They
were my friends.
I missed Robert, a UCLA graduate who, in 1982, was drawn to a lecture
on the works of 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.
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