make your fate

Some call them the Mormons of Japan, those Soka Gakkai enthusiasts who constantly solicit new members, donations, votes, whatever they can get. I’ve heard them called everything from ‘Daisaku Ikeda’s personality cult’ to ‘a group of fanatics out to take over the world.’

The complicated way to describe them would be modern-day followers of Nichiren Buddhism. The simple way would be to say they’re people who say ‘Namu-myoho-renge-kyo’ for personal gain. It translates roughly as ‘We believe in the truth of the Buddha,’ and is pronounced nah-myo-ho-ren-geh-kyo. They believe this six-syllable phrase has the power to make desires become reality. Not for world peace or anything dumb like that, but for personal, tangible things.

 
The first time I tried it, I was broke. I wanted one hundred dollars by Tuesday to make rent, and I knew I wasn’t getting paid before then. For five days I repeated namu-myoho-renge-kyo during any spare moments I could grab. That Saturday, I got a check for $101.47 from the pool concession stand I worked at over the previous summer. The letter said the check represented a retroactive pay-raise of 23 cents an hour to meet some municipal requirement they’d only just realized they violated.

So now I chant namu-myoho-renge-kyo. Only I don’t really chant it, more like repeat it silently to myself whenever I want something, which is all the time. Right now I want a new job. Three weeks ago, I had an interview with this company, Concentrated Logistics International, but I don’t know where I stand. They said they were down to a handful of applicants and I’ve not yet gotten a call back.

Bastards.

It would be an ideal job, too. I’d get to travel to Tokyo once every two months for a week. My duties would include interpreting during the day and drinking with the Japanese executives at night. Nothing like being able to write off a visit to Soapland as a corporate expense (Soapland is the name of a chain of bathhouses where Japanese girls put soap on their bodies and clean you.)

The second time I tested the powers of the Daimoku (that italicized phrase I’ve said three times now), I was studying abroad or two in Japan. My girlfriend, Mizuko, informed me that her seiri didn’t come on time. For two nervous weeks, I kept praying namu-myoho-renge-kyo on the subway, on those cold drunken 1am walks back to my homestay, pretty much all the time. I should clarify; you’re not praying, but focusing your karma in such a way as to alert the universe to your desires.

Well, at the end of those two soul-wrenching weeks it came. Settling for fera instead of etchi for a week or so was a small price to pay for the reprieve from fatherhood. I think Mizuko was a little disappointed, but I’m sure there are plenty of foreigners for her to prey upon now, wherever she is.

My friends and I celebrated with a trip to Osaka to drink at the hostess bar, and I never forgot who to thank for my good fortune. I could use some of that good fortune now, with sixteen thousand dollars in student loans to pay back and a militant bookie who’s getting better at finding me.

You wouldn’t believe what else namu-myoho-renge-kyo got me. A Porsche. I entered one of those raffle things you always walk by at the mall and put my info on one of the cards as a lark. I know it’s just a scam to gather addresses so they can send you junk mail, but I really wanted that car. It took a solid month of Daimoku-saying before I got the phone call telling me I’d won.

It was a silver Boxster, ten kinds of fast and dangerously easy to drive. What they never tell you when you win those things is how much the insurance costs for a car like that, but I will. Seven hundred dollars a month. It was only two hundred a month for liability insurance though, so I thought I’d risk it for a few months and sell the damn thing after the thrill wore off.

This part of the story tells itself, I’m sure. I stood there shivering and wet inside a blanket while they fished the exploded corpse of my car out of the Allegheny River. After that, I was a little wary of those six little syllables. It took me about two months to restore my confidence in chanting.

The phone rings yet again, bringing me good news! It seems I got the job and I start tomorrow. I hope my suit still fits. Namu-myoho-renge-kyo, indeed! One more thing before I go to bed, though.

About two months ago I left my phone number on a piece of a paper placemat at Eat’n’park for this beautiful waitress, Janine. The power of Buddha compelled her to call me and we spent two naughty weeks together. I only bring this up to caution you that namu-myoho-renge-kyo doesn’t protect you from sexually-transmitted diseases. Good night.

I even have a parking spot here. You can tell which spot is mine because it’s housing the car with the duct-tape square in the rear window from the previous owner’s For Sale sign. There’s more duct tape, but you can’t see it because it’s holding some choice parts of the engine together.

This building is nice. I walk through a beehive of cubicles populated with every flavor of nubile secretary, from strawberry to chocolate. I pluck one and have her make a phone call so I can find out where to go. An elevator with gold doors brings me to the hallway with my office in it. That’s right, I have my own office. It doesn’t have a window, though.

Bastards.

My computer’s not even booted before this Philips-head from the corporate toolbox comes to greet me. He’s wearing khakis and a tie with a tan and black design, but the pink shirt makes me a little uneasy. I can’t not shake his hand.

“Hi, I’m Phil Starks, Vice President of Finance. Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah.”

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but you’re lucky to be here. They actually hired another guy for your job, and he was going to start last Monday, but there was an...accident.”

“Oh really. What happened?”

“Drunk driver. Came flying across the median and hit him head on. Didn’t even stand a chance.”

 

(c) 2005 jordan baugher