Of Buddhists and Bukowski

April 28, 2026

Dell Franklin walking his dog on the beach

By DELL FRANKLIN

Editor’s Note: The following series, “Life in Radically Gentrifying Cayucos by the Sea,” to be posted biweekly includes the notes, thoughts, and opinions of an original American voice: author Dell Franklin. 

Franklin’s memoir, “The ballplayer’s Son” and “Life on The Mississippi, 1969” are currently on Amazon.

A couple weeks ago around nine in the morning, I was sitting reading in my car down in the 24th street beach parking lot, one of my two favorite places to hang out mornings and not only read, but watch beach activity, including dogs and surfers.

Over time I have observed the same people sitting in their familiar cars talking on phones, studying phones, reading, or savoring the windswept atmosphere. We all keep to ourselves but sometimes nod to each other if our cars or vans or pickups are parked close together.

One man in particular sits in one of those very large work vans and sometimes plays a guitar. One morning, parked beside me, he not only acknowledged me, but started talking to me and indicated I roll my window down. I did.

“Jesus loves you,” he said, smiling, a man possibly in his sixties with a tight white beard and pleasant expression on his face.

Oh boy, here we go again, I thought. Since he seemed like a nice person, I nodded.

“He’s standing beside you,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” I was forced to say.

“Yes he is, and he loves you, friend.”

“I don’t think he does,” I said. “And by the way, I’m a nonbeliever.”

Now he got down to business and began a spiel, and I realized that telling such a person committed to a calling of converting you and telling them you are a nonbeliever only encouraged them to take on a real challenge, and certainly I was a challenge, as I was reading a book by a rather raunchy author named Charles Bukowski, a book not necessarily a smut novel but actual literature.

Anyway, after an extended and rather tedious discussion, my new friend eventually backed off and we ended on pleasantries as he picked up his guitar and I resumed reading in my car.

Then, this morning, as I sat in the beach parking lot just off from Mosey’s Burgers and the corner liquor store downtown—my other favorite morning  hangout—I was rereading Charles Bukowski’s novel, “Post Office,” and at times laughing out loud.

Even Bukowski’s sex scenes are absurd and hilarious, and I was so involved I did not realize my old friend in the big van had pulled up beside me. When I caught his eye he waved and I waved back and returned to Bukowski, anxious to move on to his next  bizarre, low-life scene involving either his protagonists’ employment at the post office or the nymphomaniac woman he’d married and who was, in collusion with the post office, driving him over the edge and straight to the bottle and welcome unemployment.

Then I felt a presence beside my open window on this splendid morning full of activity on the beach. My new friend handed me a card, and when I glimpsed it had Christ Your Savior on it and I handed it back and he said, “Jesus is with you, my friend.”

I sighed. Then it came out of me without thinking: “Look, friend, I’m a Buddhist.”

His face, full of hope and glazed, otherworldly belief, sagged. He took his card back and retreated to his van and picked up his guitar.

I felt pretty good about myself. Buddhism worked! If I’d told him I was a Muslim or Hindu or Jew or any other religion, I’m sure he would have pressed on in converting me. But a Buddhist? To me, Buddhists are peaceful, kind, introverted, very private people who wear robes or tents and sit in Zen gardens full of exotic plants and, when not contemplating, chant quietly with their eyes closed.

Such an image must be alien and even terrifying to a bunch of people who want to sing and howl and get fired up and see the light!

I’m sure my new friend did not want to tangle with a Buddhist, because it was probably too complicated, especially since most Buddhists are orientals, and they too are complicated, or must be to a white Christian who hands out business cards in hope of converting you.

Did he realize I was enjoying another hilarious, non-graphic sex scene when he interrupted me, and that a Buddhist would never be caught reading Bukowski in a parking lot at nine in the morning and guffawing over a sex scene where a man is yelling at a woman, “Go, baby, go!”

Anyway, I feel without doubt my new friend with the business cards is not finished with me, so next time he comes to my window I’m either gonna flash “Sexus” by Henry Miller, or “Women” by Bukowski at him, and explain their Buddhist appeal and maybe try and convert him.