I quickly responded, "Sitting in my hotel room. What are you doing?"
A few minutes later she said, "Waiting for my boyfriend. Thinking of you."
Yowza! Thinking of me? Why was she thinking of me? That was weird and quite unexpected. "Why don't you come to my hotel. I'm staying at The Riverwind Hotel. Room 325."
"I can't," she said. "I don't have a car."
"I can come get you."
"No, you can't. My boyfriend would get mad. Text me tomorrow. OK?"
"OK," I responded.
And that was it. I saved her phone number into my address book, took my clothes off, put my flannel pajamas on, and got into bed. I closed my eyes and thought of sheep jumping over a wood fence. They were cute sheep, white and fuzzy, flying through the air, dozens of them, and they put me to sleep.
23.
When I woke up in the morning, I did my usual morning routine to cover up the stink that had adhered to my body overnight from the hotel bed. I couldn't place what the stink was but I could smell it on my hands and arms and wherever. It was all over me and must have been some special Native American deodorizer or some shit like that. So I took a scalding shower and scrubbed myself really good, then dried my hair, put on deodorant, splashed on my favorite cologne, plucked a few nose hairs, popped a zit on my nose, brushed my teeth and gargled with Scope (I changed from Listerine because it burned my mouth too much), and dashed on some talcum powder. Like I've said before, what separates us humans from the apes and monkeys of the world is the stink-covering gene in our DNA. Unless you’re a bum and down on your luck or the unfortunate type like my old friend Jason who was a goddamn pig, you're supposed to cover up your stink. That's what we humans do. It's true.
I got dressed and packed my bag and decided that the best thing to do on a Sunday morning was to have a big southern breakfast with eggs and biscuits and bacon and pancakes and coffee before my drive home. I figured I'd take my grandfather's advice and enjoy myself, what, with work Monday and my life back to normal with Jessica being a bitch and hiding my kids from me and bills and more bills and this and that and the other shit. It was all a goddamn mess. It's true. But that was tomorrow and this was now and the idea of stuffing my face with some delicious pancakes and hot coffee sounded very appealing so I left my stinky room and made my way downstairs. Surely there was a breakfast buffet or hotel restaurant or a diner or something. I was sure of it.
The hotel lobby was no different than the night before. The cigarette fog still lingered and the slot machines were still clink clink clinking and the sirens were still blaring and whirling and the chatter from the old white folks was as frantic and busy as if the day had never turned to night then back to day. It was a 24 hour gambling frenzy. There wasn't a single window in the entire goddamn place except for the sliding front doors. Being in there was like being stuck in some time-altering machine where the world outside kept moving but the world in there was booze, booze, gamble, gamble, smoke, smoke and if you were lucky then a little win here and there. I wasn't up to gambling at that moment because I knew, more than anything, that I was having the absolute worst luck in the entire goddamn world. My luck was absolutely abysmal and there would have been no point of me shoving any of my money into any of those goddamn slot machines. My money would just simply vanish into thin air. I was sure of it. My mind wasn't on money anyway. I could smell pancakes and that was all that mattered.
I followed the smell (which was stronger than the cigarette smell if you can believe it) and found the hotel restaurant where they had setup a massive breakfast buffet and all of the drunken gamblers were lined up looking for sustenance to soak up the gallons of booze in their stomachs. I was just ready to eat and head home. I claimed an empty table and plopped my bag down and found a place in line. Some young, teenage Native American boys came by, asking everyone to show their room keys, checking to make sure the people in line were actually guests of the hotel and not some drunken freeloaders or some shit like that. The young employees seemed perkier than the typical teenagers that worked at hamburger joints or ice cream shops or wherever teenagers flocked to so they could make minimum wage and buy useless shit at the mall. They must have been making more than minimum wage, probably because they were in on the "stick-it-to-the-man" racket the rest of the Indians were in on. I was sure of it.
The buffet was a cornucopia of southern comfort food with every yummy dish you could imagine. They even had steamed corn on the cob which I thought was strange but ignored that nonetheless and piled everything imaginable on my plate, pancakes and sausage and bacon and eggs and biscuits and French toast and bagels and gravy and whatever I could get my hands on. The other guests were a bunch of goddamn pigs so I had to make it snappy or otherwise I'd miss out. I dressed a perfect cup of coffee for myself and found my table. Finally, I was about to be satisfied and happy. I sipped my coffee and slowly enjoyed my food. I watched the other hotel guests, most of them elderly, some middle-aged, occasionally a young couple in their 20s. They all looked tired and wiped out. I imagined if they were winners then they were probably cashing in their player's cards (if they were smart) or putting their winnings back into the slot machines (if they were idiots). I figured if my luck improved before I left that I might try my luck at a game or two but I doubted it. It was probably best that I just went home. Sometimes, when you're down on your luck, it's best just to go home. It's true.
As I was gobbling my delicious food, I accidentally nudge my plate and tipped over my coffee. Hot, steaming coffee splashed on the table top. I grabbed some napkins from a dispenser on the table and quickly tried to sop up the hot coffee before it dripped off the table and scalded my lap or some shit like that. As I was sopping and cleaning, I noticed a stack of business cards between the napkin dispenser and the salt and pepper shakers. I picked one up and read it. It said:
Do you want to win a FORTUNE? Find out what the future holds for YOU. Let an authentic NATIVE AMERICAN SHAMAN interpret what the future has in store for YOU!
The card went on to say that his store-front was next to the hotel and the casino in a shopping mall and I wondered if this was the shaman that Gina was telling me about, the one that walked around the casino drinking rum and cokes and telling old ladies if they were going to win at the slot machines or at Craps or Black Jack or whatever they were going to play. I was very intrigued by this so I decided right then and there that after I finished my breakfast and checked out from the hotel that I would pay this shaman a quick visit. What would it hurt, right? Maybe I did have some luck in store for me. It's true.
***
Behind the hotel was a strip mall filled with all kinds of Native American-owned businesses like a tax preparer and a check-cashing place and a pawn shop and a cell phone store and whatnot. They all had these signs in their windows stating how they all belonged to the Chickasaw Nation, I guess their equivalent to the Better Business Bureau or some shit like that. It made me feel like I was in a foreign nation or foreign country or something. It's true. At the end of the strip mall was a shop that had a sign that simply said, "Fortune!" In the window, besides the Chickasaw Better Business Bureau sign, was some adhesive letters that spelled out:
Tom Goodheart, Phd., Shaman, No. 137-4-56-325
I thought it very strange that he had this number listed next to his name like it was some kind of license number or serial number or some shit like that. Did shamans get licensed by the Chickasaw Nation? Did he have to pass some kind of certification to be declared a true "shaman?" I was going to have to find out. And a Phd, no less, too? I was very curious. It's true.
Inside the shop was a little reception area with a small couch, a coffee table with a bunch of copies of Sports Illustrated on top, and a fake potted plant in one corner. On the walls were some Native American inspired artworks and a small window with a little plastic sign that read, "Back in 15 minutes." A plain, white door was locked with a combination padlock. The shaman must have been taking a potty break or a smoke break or a bre
akfast break or some kind of break. I sat on the couch and thumbed through a two-year old copy of Sports Illustrated. It had a profile about how Kobe Bryant wasn't a jackass anymore and how he had become the greatest basketball player of our generation. What a bunch of shit! Our society really loved goddamn celebrities even if they were assholes. I mean, athletes and movie stars and rock stars could get away with absolute murder like sexual assault or drug crazed lunacy or alcoholic benders or whatever and people stilled loved them. Celebrities had a hold on our society's hearts no matter what they did. It's true. On the other hand, poor writers like good ol' James Frey, the genius behind the partially true masterpiece, were vilified. Oprah Winfrey, in front of millions of people, skewered him to his face on national TV because he lied a little bit. What a pile of shit! Writers should be the celebrities in our society not jackass athletes like Kobe Bryant, a married man who sexually assaulted a young woman in a Colorado hotel room. Geesh. It was almost too much for me to handle. I could go on for days about it. It's true.
The front door to the shop opened, a little bell on the handle ringing as it swung out, and this giant of a man walked in. He was tall with broad shoulders, his long, black hair pulled back in a frizzy pony tail, wearing blue jeans and a black leather vest, silver rings on every finger, black motorcycle boots on his feet. It must have been Tom Goodheart but his name really should have been Big Chief. He was massive, one of the most imposing men I had ever encountered. He saw me and smiled. He extended his hand to mine for a shake. His hand was like the paw of a grizzly bear. It's true.
"Good morning," he said. "Are you here to discover your fortune?" he asked, releasing my hand from his giant paw and turning the sign that read, "Back in 15 minutes" to the other side which read, "The doctor is in." I thought that was kind of funny. "What is your name?" he asked.
"Simon. Simon Burchwood. You're not really a doctor, are you?" I asked.
"Actually, Mr. Burchwood, yes I am. I have a doctorate in Native American Studies from Oklahoma State."
"Please call me Simon. Shouldn't you be teaching or writing scholarly papers or doing something like that?"
"Yes, I could do that but there's no money in it for me. Besides, this is a lot more fun. Come with me." He unlocked the combination padlock and opened the door, extending his arm for me to walk through. "Let's see what your future holds for you."
I stepped through the door into a small room with a table and two chairs in the middle. The walls had an assortment of framed photos and diplomas, more Native American inspired artwork and some newspaper clippings. The lights were low and he lit a few candles. He motioned for me to sit at the table as he putzed around, lighting candles and straightening up a bit. I looked at the photos on the wall. Some were of Dr. Goodheart standing with what looked like Native American friends. Some of the other photos were of him next to old white ladies just like the ones that were pumping their savings into the slot machines. Were these the ladies he duped into telling their futures? I had to know. It's true.
"Who are these people in these photos?" I asked.
"Oh, some are old college buddies, some are people who have won lots of money after paying for my services. They always come back to see me after they win and ask for a photo. Some of the winners mail copies of the photos to me as their way of saying thank you. So, Simon, what do you do for a living?"
"Well, I work as a support technician during the day but I'm really a writer, a struggling writer but a writer."
"How interesting. And working as a support technician pays your bills?"
"Yes."
"What kind of things do you write?"
"My novel The Rise and Fall of a Titan came out last year. They said it was going to be the next great bestseller of the decade but it didn't do as well as I had hoped. But I'm working on a new book. Hopefully I'll be done with it this year."
"Fantastic," he said, sitting down with me at the table. The room had a cozy feeling to it even though it was rather small. The scent and glow from the candles had a hypnotizing effect on me. Maybe that was how he duped his customers. "Are you married?"
"No, I'm divorced unfortunately."
"I see. I'm sorry to hear that. Divorce is difficult, especially for children. And do you have any children?"
"Yes, I have a son and a daughter. Their names are Jessica and Sammie."
"How sweet. And how have they been since the divorce?"
"They seem to have adjusted to it OK," I said. He sure was asking a bunch of personal questions. It was starting to get on my goddamn nerves. I wanted to know my future, not tell him about my miserable present. It's true. "Are you going to tell me my future soon?"
"Patience. I have to get to know you before I can tell you your future. I can't read your mind, you know? I can only see the future with pertinent information to guide me."
"I see." What a bunch of bullshit. This guy was a grade-A swindler, I could tell.
"Would you say that you are happy with your current situation in life?" he asked.
"I guess so, as happy as I can be." Now, that was a big fat lie. I was fucking miserable! But I wasn't going to tell him that. He was being a really nosy bastard. It's true. Plus, I didn't even know this guy. I mean, I didn't know him from jack shit. I wasn't going to lay out all of my dirty laundry. "Yes, I'm happy."
"Are you dating anyone?"
"No. Not yet."
"Would you ever consider getting married again?"
"I don't know. I haven't thought about it."
"And your writing? Do you hope that your writing career would be successful in the future?"
"Absolutely! I want that more than anything."
"Fantastic. Before I begin, do you have any questions for me?"
Questions? I had all kinds of questions. It's true. But you know the question I think about most, don't you? Of course you do. I had to ask.
"Yes."
"Then shoot."
"Why does life have to be so hard?"
Now, this must have been a whopper of a question because he sat back in his seat, placing both hands to the side of his face, and he sat there puzzled for a minute. I bet he wasn't expecting that one. That was a pretty big question, the biggest of the biggest. It's true.
"Mr. Burchwood..."
"Simon. Please call me Simon."
"Simon, I do not claim to be some kind of guru. I am not the master of the universe. I do not know everything but I will say this from my experience and the history of my people. One of the biggest burdens of all mankind is the ability to question our existence. It has troubled mankind since the beginning of time and is the common thread through all cultures and societies throughout the world. Just asking 'why' separates us from the animal kingdom. But my people knew from the beginning that we were part of the animal kingdom. We were no different than the other creatures that walked the Earth or flew in the sky or swam in the rivers."
"Mmm hmm."
"Separating ourselves from what we truly are will be our undoing. Birds don't ask why life is hard. Mountain lions don't ask why life is hard. The fish don't ask why life is hard. To them, life is life. They don't ask why. They just live. It's that simple."
"I see."
"And my question to you would be why ask why life is hard? Why aren't you just living? A fox doesn't ask why it's hard to catch his next meal. He just does it. An eagle does not ask why it's hard to raise its eaglets. She just does it. And you shouldn't ask why life is hard. You're a writer and that's what you should be doing. You're a father and that's what you should be doing. Am I right?"
"Yes, you are right."
"The French have a saying. C'est la vie. It's cliché but it's true."
The goddamn French. I was right back to where I started. It's true. I had come full circle in a small candle-lit room in Craplahoma with a giant Indian espousing clichés about 'that's life' and roadrunners searching for worms and snakes looking for fat rats to eat and this and that and whatever. It was a goddamn disaster. Disaster, I tell
you! I was ready to end my session without knowing my fortune or my future. I was ready to get up and walk out of that goddamn place. But then he smiled and looked quite pleased with himself. I guess he was trying, at least.
"Thanks," I said.
"Like I said, I'm not a guru. I only know what I know. Are you ready for me to tell you your future?"
"Yes." Thank God. I thought he would never ask.
"OK. Do you have two $20 bills in your wallet?"
"Uh, I think so." I pulled out my wallet and looked inside. There were two $20 bills and a single $2 bill. The $2 bill was a souvenir from Sammie boy. He gave it to me a while back, telling me it was special. It was special to me. So I kept the $2 bill in my wallet and pulled out the two $20 bills. I gave them to Dr. Goodheart.
He pulled out a black marker and drew a sun on the face of one of the bills and a moon on the face of the other bill. Then, quick as a flash, he crumpled the bills into two wads. Placing them in front of me, he shuffled the two bills like a shell game, moving his hands back and forth and side to side, concealing in a blur of movement which bill was which. It was a pile of shit, if you ask me. It's true. Then he sat back, the two paper wads sitting in front of me.
"Pick one. If you pick the $20 with the sun, then you will have great fortune in the near future. If you pick the $20 with the moon, then life goes on unchanged."
The Spectacular Simon Burchwood Page 20