At the door Erin knocked, and we were greeted by a small, pretty, dark-skinned woman decked out in traditional East India garb, flowing, bright-colored fabric that always made me think of Tandoori chicken and saffron rice. The woman at the door looked the part, but she moved as if she missed her high heels. Thank goodness she kept her chewing gum. I wouldn't want to have done without all that loud smacking.

Erin showed her a prepaid receipt, and I showed mine, thinking this was two hundred dollars that I might as well have just wiped my a.s.s with.

The place was decorated with photos of exotic spots in India, a few from China. There were shelves containing knickknacks, including a small statue of an elephant with a stick of incense sticking out of its uplifted trunk. The incense smelled like damp earth perfumed lightly with burning silk. Love paid well.

The woman took our coats, put them away in a hall closet, and silently led us down a long hall to a doorway draped with a beaded curtain. When we reached that point, she stopped and said in an accent that had a lot more Texas in it than India, "Go on in, the swami awaits. Watch that step down, though, it's a booger. I've busted my b.u.t.t there twice today."

She went away, and we took caution on our a.s.ses and made the step. The room was huge, but no bigger than Grand Central Station. There was a series of small card tables all about, a chair on either side of each. There were people everywhere. The men were on one side of the room, the women on the other. They were about as diverse as a jury pool, and I was relieved to see there was no one there I knew, though, come to think of it, had there been, they might have been as embarra.s.sed as I was.

At the far end of the room, almost far enough away a pair of binoculars would have been helpful, was another beaded curtain, and out of it came a man who looked like a badly drawn cartoon character. Midsixties, short and thin, white socks with orange stripes and sandals, a ponytail of gray, frizzy hair. He carried a staff, as if he might later in the afternoon have to do a bit of mountain climbing in search of his goat herd.

I said, "Is he really wearing a cape?"

"I believe he is," Erin said. I think even she was thinking she might want to go back to her horoscopes and numerology.

"At least he didn't come in behind a puff of smoke," I said.

Our swami moved to the center of the room and lifted his staff like Moses about to strike the rock and bring forth water. He said, "I am Swami Saul, and tonight, you will bathe in the sweet essence of each other's souls."

I thought, Oh s.h.i.t. But I must admit he had a very nice voice, deep and resonant, just the sort of thing to lull you to sleep when counting sheep fails.

Gently lowering the cane, he smiled and showed us he had some really nice teeth. "The eyes are the windows to the soul. Humans have known this for centuries. Sometimes we forget the obvious. We don't always allow them to do the speaking. We look away. We look down. We don't even make eye contact when we talk. How many men in here really look at women when you speak with them? I mean their eyes, not their bodies. I'm not denying they can also be a treat for the eyes, but think about it, men. How many of you fail to actually concentrate on the eyes, and the soul of the woman?"

There was a bit of a shuffling, and one of the men, an average-looking guy with a comb-over said, "I'm guilty of that."

"No need to comment," said our swami. "It was a rhetorical question."

"Oh," said the man with the comb-over, and he took a seemingly practiced step that placed him behind one of the other men.

"Today's society is too fast paced," said the swami. "Too reliant upon instant gratification. I promise you, after tonight, you will have truly touched each other's souls, and though I cannot make an absolute promise you will match one another with your internal essence, you are more likely to do so here than through traditional dating, and therefore have a real opportunity to meet your proper soul mate. Is that what you would like? Is that why you're here?"

No one said anything.

"That question is not rhetorical," he said.

There were a few murmurs and some words of agreement, but there was still that sensation of being a bunch of cattle trying to decide if we were about to enter the feedlot or a slaughterhouse.

"Erin," I said. "Later, when we're out of here, remind me to beat you to death with my purse."

"Sshhhhh, Jana. Be quiet."

I thought, Oh h.e.l.l, now she's into it.

"Here is how it works," said Swami Saul. "You are not allowed to speak. You sit across from your partner, and you first gaze into the left eye, then move slowly to the right. This is not a staring contest, so do what feels natural."

Nervous laughter from the group.

Swami Saul held up his hand for silence, got it faster than a snake strikes a mouse.

"You must do this as I say, not as you want to do it, if you hope to have the results you desire. It is a far better method than just choosing your mate by appearance."

"He says," I said.

"Shush, Jana," Erin said.

"Your left eye is your receiver, and your right the activator," Swami Saul said. "You do this for a full two minutes. We will tell you when time is up, then you move to the next table and the next person into whose eyes you will gaze. So on and so on until finished with all the tables. When that is done, you will make a note of the number of the person with whom you felt the greatest sensation, and you will then have the opportunity to return to them for conversation. If that works, well, the rest will be up to Mother Nature. But remember, the eyes. The windows to the soul. That is where Mother Nature best reveals herself."

"That makes sense," Erin said.

"Mother Nature is also responsible for what goes on in the bathroom," I said. "And I think this operation has a similar smell about it."

"You're always such an old stick in the mud," Erin said.

We were individually guided to tables by Swami Saul, who I thought had a bit of a heavy hand on my elbow. I was placed in a chair in front of a guy who had had garlic for his last meal and seemed proud of it. The problem was not only the strong aroma, it was the fact my eyes were hazing over with garlic fumes. He was nice-looking enough, though, and I tried to smile and be nice and look him in the eyes without blinking, which made me feel a little bit like a lizard.

I was gazing like all h.e.l.l when Swami Saul came by and touched me on the shoulder. "Blondie, blondie," he said. "Relax. Breathe. Let the experience unfold. You are not trying to melt him with heat vision."

I thought, Oh, yes I am.

"You act as if you're facing the sun head-on . . . Oh, sir. Let me offer you a mint. I can smell your lunch from here."

Swami Saul had less tact than I did.

The man was mortified, and I felt sorry for him, but I was glad when he took the mints Swami Saul offered him. By now my time was over, and I moved on to let the next in line deal with his garlic-and-breath-mint aroma.

By the time I was trying to look into my fourth partner's soul, only to find that I was not sinking down into his essence, but was instead bouncing off his retinas, I was starting to slip looks at my watch. I had been there about fifteen hard minutes. Only an hour and forty-five minutes to go.

As we were changing chairs again, Swami Saul was gliding by. I said, "I don't think I'm doing this right. Can you give me some pointers?"

"Believe," he said. "Let faith carry you."

"That's it?"

"Okay. Here's a tip. You're making crazy eyes at everyone. Relax. Think only of his eyes. Only of his eyes. The left, then the right. Each eye has its own soul-felt story."

I tried to focus on Swami Saul's instructions. Focus on one eye, not both, and blink on occasion so as not to appear psychotic. The guy in front of me, mousy in both att.i.tude and appearance, made a jerky head bob, and I couldn't tell if he was seizing, having a chill, or giving me some kind of signal. Turned out he was nodding off a bit, and it was all I could do not to break out laughing. We kept moving around the tables, and behind me I heard Swami Saul offering calm rea.s.surance in his melodious voice, which reminded me of the narration you hear on crime programs where they're describing some horrible murder with the same calmness you might use to describe calm weather.

Glancing at Erin, who was seated to my left, I saw she was deep in gaze with her current partner, who was a good enough looking guy her attention was understandable. He'd done nothing for me in the soul department, but I could see why she would find him attractive. I know that's shallow, but hey, I was at an eye-gazing party, which is the definition of shallow, as well as stupid. Okay, there were a few times when I thought I felt something here and there, though in the end it was more likely a headache from eye strain due to my having astigmatism.

It really didn't take all that much time to go around the tables at two minutes apiece, but it felt to me like it was about the equivalent of the first Ice Age.

"Attention, attention," Swami Saul announced to the room. "If everyone would break gaze and return to your place along the wall, and this time, please use the chairs, no need to stand. Be comfortable."

A beat pa.s.sed and no one moved.

"Now," Swami Saul said.

This time everyone moved. Chairs squeaked and sc.r.a.ped across the floor as everyone attempted to get seated. I tried to catch Erin's eye-I'd had enough training by this point-but she was as dedicated to finding her chair as a workhorse is to finding the barn. I went over and sat beside her, was about to speak to her when Swami Saul spoke again.

"Under your chair you will find a basket containing papers and pens. Please use these materials to write the number of the person with whom you felt most connected. It is not uncommon to have several choices. Place the number given to you at the top of your notations. We will then tally the numbers, make arrangements for another sitting, this time with timed communications with the person of your choice."

I pulled the basket out from under the chair, trying to think if anyone had really made my eyes twitch, and my heart beat faster, and for the life of me I was having a hard time remembering which man went with which number. I decided garlic breath hadn't been so bad, and the breath mints had helped, a little, and there was the guy in the blue b.u.t.ton-down who had a nice air about him, unless you counted his overabundant use of a cologne that smelled like a horse saddle. I wrote down a few numbers so as not to seem odd woman out, folded the page, and tossed it into my basket.

When I looked up, I was surprised to find that everyone else seemed to have finished well ahead of me and were perched in their chairs like seals expecting fish for balancing b.a.l.l.s on their noses. Even Erin was staring straight ahead with the same intensity.

Swami Saul collected the baskets, and his a.s.sistant, the gum chewer, came into the room and helped him. The baskets ended up on a table at the back of the room with a large dry-erase board on an easel near the wall behind it. The female a.s.sistant, smacking her gum like a dog eating peanut b.u.t.ter, went through the baskets and arranged the numbers in separate piles. After going through the goods, she paused and looked at Swami Saul and said something to him. He went over and examined the slips of paper, carefully, then more carefully. He scratched his head hard enough his ponytail wiggled as if it might swat a fly.

I admit that at this point I was curious if anyone I had gazed at tonight had felt a connection to me. This was only a mild concern, but my ego kept me engaged enough I didn't get up with a pee-break excuse and leave Erin to fend for herself.

"Interesting," Swami Saul said. "I don't believe we've ever had it happen quite this way. We have a wide variety on the part of the men, but, except for one woman, all of the women here have chosen the same man. This is a first."

The women in our row against the wall turned and looked first left, then right, except for those on the ends of the row, of course. They just turned and looked. They all had that deep country-fried look that seemed to say, Was you lookin' at mah man?

I smiled, wishing to appear neutral, which I was. Even the men I had listed had about as much connection to me as a mollusk, if those things could wear b.u.t.ton-down shirts and too much cologne and had a taste for garlic. I was more than willing to forgo my pick in lieu of anyone else's interest, lest I end up with one of my soul-gazing eyes scratched out.

"As all but one woman will know, as she did not choose him, that number is lucky thirteen."

I held my breath tracking the numbers hanging on the bottom of the seats across the way, waiting to see who this stud m.u.f.fin was, the Adonis that I had somehow overlooked, and then, there he was. Number Thirteen.

I had to rub my eyes and take another look, just in case my pupils had glazed over. But nope. Number Thirteen. I could see him clearly.

"You got to be s.h.i.tting me," I said without really meaning to.

"What is wrong with you?" Erin said, turning at me in what I can only describe as anger. "Jealous? You want him like everyone else."

"I do?"

"Of course you do."

"I didn't pick him," I said.

"Oh, bull," said Erin, actually good and mad now. "You came here with me and now you want him and you don't want to see me happy with him."

"Say what?" I said.

She turned away from me, her face as red and shiny as a wet tomato.

I gave him another look. He was an uninteresting fellow of indeterminate age, could have been thirty-five or fifty-five. Pudgy, with his few straggly hairs arranged as if by a weed eater. The suit he was wearing was thin and too large for him. It was cuffed unevenly at the sleeves and was either blue or gray; the color seemed undecided. He had on a stained white shirt and a wide tie with palm trees on it. I didn't really remember him, but I remembered that tie. After a few moments of trying to concentrate on his eyes I had decided I liked the tie better, and believe me, I had to split some serious hairs to make that decision.

"This is certainly a first," said Swami Saul. "A real first."

By now all the men had turned to look at Stud m.u.f.fin. The looks on their faces were akin to having just been told they were about to be electrocuted for the good of humankind. I didn't blame them. I don't want to be tacky. I mean, I know, it's not about looks when it gets down to what matters. I do know that. But come on. This is the beginning, when it's supposed to be superficial and being shallow is all you have. And as conceited as it may sound, Erin and I are something to look at. I know. It's egotistical sounding, but there you have it. I wasn't the kind of girl that upon chance meeting was going to give a d.a.m.n about a sweet personality. Of course, I was also the kind of girl whose last boyfriend, though handsome and clever, turned out to be married and have two other girlfriends on the side and a website that had something to do with farm animals. I never had the courage to examine it in depth, but one of the sections I saw before I turned off the computer was t.i.tled "The Happy Goat."

"I think the women have chosen, gentlemen, sorry. Only one lady here has picked a variety of numbers, and she now has the opportunity to visit with some of you."

"Pa.s.s," I said.

"What?" said Swami Saul.

"I'm that woman, and I'm going to pa.s.s. If anyone picked me, sorry. I'm pa.s.sing."

"Oh," he said. "Well, okay."

It was rude, but I really didn't want to spend a lot of time hanging out with people I didn't really want to hang out with and had only written their numbers down so as to not be such an outsider. What I wanted to do was follow all the other women over to see Number Thirteen and decide if I had missed something or if the others would get close up and realize he wasn't really such a hot number.

The throng of giggling women beat me over there, but I was able to peek between the teeming ma.s.ses and get a closer look at Thirteen. He had looked better from a distance. I went over to Swami Saul and his a.s.sistant.

"So, one man, huh? And that man? All the women here, except me, are attracted to him? Really?"

"Really," he said.

"What kind of racket is this?"

"Do they look displeased?" he said.

I turned and saw they did not. They were mooning all over him, pawing at him, and shifting in closer and closer. He stood in the middle of them, smiling and still like a pillar of salt.

"I don't get it," I said.

"Me either. And you and I and Mildred here are the only ones that don't."

"You two didn't look into his eyes. I did. There's nothing there. I don't get it."

By now my head was pounding and my eyes were watering. My astigmatism had been given a serious work out, eyeballing all those men, and I felt I needed a new set of contacts, something I'd been putting off doing for a year. Maybe with contacts Thirteen would look like an Adonis.

"Maybe all them women have brain tumors," Mildred said smacking her gum. "I wouldn't take that little balding f.u.c.ker to a dogfight if he was the defending champion."

"Now, now," Swami Saul said. "Remember, you are enlightened now."

"Oh, yeah," she said. "Sorry. I forgot."

"So what's the answer?" I said.

"I don't know," Swami Saul said, and his voice had lost that deep down-in-the-well resonance. He sounded now like a regular southern cracker. He shook his head and watched the women clamoring after the little man like he was a rock star.

Standing there, looking first at the women crowding in on the little man, then back at Swami Saul, I got a real sense that he had not rigged a thing and was as confused as I was, as Mildred was. Of course, Mildred struck me as having come into the world confused and having gone through the years without noticeable improvement.

I noticed that the rest of the men had started filing out, dejected and anxious to go.

It took some doing, but I finally got Erin pried loose from the crowd. To facilitate an end to the evening, Swami Saul had started gathering up chairs and carrying them out, and Mildred was gathering the baskets. She stored them away somewhere, came back, and flipped the light switch a couple of times, blinking them in warning.

It took another fifteen minutes to pull Erin out of there, and when she left, she had an address for the little man, but so did every other woman in the room, excluding me and Mildred.

Erin and I didn't talk as I drove her home. It was obvious she had yet to forgive me for my lack of agreement on her pick, and frankly, by the time we were out of there and on the highway, I had begun to feel guilty, but also a little spiteful.

"Look," I told Erin. "I don't see it. But I think I could be wrong."

"Could be?"