A Memory Reawakened by Alan Watts - How the Cheeseburger Buddha was born

                                                       The character that resulted as my alter ego
 

The Rascal in Uniform: A Memory Reawakened by Alan Watts

It is strange how memory works. Some moments slip away for decades, and then, without warning, they resurface—triggered by the most unlikely spark. Today, at seventy-six years of age, in the quiet of my morning, I stumbled upon a recording of Alan Watts’ final radio interview. His voice—tired but still carrying that unmistakable lilt of humor—unlocked a part of my past I had not revisited in years.

Suddenly, I was thirty-two again, in Green Bay, Wisconsin. The year was 1977, maybe 1978. I had taken a job with J&J Security, and one of my assignments was guarding inside a McDonald’s. Imagine the absurdity: a young Malaysian man in the heart of Redneck country, standing in a polyester uniform among the hiss of fryers and the smell of greasy burgers. At the same time, outside the windows lay the vast silence of Wisconsin snow. The contrast was surreal.

The uniform was my shield. To others, it was just a rent-a-cop outfit, but to me it was armor—protecting me from the ridicule of both the kids who hung around and the staff who didn’t quite know what to make of me. In a way, it was also my Buddha’s robe. Hidden within its folds, I felt safe enough to play the rascal, to observe, to chuckle at the whole setup without fear.

                                            The 'Hoki-Poki' Orioki - eating while doing Seshin

Alan Watts was my secret companion then, just as he is now. His books and talks, which I devoured like contraband, gave me a different way to look at life. He reminded me that the world is not as serious as it pretends to be—that at its core, existence is a kind of cosmic game. And so there I was, in that ridiculous in-between space: the fryers crackling behind me, the snow piling high outside, the kids shouting their nonsense—and me standing in the middle, smiling to myself, armored in my uniform, carrying a little spark of Watts’ rascal spirit.

                                                          Meditation on the toilet bowl.

Hearing his voice today, after all these years, I realize that memory was never really gone. It had only been waiting for his laugh to bring it back. And now, as I sit here in 2025, long past those years of grease and snow, I see the thread clearly. That moment was a training ground in not taking life too seriously. The robe, the armor, the uniform—all symbols of the roles we play, the masks we wear. Underneath, the rascal still laughs.

I release it now, not with bitterness or shame, but with gratitude. For the snow. For the grease. For the uniform. For the laughter of a rascal, I still carry within me. And for the voice of Alan Watts, who continues to turn the key on memories I thought were long locked away.

On one break, I sat down with a Double Cheeseburger in one hand and The Way of Zen by Alan Watts in the other. The irony was already rich: I was a Muslim, holding haram meat, reading about Buddhism — a path where meat is taboo. Outside, snow lay piled high, the Wisconsin cold pressing against the glass. Inside, I was sweating under my thermal underwear, the heat blasting, my body overheating from food, uniform, and nerves.

                                                           Having visions of grandeur!

And then it happened.

Amidst the background noise of teenagers, grease, and chatter, I had a satori. Time suspended. I looked down at my hands — a cheeseburger in one, a Zen book in the other — and saw myself reflected in this absurd moment. A Malaysian student in America, dressed as a rent-a-cop, floating in the strange in-between of worlds and identities. Muslim yet eating haram, fascinated by Zen yet clinging to Islam, colored yet invisible, stranger yet participant.

It struck me so vividly that the name thundered in my head like a shout:
“You are nothing but a Cheeseburger Buddha!”

I could almost hear Alan Watts himself chuckling in the background, that comic Zen laugh he was known for.

                                                              The Creative Spirit.

That was the birth of the Cheeseburger Buddha — a paradox, a living irony, and a reminder that awakening doesn’t always happen in temples or meditation halls. Sometimes it sneaks up on you in the most unlikely of places: at a McDonald’s, in the middle of the American Midwest, with a sweaty uniform and a forbidden bur

It is strange, almost surreal, to hold all of this together in one breath: the thirty-two-year-old in despair, and the seventy-six-year-old who still sometimes feels that rascal flickering inside. When asked if I still feel the Cheeseburger Buddha alive in me, I must answer yes — though not in the same way. Back then, it was defiance against despair. Now, it is a kind of soft smile at my own foolishness, a reminder that the rascal never really leaves; he just grows quieter, humbler, and perhaps a little kinder.

So maybe that’s the answer I’ve been circling all these years. The Cheeseburger Buddha was never just a nickname. It was a time capsule — of who I was at thirty-two, in uniform and despair, and who I am now, a father of four, looking back with both irony and gratitude. It was a reminder that awakening does not mean stripping away the rascal. It means embracing him, feeding him a cheeseburger if that’s what it takes, and still sitting down to meditate when the azan calls.

                                                                It's Miller Time!

This, then, is my last word on the subject. The Cheeseburger Buddha was born out of desperation, carried me through rascal years, and now rests quietly in the heart of an old man who still chuckles at his own contradictions. The story is not about how I came to call myself the Cheeseburger Buddha. It is about how I came to live with him — and how, even now, he lives with me.