The Greaseball Monk — A Fictional Religious Satire and Dark Comedy by David Charles Kramer

The Greaseball Monk

Nobody at Still Mountain Buddhist Monastery knew exactly where Leonard “Lenny Velvet” Katz had come from.

He arrived during a thunderstorm wearing pointed black shoes, a silk suit, gold-tinted glasses, and enough pomade in his slicked-back hair to waterproof the monastery roof.

He bowed before Master Sun Ho.

“I have come to renounce the material world.”

Behind him stood three designer suitcases, two garment bags, a portable espresso machine, and a locked silver case marked:

PRIVATE SPIRITUAL EQUIPMENT

Master Sun Ho regarded the luggage.

“You have brought many possessions.”

“These?” Lenny said. “Mostly emotional baggage.”

The silver case contained eight gold watches, several casino chips, two passports under different spellings of his name, and six tins of imported pomade.

Lenny called it his meditation kit.

Master Sun Ho looked at Brother Ananda, who had come to help with the luggage.

Brother Ananda looked at the silver case.

Neither monk said anything.

That was the first thing Lenny liked about Buddhism.

People gave him time to finish lying.

The Man Between Worlds

Lenny had been raised Jewish in Queens.

In his thirties, after attending a three-day meditation retreat in Connecticut, he declared himself a Buddhist.

By Sunday afternoon, he claimed to have achieved “introductory enlightenment with advanced placement.”

He soon began describing himself as a cultural and religious bridge.

He could quote fragments of the Torah, repeat several Buddhist sayings, and pronounce nirvana with the confidence of a man who had already reserved a private table there.

His business cards read:

LEONARD KATZ
INTERFAITH VISIONARY
CULTURAL BRIDGE
KARMA CONSULTANT

Lenny was not really a bridge.

He was a tollbooth.

He believed his combined identity made him uniquely qualified to decide which beliefs were authentic, which conversions were legitimate, and who was permitted to cross from one religious world into another.

He despised Christians.

He reserved his deepest hostility for Jewish Christians—Jewish people who believed in Jesus—because their existence weakened his claim to uniqueness.

If they could combine identities, then he was not extraordinary.

If they could remain Jewish while embracing Christianity, then he was not the sole owner of religious complexity.

He might simply be another uncertain man trying to make meaning out of two traditions.

That possibility frightened him more than prison.

So Lenny turned fear into doctrine.

He called Jewish Christians traitors, infiltrators, and identity thieves. He did not merely want to disagree with them. He wanted to expose them, isolate them, and watch them suffer.

Ordinary morality, he believed, did not apply when dealing with enemies.

A lie became “skillful means.”

Manipulation became “spiritual correction.”

Revenge became “the balancing of karma.”

Financial fraud became “resource redistribution.”

Hatred became “discernment.”

Whenever someone challenged him, Lenny smiled serenely and said:

“You’re still trapped in dualistic thinking.”

KarmaCoin

Before arriving at Still Mountain, Lenny had operated several imaginative businesses throughout New York.

He sold counterfeit theater tickets and bottled “artisanal water” drawn from a garden hose in Queens.

His masterpiece, however, was KarmaCoin.

The company promised investors financial prosperity in this life and improved reincarnation in the next.

Its slogan was:

DOUBLE YOUR MONEY NOW—OR RECEIVE SPIRITUAL CREDIT LATER

The Bronze Package promised general spiritual improvement.

The Silver Package offered beauty, intelligence, or wealthy parents in the next life.

The Platinum Package guaranteed reincarnation as someone who never had to fly economy.

The scheme collapsed when one investor turned out to be a federal investigator.

Another was an accountant.

The third was Lenny’s Aunt Esther, who wanted her six hundred dollars returned and frightened him more than the federal government.

Still Mountain, hidden deep in the Catskills, seemed like the ideal place to disappear.

The monks had no television, rarely used the internet, and spent several hours each day sitting silently while facing a wall.

Lenny had spent most of his adult life avoiding eye contact with authority, so he considered himself naturally qualified.

Brother Velvet

Master Sun Ho allowed him to remain for one week.

“You must live simply,” the abbot told him.

“Simplicity is one of my premium qualities.”

“You must practice humility.”

“I’m famous for it.”

“You must abandon deception.”

Lenny hesitated.

“Completely?”

“Yes.”

“Even strategic ambiguity?”

“Yes.”

“Compassionate misdirection?”

“No.”

“Truth-adjacent statements?”

“No.”

Lenny sighed.

“You people are very rigid for Buddhists.”

His silk suit was replaced with a plain gray robe. His room contained a thin mattress, one blanket, and a wooden shelf.

“Where is the rest of the bed?” Lenny asked.

“That is the bed,” said Brother Ananda.

“And the television?”

“There is no television.”

“Mini-fridge?”

“No.”

“Room service?”

Brother Ananda smiled.

“You will serve the room.”

The monks woke every morning at four.

Lenny had always believed four in the morning was an imaginary hour used by fishermen, criminals, and morning-radio hosts.

On his first day, Brother Ananda knocked gently on his door.

“Brother Lenny, it is time for meditation.”

Lenny pulled the blanket over his head.

“Tell enlightenment to come back around nine.”

“The bell has already rung.”

“I did not authorize a bell.”

Ten minutes later, Lenny sat in the meditation hall facing a blank wall.

Master Sun Ho instructed everyone to observe their breathing without judgment.

Lenny breathed in.

He breathed out.

He wondered whether the monastery served breakfast.

He breathed in.

He breathed out.

He wondered whether federal agents could enter religious property without an appointment.

He breathed in.

He breathed out.

He wondered whether KarmaCoin could be relaunched as a nonprofit.

Master Sun Ho tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

“You are thinking.”

“I’m an ideas man.”

“Allow the thoughts to pass.”

“Some of these thoughts have serious earning potential.”

From the opposite side of the room, Brother Ananda opened one eye.

Master Sun Ho noticed.

The two monks exchanged a glance.

Lenny did not see it.

Freedom From Attachment

Despite renouncing vanity, Lenny’s hair remained perfectly slicked back.

Each morning before meditation, he applied pomade from a silver tin hidden inside a hollowed-out book titled Freedom From Attachment.

Brother Ananda discovered it while searching for incense.

“The book is empty,” Ananda said.

“It contains invisible wisdom.”

“It contains hair grease.”

“Wisdom comes in many forms.”

The younger monks began privately calling Lenny the Greaseball Monk.

The name referred entirely to his hair.

Rain struck it and fled.

One afternoon, Brother Ananda studied the smooth black structure above Lenny’s forehead.

“Does your hair move?”

“Not since 1997.”

“Is that natural?”

“There is nothing unnatural about discipline.”

Master Sun Ho passed through the courtyard carrying a basket of laundry.

He paused long enough to look at Lenny’s hair, then at the rain sliding from it.

“Impressive resistance,” he said.

Lenny bowed.

“Spiritual discipline.”

“I was speaking to the rain.”

Priority Nirvana

Lenny stayed beyond his original week.

He swept badly, meditated noisily, and volunteered for every task that involved neither lifting nor dirt.

Then, without permission, he created a weekend program called Executive Enlightenment.

For nine hundred ninety-nine dollars, wealthy professionals could surrender their phones, eat rice, sit silently, and be told their suffering came from attachment.

For an additional two hundred ninety-nine dollars, Lenny offered Priority Nirvana.

“What does Priority Nirvana provide?” Brother Ananda asked.

“Better cushions.”

“Nirvana cannot be purchased.”

“Not with that attitude.”

The visitors especially admired Master Sun Ho, who did not know they were paying customers.

One executive asked him how to become more powerful.

“Stop believing you are important,” Master Sun Ho replied.

The executive wrote it down and later used it as the title of a leadership seminar.

Master Sun Ho discovered the operation after finding an invoice for deluxe meditation cushions and a banner reading:

STILL MOUNTAIN: WHERE NOTHING MATTERS FOR $999

“You have turned the monastery into a marketplace,” he said.

“I prefer ‘spiritual hospitality destination.’”

“You exploit suffering.”

“I provide solutions.”

“You provide cushions.”

“Excellent cushions.”

Master Sun Ho ordered the program closed and the money returned.

Lenny complied with the expression of a man being forced to release hostages.

That evening, Master Sun Ho found Brother Ananda examining the monastery’s office computer.

“He has three payment processors,” Ananda said.

“Watch him.”

“You think he is dangerous?”

“I think he has mistaken cleverness for wisdom.”

“Is that dangerous?”

Master Sun Ho looked through the window.

Lenny was showing two novices how to appear busy while holding a clipboard.

“It can be.”

The Letter

Several weeks later, a letter arrived for Master Sun Ho.

It came from Grace and Truth Fellowship, a small Jewish Christian congregation outside Albany.

Its leader, Miriam Rosen, requested permission to hold an interfaith retreat at Still Mountain.

Their meeting hall had been vandalized. Members had received anonymous threats. One teacher had been pressured to conceal his beliefs at work.

They hoped a retreat might create understanding between communities that usually spoke about one another rather than to one another.

Lenny found the letter first.

He read it twice.

Then he smiled.

Master Sun Ho entered the office while Lenny was still holding it.

“You opened my mail.”

“I mistook it for a spiritual emergency.”

“It has my name on it.”

“Names are temporary.”

“Give it to me.”

Lenny handed over the letter.

Master Sun Ho read it slowly.

“We should welcome them,” he said.

“Absolutely.”

The eagerness in Lenny’s voice made Brother Ananda look up from the doorway.

Master Sun Ho folded the letter.

“You will not organize the retreat.”

“I am the obvious choice.”

“That is why you will not organize it.”

Lenny placed a hand over his heart.

“I am wounded by this lack of trust.”

“You opened my mail.”

“We are arguing over an envelope while history waits.”

Master Sun Ho assigned Brother Ananda to coordinate the visit.

Lenny volunteered to create a brochure.

The abbot refused.

Lenny created one anyway.

It was titled:

THE BRIDGE OF TWO LIGHTS

A HISTORIC ENCOUNTER BETWEEN ANCIENT FAITHS

Lenny’s portrait appeared above the monastery roofline, his name in three different fonts before the schedule began.

Brother Ananda studied it.

“Why are you blocking the mountain?”

“Visual balance.”

“Your name appears before anyone knows what the event is.”

“Brand recognition.”

“Master Sun Ho is listed beneath parking information.”

“He prefers humility.”

Brother Ananda folded the brochure and placed it in a drawer.

Lenny waited until he left, then printed two hundred copies.

Miriam Rosen

Before leaving for Still Mountain, Miriam Rosen stood inside the damaged fellowship hall.

The graffiti had been painted over, but a dark stain remained where the word TRAITORS had bled through the primer.

Behind her, seven-year-old Caleb arranged folding chairs with his mother.

He worked carefully, turning each chair until its metal legs rested squarely on strips of blue tape.

When one remained crooked, he returned to fix it.

“Are the monks Christians?” he asked.

“No.”

“Are they Jewish?”

“Some might be.”

“Then what are they?”

“Monks.”

Caleb considered this.

“Do they know karate?”

“I hope not. We’re bringing pastries.”

He laughed and nudged the chair another inch.

Miriam smiled, but she was tired.

For most of her adult life, people had asked her to choose one half of herself so they could understand her more easily.

Some Christians treated her Jewishness as decoration.

Some Jewish acquaintances treated her Christianity as betrayal.

Strangers often believed her identity was a debate invitation.

She had learned to explain herself calmly, but calmness was work.

In private, she sometimes wished she could introduce herself without becoming a theological emergency.

She picked up the pastry box.

“Ready?” Caleb’s mother asked.

Miriam looked once more at the faint word beneath the fresh paint.

“As I’ll ever be.”

The Guests

Miriam arrived at Still Mountain carrying one small suitcase and the pastries.

Lenny met her in ceremonial robes he had ordered online.

She offered him one.

“I don’t eat refined sugar,” he said.

Brother Ananda, standing behind him, frowned.

“You ate six donuts yesterday.”

“Those were part of a private ritual.”

Miriam smiled.

“I’ve met men like you.”

“Interfaith visionaries?”

“Men who introduce themselves before anyone asks.”

Lenny disliked her immediately.

She was Jewish.

She believed in Jesus.

And she did not seem embarrassed by either fact.

She knew Jewish history better than he did. She spoke Hebrew prayers without hesitation. She had spent years helping refugees, visiting prisoners, and coordinating food deliveries for families who never joined her congregation.

Worst of all, she did not require Lenny’s approval to explain herself.

Dr. Naomi Weiss arrived later that afternoon.

Naomi was a Jewish Buddhist professor of religious ethics, soft-spoken and observant. She had met Lenny once at a conference, where he had spent forty minutes explaining her own religious identity to her.

When she saw his photograph on the discarded brochure, she sighed.

“Still doing this?” she asked.

“Doing what?”

“Standing in doorways and calling yourself the building.”

Lenny laughed as though she had complimented him.

At dinner, Naomi watched him move from table to table, placing himself between every pair of guests who had begun speaking without him.

He interrupted a rabbi to explain Judaism.

He interrupted a monk to explain Buddhism.

He interrupted Miriam to explain Miriam.

Naomi merely moved her chair so she could see around him.

During the first discussion, Lenny challenged Miriam.

“You claim to be Jewish and Christian.”

“I am Jewish, and I believe Jesus is the Messiah.”

“You see no contradiction?”

“No.”

“Many people consider that a betrayal.”

“Many people consider Buddhism a betrayal when practiced by someone born Jewish.”

Lenny’s smile tightened.

“That is different.”

“Why?”

“Because I approached Buddhism through scholarship.”

Brother Ananda whispered to Naomi:

“He watched a documentary.”

Naomi nodded.

“I assumed there was at least one.”

Lenny leaned toward Miriam.

“Your beliefs have caused division.”

“My beliefs have caused some people to mistreat me,” she said. “Those are not the same thing.”

For a moment, Miriam looked less like a speaker and more like someone remembering a door with wet paint on it.

Naomi noticed.

So did Master Sun Ho.

Lenny changed the subject.

The Tollbooth

The following morning, Naomi found Lenny arranging chairs in the discussion hall.

He had moved Miriam’s chair away from the others and placed his own between the two largest groups.

“You are arranging the room so everyone has to look through you to see anyone else,” Naomi said.

“I am improving sight lines.”

“You always call control something architectural.”

Lenny straightened his chair.

“I connect religious worlds.”

“A bridge lets people cross.”

“Exactly.”

“You decide who is allowed across.”

“I protect cultural integrity.”

“You punish travelers you dislike.”

Lenny turned toward her.

“I have responsibilities.”

Naomi glanced at the brochures beside the stage.

“You even put your face on the road signs.”

He adjusted his robe.

“I am visible.”

“You are not a bridge, Leonard.”

“What am I?”

“A tollbooth.”

Brother Ananda, sweeping nearby, stopped.

“That is extremely accurate.”

“Keep sweeping,” Lenny said.

“I am allowing the broom to pass.”

Naomi stepped closer.

“You do not hate Miriam because she is confused.”

“She is confused.”

“You hate her because she is not confused enough to need you.”

Lenny adjusted the chairs again.

“You mistake confidence for understanding.”

Naomi looked at Miriam’s isolated seat.

“No. I recognize fear when it begins arranging furniture.”

Skillful Means

Lenny placed recording devices in the discussion rooms.

He privately told several guests that members of the other group had mocked their faith.

By the second evening, conversations had become guarded and suspicious.

Then he fabricated financial documents suggesting Miriam’s congregation had misused donations.

His final step was an edited recording that made Miriam appear to say:

“We must replace Judaism.”

Her complete sentence had been:

“We must never replace Judaism with a distorted version of Christianity.”

Lenny kept only the words he needed.

Brother Ananda found him at the computer late that night.

“What are you doing?”

“Creating a concise version.”

“You reversed what she said.”

“I removed distractions.”

“You manufactured a lie.”

Lenny stopped smiling.

“I am exposing dangerous people.”

“They came here peacefully.”

“They represent a threat.”

“To whom?”

Lenny stared at the screen.

Brother Ananda stepped closer.

“You want them to suffer.”

“I want consequences.”

“For believing differently?”

“For crossing a line.”

“Whose line?”

Lenny’s voice hardened.

“Mine.”

Brother Ananda left without another word.

Lenny assumed he had won.

The Broken Window

Lenny released the recording anonymously.

Within hours, it spread.

People accused Miriam of fraud, cultural theft, and religious extremism.

Strangers posted her home address.

Her employer suspended her while it investigated complaints.

Two nights later, someone painted TRAITORS across the fellowship doors.

A brick shattered a window while families were inside.

Nobody was physically injured.

Caleb had been arranging chairs when the glass broke.

Afterward, he insisted on returning every chair to its strip of blue tape before he would leave.

At home that night, he asked his mother whether crooked chairs made it easier for bad people to get inside.

When Miriam called Still Mountain, Master Sun Ho answered.

She did not accuse anyone.

She did not cry.

She simply asked whether the monastery still had the original recording.

Master Sun Ho looked across the room at Brother Ananda, who had already copied Lenny’s files.

“Yes,” he said. “We do.”

After the call, Master Sun Ho summoned Lenny.

“Did you alter her words?”

“I clarified them.”

“Did you release the recording?”

“I presented information.”

Master Sun Ho placed a photograph of the broken window on the table.

Lenny looked away.

“These people are being criticized.”

“A child hid beneath a table while glass fell around him.”

“That was not my intention.”

“You wanted suffering.”

“I wanted consequences.”

Master Sun Ho pushed the photograph closer.

“You received them.”

Lenny folded his arms.

“I am not responsible for every unstable person on the internet.”

“No,” Master Sun Ho said. “Only for the unstable person in this room.”

The Public Forum

The retreat’s final session had been advertised as a public interfaith forum.

Hundreds attended.

Local reporters came because of the controversy surrounding Miriam.

Lenny planned to present the forged financial documents and complete her destruction.

He stood beneath a banner bearing his own face.

“Today,” he announced, “we confront religious deception.”

Miriam sat in the front row.

Her employer had suspended her.

Her congregation’s windows were boarded with plywood.

She looked exhausted.

But she had come.

Before Lenny could begin, the screen behind him changed.

Brother Ananda had connected Lenny’s computer to the projector.

Miriam’s complete sentence played.

Then the audience watched Lenny cut it apart.

They saw the false accounts, forged documents, and recordings he had used to turn the guests against one another.

His own voice filled the hall:

“They will destroy themselves. We simply give them the correct tools.”

Lenny looked toward Brother Ananda.

“You violated my privacy.”

“You recorded everyone else.”

“That is completely different.”

Naomi walked onto the stage.

“This man does not represent Buddhism,” she said. “He does not represent Judaism. He represents himself.”

“You are missing the broader cultural context,” Lenny said.

Naomi pointed toward Miriam.

“You targeted her because she did not need you to define her.”

“She is dangerous.”

“She believes differently.”

“She calls herself Jewish.”

“She is Jewish.”

“She believes in Christianity.”

“That is her right.”

Lenny looked toward Master Sun Ho.

The abbot stepped forward.

“Buddhism did not teach you to hate Christians.”

Lenny said nothing.

“Judaism did not teach you to forge evidence.”

The room was still.

“You took sacred traditions and wore them as costumes over your resentment.”

Under the stage lights, Lenny’s hair continued shining.

It was the only part of him maintaining confidence.

What Miriam Said

Miriam walked onto the stage.

She held no notes.

“What happened to us was not criticism,” she said. “Criticism does not come through a window at night.”

She placed a photograph of the fellowship hall beside Lenny’s forged documents.

“A boy in our congregation now asks whether strangers know where he sleeps. He is seven years old.”

Lenny looked down.

“Christians have harmed people,” Miriam continued. “Some still do. We do not become innocent by forgetting that.”

She turned toward him.

“But no history gives us permission to create new victims.”

The room remained quiet.

“We live in a country that promises religious freedom. A promise is not the same as a guarantee. It survives only when it protects the person whose beliefs we would never choose for ourselves.”

She looked at the audience rather than the cameras.

“That is all I came here to say.”

Then she returned to her seat.

After the Applause

The audience did not know whether to applaud.

A few people did.

Most remained silent.

The silence was worse for Lenny.

Reporters gathered around Miriam. Police officers spoke quietly with Brother Ananda. Master Sun Ho led the retreat guests into the courtyard.

Chairs scraped against the floor.

Doors opened and closed.

Eventually, everyone left.

Lenny remained beneath the banner bearing his face.

On the projector screen, the editing program was frozen on Miriam’s sentence. Her voice had been reduced to colored blocks arranged on a timeline.

Lenny reached for the keyboard.

For a moment, Brother Ananda thought he might delete the evidence.

Instead, Lenny pressed the space bar.

“We must never replace Judaism with a distorted version of Christianity.”

He stopped it.

Played it again.

Stopped it.

The room smelled faintly of incense, dust, and the pastries Miriam had brought.

One remained on a paper plate near the front row.

Lenny picked it up.

He had spent the entire retreat pretending he did not eat refined sugar.

He took one bite.

It was apricot.

He sat in Miriam’s empty chair and looked up at his own photograph.

The banner had come loose at one corner. His printed face leaned toward the floor, smiling with the confidence of a man who had not yet been exposed.

Lenny stood and pulled the banner down.

It was larger than he remembered.

He attempted to fold it, but every crease produced another version of his face: one eye, half a smile, the gold glasses, his name disappearing and returning between the folds.

At last he dropped it.

In the dark projector screen, he saw his reflection.

He lifted one hand toward his hair.

The hand was trembling.

For once, he did not smooth anything.

Master Sun Ho stood in the doorway.

“You may remain here tonight,” he said.

Lenny did not look at him.

“That is very generous.”

“It is not generosity.”

“What is it?”

“You have nowhere else to go.”

Master Sun Ho left him alone.

Lenny sat until the room became dark.

The Gate

That night, Lenny packed his suitcases.

He put on his silk suit, pointed shoes, gold watch, and sunglasses.

The monastery gate stood open.

Brother Ananda swept fallen leaves nearby.

“You are leaving?” Ananda asked.

“I have urgent business.”

“You are running.”

“I am strategically relocating.”

“Again.”

Lenny sat on one suitcase.

Beyond the gate waited New York, Aunt Esther, federal investigators, and the consequences of nearly every decision he had made since 1998.

Behind him stood Master Sun Ho.

“What happens if I stay?” Lenny asked.

“You tell the truth.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“Yes.”

“Will it reduce my sentence?”

“I do not know.”

“Then where is the incentive?”

“The truth is not a coupon.”

Lenny looked through the gate.

“I honestly believed I was protecting something.”

“You were protecting your importance,” Brother Ananda said.

Lenny stared at him.

“That was unexpectedly insightful.”

“I am a monk.”

“I thought you mostly swept.”

“I can do two things.”

Lenny removed his sunglasses.

“I made the recording.”

No one answered.

“I forged the papers.”

Master Sun Ho waited.

“I created the accounts. I wanted Miriam humiliated. I wanted those people afraid.”

His voice became smaller.

“I called it karma because revenge sounded ugly.”

The police found him sitting in the courtyard when they arrived.

For once, he did not attempt to sell them anything.

What Forgiveness Is Not

Lenny pleaded guilty to fraud, forgery, harassment, and several financial crimes.

Miriam publicly forgave him.

She also testified against him.

A reporter asked whether that was a contradiction.

“No,” she said. “Forgiveness does not require pretending that harm is harmless.”

The fellowship rebuilt its meeting hall.

Miriam returned to work after the original recording cleared her name.

Caleb helped install the new window.

He pressed one palm against the glass after it was fitted, testing it as though he could tell whether it would hold.

For several months, he flinched whenever a car slowed outside the building.

Eventually, he stopped.

The law had protected Miriam after the fact.

It had not prevented the brick.

That distinction remained with everyone who had been in the room.

The Return

Years later, Lenny returned to Still Mountain.

Master Sun Ho did not permit him to teach.

He did not permit him to manage donations.

He did not permit him within twenty feet of the monastery website.

Lenny was assigned to sweep the courtyard.

“Is there an advancement track?” he asked.

“No.”

“Performance bonuses?”

“No.”

“Executive broom?”

“No.”

“I see the monastery has resisted modernization.”

He practiced meditation.

He studied Jewish ethics without using them to praise himself.

He studied Buddhist teachings without packaging them for resale.

He wrote letters of apology.

Some people forgave him.

Some did not.

He learned that remorse did not create an obligation in those he had harmed.

One morning, Brother Ananda found Lenny polishing his pointed shoes before meditation.

“You will be late,” Ananda said.

“I will be presentable.”

“The wall will not care.”

“The wall has standards.”

Lenny slipped the polishing cloth into his robe and followed him inside.

He remained vain.

But he stopped calling himself a bridge.

One afternoon, a visitor found him sweeping beneath a tree.

“Are you the famous interfaith teacher?” the visitor asked.

Lenny glanced toward Master Sun Ho.

The abbot raised one eyebrow.

“No,” Lenny said. “Floor maintenance.”

The visitor looked at his shining hair.

“Why do they call you the Greaseball Monk?”

“Natural spiritual radiance.”

From across the courtyard, Brother Ananda called:

“Industrial-strength pomade.”

Lenny considered defending himself.

Instead, he returned to sweeping.

For several quiet minutes, Leonard Katz did not scheme, sell, manipulate, edit, exaggerate, or imagine himself at the center of religious history.

He simply moved the leaves from one side of the courtyard to the other.

It was not enlightenment.

But it was honest work.

A small bird descended toward the tree above him, changed course at the last moment, and settled on an ordinary branch.