“You want a new experience or not? If you got the balls, let me handle it. We’ll both make a pile.”
Sounding rattled, he said, “I don’t really
want
to get rich. I was playing with the idea. On the other hand, though ... compared to bestiality, or the other two ...”
Ransom said, “Those are three nice options you got there. Think it over. You might look good wearin’ lipstick and shit. Walkin’ like your bum hurt.”
Later that evening, Tomlinson told her, he didn’t see any way around it. If she had some ideas about making money, go ahead and get started.
“Do it now,” he said, “’cause I don’t have much time left.”
Ransom was like a lion set free.
There were already Tomlinson-dedicated Web sites—mostly in Europe and Asia, where his small, brilliant book,
One Fathom Above Sea Level,
had been widely translated and praised.
One fathom equals approximately six feet, so the title referred to a view of the world through one man’s eyes.
The customer base was out there waiting, so Ransom decided to start an Internet school of meditation. From Sanibel, they could reach out to the world. In return, she hoped, money would flow in from the world.
Tomlinson was mortified. Money was the only area where he set strict guidelines: The school had to serve the public good, he said, and she couldn’t charge fees of any kind. Donations could be accepted. But no pressure tactics. If his teachings improved lives, students might send a little gift in gratitude. Expect nothing more.
“This getting rich business sucks,” he told me privately. “I haven’t made a cent yet, and your sister already has me pissed off about the tax laws. Insurance companies? The insurance racket is nothing but organized crime with a permission slip.”
As a template, Ransom copied a respected international school of Zen that offered Internet instruction. Founded by a Korean Zen master, it had educational centers worldwide and several hundred thousand followers.
My cousin charged ahead, working seven days a week. Created a corporation. Filed forms with the IRS seeking a religious nonprofit 501(c)(3) status for the now legally chartered “Sanibel Institute of Zen Meditation & Island Karma.”
“The feds should grant it, no problem. Even if they don’t, we can still operate as an electronic church, and take all the donations them folks want to send us. Either way, everything will be nice and legal.”
Ransom loved the acronym. SIZMIK, which she pronounced as “seismic.”
“T-shirt sales alone,” she said. “Think of the cash flow.”
She put herself through a crash course on building Web pages, and hired one of the state’s best Internet designers. They created an interactive, multipage Web site. A Miami computer bank, or collocutor, became her Web server. As a domain name, they settled on:
www.KarmicTomlinson.com
.
“A collocutor’s nothin’ but an office with computers linked to several hard drives. If one drive dies, they can hot swap a new one without shutting down, so we don’t lose a thing.”
The collocutor would coordinate live telecasts. Point the camera at Tomlinson and it would be sent out across the Internet. Students could interact with him in real time. Two or three live sessions a week. Everything else at the CyberZendo would be shot in advance and edited.
CyberZendo. Tomlinson’s name.
Ransom did the video. She recorded Tomlinson’s lectures, his sitting
zazen
demonstrations, and followed him around during a typical day—a sort of Tomlinson reality show that became popular.
She also traveled the islands recording soothing scenes of beaches, bays, swaying palms at sunset, and oceanscapes. “Meditative stuff,” she called it.
Ransom worked her butt off while Tomlinson sat around brooding about his decision to get rich, and fretting about his death dream. She was often furious at him, and for good reason.
In mid-July, it happened. Ransom’s Internet Zendo Village, featuring Rienzi master Tomlinson, premiered on the World Wide Web. She hosted a party at Dinkin’s Bay to celebrate, though most who attended seemed confused by the occasion.
Why was there a banner over the bait tanks that read: CONGRATULATIONS SANIBEL INSTITUTE OF ISLAND KARMA? Why was Tomlinson wearing flowing orange monk’s robes instead of his trademark sarong? The video crew—
why?
The night of the premiere, few islanders visited Karmic
Tomlinson.com
. On the other side of the earth, though, hundreds of eager Asian admirers did. In Europe, Africa, and Indonesia, too. The spiritually minded sat at their computers and, for the first time, interacted with their esteemed teacher, the
Roshi,
whose writings they loved.
News of the link spread.
The first week, Ransom told me, the site recorded two thousand hits. By the fourth week, they were averaging that many a day, and the numbers were growing.
Donations started as a trickle. Disappointing. Ransom wanted to change the term from “donations” to “Good Karma Offerings,” and pestered Tomlinson until he finally gave in.
It worked. Money orders and traveler’s checks began arriving in large numbers at the post office on Tarpon Bay Road. Ransom rented a second commercial-sized box to handle the flow.
“I’d hoped for an even bigger buzz,” she admitted. “I want to get rich. Wild rich. We aren’t, but it’s okay. Having a nice bank account will have to do.”
Tomlinson, though, was distraught. By now he was too afraid of Ransom to risk a direct confrontation, so he retaliated by imploring his students
not
to send offerings.
“If the Good Samaritan wasn’t rich, nobody would remember the dude. Keep your money!” he told them in his live telecasts.
Reverse psychology sometimes works when it’s unintentional.
His followers sent more money, not less.
That called for another variety of celebration.
On the Monday before Thanksgiving, Ransom drove Tomlinson’s venerable Volkswagen Thing into nearby Fort Myers, traded it in on a luxury van, then had it painted like one of the old hipster microbuses: flowers, peace signs, and rainbows.
For herself, she bought a Lexus LS 430, the big luxury sedan.
Over the next several months, things got stranger. Tomlinson began to change. He withdrew emotionally for a period. When he reemerged, he was the same scatterbrained, brilliant flake, but with an unexpected edge.
Something else we noticed: My old friend began buying toys for himself. Friends, too. Spending lots of money. The only really smart thing he did was buy majority interest in a funky little restaurant near the wildlife sanctuary and rename it Dinkin’s Bay Raw Bar & Deja Brew.
He stopped battling Ransom. Even tried to help her when he could.
I watched Tomlinson smack himself on the forehead again, finish his drink, then wobble toward the galley to make another. He turned toward me, exasperated. “That’s the problem. I don’t know if I want to go back to being my old self.”
“What?”
“I kinda
like
some of the things I’ve bought. The dinghy’s an example. It’s nice not to get soaked when the bay’s choppy. And the Harley. Man, what a rush to rumble down the middle of Periwinkle, cars on both sides, when traffic’s backed up.
Free.
“Then there’s the clothes. Some say I look very, very hip in a white silk suit. A whole new fashion experience. And did you know Rance’s going to bring out a line of sarongs? My own private label. Finest quality.”
He said all this in a rush, enthusiastic, but with a confessional undertone.
I said, “I see. That’s the problem. You enjoy having money.”
He looked at the floor. Nodded.
“Just like Ransom predicted.”
He nodded quickly, his face blotching as if he might cry.
“Give yourself a break. You’re human. It’s normal to like money. She was right about that, too.”
“Man, I don’t like money. I
love
it,” he said miserably. “Slapping down the Gold Card for anything I want? It’s got me jonesing worse than a smack freak on Super Bowl Sunday. My God, Doc, I almost put earnest money on a Cape Coral condo yesterday. A place that’s got
cable.
The guard wears a
uniform.
Hear what I’m saying? I’m out of control!”
Tomlinson put his palms together, then touched index fingers to his lips—usually a religious posture that now signaled the depth of his distress.