Gaskin's creed—and therefore John's—was not purely Buddhism, I gradually learned, so much as it was an eclectic Buddhist-based blend of many world religions and philosophies. But Gaskin did teach nonviolence, honesty, and service to all humankind—what I later understood as a kind of broad Mahayana Buddhism. John's tales and anecdotes of the weird, his references to moral magic, his odd books and unusual experiences, his quitting his job to follow "the path," his insistence upon openness and total honesty all the time without exception and—yes—his commitment to a life of moral rectitude and integrity had stirred my discontent. Though he had never been wealthy and most considered him poor, John and his wife had always been unusually generous, and half a dozen times they had invited needy acquaintances to move in with them free of charge until they could find work and stand on their own two feet again. By contrast I myself had quite a lot—two college degrees and nearly a third, a good job in a respected profession, and promising prospects for the future. But I also shared many if not most of the failings of other men like myself, young college professors in the soft sciences, arts, and humanities. I drank to excess, I smoked pot, and I cheated on my wife, all three of which I considered vices so minor I thought them hardly vices at all.
The third was my only real secret.
Without an inkling of its irony, I thought of myself as an honest, likeable man. But now—no thanks to John—I had my doubts. Like me, John drank beer and smoked grass, and he had not condemned me for my infidelity, but now he said, yes, he did disapprove of it. Until this infatuation with Gaskin, John had never questioned—to my face at least—my chronic sexual misconduct.
But now there was this peculiar and powerful business of honesty.
Truth.
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