Walking along Market Street, just west of City Hall, in Center City Philadelphia, wearing a suit, in 95 degree weather, I was relieved to be shaded by construction scaffolding that covered the sidewalk for several blocks.

Preparing to turn a corner and feel the full effect of the sun, a Buddhist monk approached. Palpably uncomfortable, a reluctant purpose accompanied his shuffle. His saffron robe was more practical than beautiful — clean, dull, comfortable, loose. He was hot and tiny. A slight submissive bow, hinged at the waist, presented beads of sweat from between the stippled hair on his shaved head. Two cupped hands extended a prayer card.

It was die-cut into a diamond shape with rounded corners. A human figure with legs crossed, seated in front of an altar, adorned the front of the card. Lotus flowers bloomed across the back. Brilliant metallic foil trimmed both sides.

He spoke very little English,. One word grunts. Extending the card, he urged me to sign a small, black, spiral-bound booklet that requested three pieces of information: my name, my address…and the amount of my donation. I had originally thought he was looking for directions.

He stuck his hand out, palm facing up, with three fingers tickling the air, and grunted…”money!”

I had about ninety cents in my pocket — and no bills whatsoever — just pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters. I searched both pockets frantically and instinctively, pulled out lint and metal, and gave him everything I had.

Disappointment.

He stared at the money in his palm for an millisecond, raised his head, shook it from side to side with just a hint of contempt and stomped away. He didn’t stop anyone else. Eventually, the city absorbed him.

I felt bad.

Many people have helped me over the course of my life and the only way I will be able to fully repay most is to help others who approach me in a time of need. However, I was reminded by friends who have heard this story that I gave the monk all the money I had and, by that measure, I should feel good.

With these reminders, I did. It helped, though, to picture a sales meeting, in my mind’s eye, held that morning inside the temple where the monk lives:

Incense hangs in the air and the guttural garble of a didgeridoo echoes from the blackness of a concrete basement three stories deep. The classroom is ornamental hand-carved wood painted in bright colors that time and air have muted. Gold paint trims every curve and sculpture. Caste iron bells hang dead.

An older, rounder, abrupt monk, wielding a yardstick behind his back, strolls five aisles filled with twenty-five monks. He scowls, reminding each student that revenue was down last month. A curious combination of Alec Baldwin in Glengarry Glenn Ross and Katherine Freeman in the Blues Brothers, the monk doesn’t seem to be playing a part.

An implicit tone occupies every word, reminding each mind that inventory has started to pile up in the warehouse and that ownership had decided to take a much closer look at compensation. Lipstick and pigs are never mentioned but, given the nature of interdependence, no mention was necessary. He reminded each monk that no financing would be offered and, until notified otherwise, all deals are cash only.

Monks, each sitting straight up and facing forward, shifted their eyes from side to side, looking for a reaction from one another. An overwhelming yet imperceptible groan exhausted the ironic toddlers. Tantrums ensued in unquiet minds. A most unpleasant was being handed down.

Sales.

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