We're All Working for the Swami

I first met Swami Dave in a crowded street market in the steamy holy city of Baton Rouge. I was but a waif and wastrel - a waifstrel, as it were. I was indentured to a dentist. My job was to blow opium smoke into a hose.
Swami Dave floated into the stall on a cloud of flowers, his jaw swollen. "It'll have to come out," was the verdict. He refused the hose and never flinched. When it was done, I offered to shine his shoes. Then I noticed he was barefoot, so I washed his feet instead.
He must have seen something in me, because he slipped the dentist a wad of bills. Just like that, I was a free man. A free kid, anyway.
Swami Dave took me to a swank set up he had on Fairfields. The place was crawling with kids wearing orange robes, all walking backwards. I learned that was part of the ritual. Followers walk backwards, Swami walks forward. Followers leave room, Swami enters. "Whatever," I says. "Give me the robe, but I ain't drinking the Kool-Aid."
I was given a basin and a sponge and told I would be Swami Dave's official foot washer. I got pretty good at walking backwards while holding a basin full of lotus water. It really wasn't as bad as it sounds; I had nicked a tin of opium from the dentist. The worst part was washing his feet after he'd walked on hot coals. I didn't like using a wire brush.
Over the next three years, I rose through the ranks. From foot washer to laundry detail to limo stepstool to flower petal strewer to food taster to the most coveted of swamical serving duties, right hand PR hack. I'd be by his side still had he not absconded with all he was worth and then some to Aruba. Before he left, Swami Dave drew me aside, pinched my cheek and wished me luck. "Go with my blessing, Child," he said. "Go where?" I asked. His eyes twinkled. "I hear Miami's nice this time of year."