The Spiritual Commodity

 



My Gas Got Siphoned on The Seaview Lawn Song:
https://youtu.be/B4wldNZued0?si=uLy9ioCE8rBy_qvM

March 1, 2024

I was chanting Sanskrit mantras while handcycling past the Seaview bus stop when a grumpy older gentleman with a sun-dried face—let’s call him Dale—announced that it was not a good morning.

Some somabitch had siphoned the gas out of his truck.

“Probably to fund his meth habit,” Dale said. “Now I gotta walk down here, take the bus, buy gas and a locking cap. Unbelievable.”

“Brother,” I said, blessing him, “I wish you luck on your journey.”

I was about to roll on when Glenda—castle-adjacent, aggressively rummaging through her bags—popped up and declared Dale’s complaint balderdash.

“Oh please,” she said. “Obviously it was a confused young man engaging in nonviolent protest.”

“A protest?” Dale asked.

“Against internal combustion engines,” Glenda clarified. “This vigilante hero wants us all to carpool. Or take the bus. To save the planet.”

Her voice was stabby, so I covered my heart. I could help them both. It was time to work.

Dale shifted, irritated. Being told his morning was “balderdash” had clearly activated something deep and Appalachian.

“That ripper isn’t confused or young,” Dale said, straining for calm. “He’s a known thug the cops just catch and release.”

I held space. Charged the air with love and light.

“Oh please,” Glenda said. “He’s probably a victim of a broken home. God knows what abuse he suffered. But his intention is clearly to save tomorrow’s children from the carbon holocaust you people are gassing us with.”

“Excuse me?” Dale said, as her chin indicated him.

I rolled my shoulders and circulated my chi through the seven chakras.

“I see you drive by in your truck,” Glenda continued, eyes narrowing, “and you never pick me—or anyone else—up.”

“I sure don’t,” Dale said.

I constructed a spinning tetrahedral garmatron star above them. I know who you are. I know how you serve. You are free.

“So,” Glenda pressed, “you’re poisoning the air, turning the world into a death camp for future generations, and you won’t help the downtrodden today?”

“The downtrodden,” Dale repeated, glancing at me.

“I’m guessing you sleep as comfortably as a guard in Auschwitz,” Glenda said.

Dale blinked hard. “Just to be clear—you’re calling me a Nazi because I drive a truck and didn’t give you a ride?”

The six-sided star pulsed, exuding healing energy.

“Well, yes,” Glenda said. “Also because I heard you talking to this cripple about an obvious hero who forced you to take the bus.”

“Hero?” Dale croaked.

“You were talking to him like an SS officer talking to a little blonde boy about Jews. I couldn’t let that hate speech go unchecked.”

She turned to me, trembling. “Don’t listen to another word of this fascist brute.”

I breathed understanding while vibrating parallel paradigms to inject levity into this timeline.

“Unbelievable,” Dale said—though I caught the corners of his mouth twitch.

“Well,” I said, sensing a fissure, “blessings to you both. Thank you, Glenda, for calling me a cripple. People still struggle with the correct terminology, and I appreciate the throwback. And Dale—did you hear about Fragilica? Her gas got siphoned too.”

“No, but I know I’m not alone. Gas vampire’s on a tear.”

“She bought a locking cap,” I said gently, “and they punctured her tank and drained it anyway.”

“Hallelujah,” Glenda said.

Dale’s eyes flared. I considered holding space longer—but no. I’d already done enough free labor.

I handcycled up the hill, lungs full of clean air, spirit light. It felt good to serve. To heal hyperdimensionally. Pro bono, for the first time in decades.

Still… I might Venmo Dale for an even hundred. Just to balance the karma. Fair compensation for holding space.

Manifest abundance.
Namaste.
#shantierthanthou