I was not pining for Red. No way. I’d just proclaimed my love for Jacob—and that had not been done lightly.
Throughout my teenage years, I’d gone through a phase of puppy love in which I fell hard for anyone curious enough to fondle my junk. But in college I figured out the difference between love and lust, and realized that loving someone wasn’t a prerequisite for screwing them, and in fact, liking them was not even a necessity. Since then, I’d had all kinds of practice hooking up with people that only connected with me via the friction points on our bodies, so nowadays I didn’t take love for granted.
And I was totally into Jacob. One hundred percent. To prove just how unshakable my devotion was, I opened that goddamn smug-faced mindfulness book Red left me, and I read.
Once I thumbed past the first chapter, it wasn’t all about meditation. In fact, there were more breathing type exercises than anything. While too much deep breathing only made me conscious of the fact that I could stand to cut down on my smoking, it didn’t piss me off like the eye-rolling visualizations of fluffy clouds or tourist trap beaches.
Be in the present.
My ClipLand shift went more quickly than normal that night. Not because anything inherently interesting was going on—the customer who stiffed my coworker and gleefully darted out the door without paying his twelve bucks notwithstanding—but because I’d challenged myself to stop worrying about the past and anticipating the future. Clock-punching jobs like ClipLand couldn’t have been more perfectly designed to encourage people to watch the clock count down, but I let go of the anticipation and nudged myself back to what I was doing, and only that.
Angle, texture, style—I concentrated solely on the hair. Customers expect chatter. It’s part of the whole shtick. But at minimum wage and nobody tipping worth shit, what did it really matter? Maybe I was a good salesman, but with effort, I could be an even better stylist—an artisan. That night, a few of my customers did linger an extra moment to admire their cuts, and I couldn’t help but let my attention wander to the vibes they were giving off. They were pleasantly surprised.
It was tempting to bask in the external validation, for sure. But since I was on a mission, rather than getting all full of myself, I simply acknowledged my pleasure in a job well done, and then re-focused on the next task at hand, task after task, until the manager reminded me that my shift was over, and if I wanted overtime, I’d need to clear it with the scheduler first. She acted huffy, irritated. Usually I’d ramp up my own emotional charge to match, but tonight, I decided I had better things to do, and I let it drop.
When I un-silenced my phone, I found Jacob had texted that he was working late, so I headed home to seek out my own dinner and my own bed. I opened my front door, and the smell of incense hit me. It’s a totally different fragrance once it burns, obviously smokier, and not as cloying as the raw product. It wasn’t terrible. In fact, I didn’t feel the urge to turn around, walk away, and be anywhere but my apartment. A vibrational shift, or wishful thinking? Hard to say.
I spent the next morning on the computer. House blessings were one of the most common types of ritual, right behind love charms and prosperity spells. Apparently they were called smudgings.
And apparently, practitioners offered these so-called smudgings as a paid service.
Interesting. I’d been hoping to repopulate the furniture so I could draw some customers to my soirees, but in the meanwhile, maybe I could bring my sticks and stones to them.
Paid smudgings started at a hundred bucks for maybe an hour of work. Credentials varied. Some folks advertised their years of experience, while others used lots of big, esoteric words to make themselves seem knowledgable. But the priciest sellers only needed two words to really jack up their rates: certified psychic.
Someday I might be able to claim that title without resorting to elaborate card trick demonstrations, but for the moment, I’d need to make do with what I had—a customer base. I sent out a text to my party list: New! Sticks and Stones comes to you with house smudging rituals. Raise your vibe. By appointment only.
I’ll admit, I was excited, since I’m always down for trying something new. And with the hundred-dollar price tag, I wouldn’t need many nibbles. I watched my phone, and I waited. Usually when I sent out a party invite, a few texts pinged me back right away, short replies like “cool” and “see you there.” Unfortunately, my new idea was met with utter silence.
Being fully present at work that afternoon wasn’t difficult. It was better than second-guessing the actions of the past, though I’ll admit, during break time when I checked my inbox and still had zero replies, it was tempting to admit defeat. Had I worded my offer badly? Maybe no one knew what smudging meant. Maybe I should’ve used the word blessing, whether I had a philosophical aversion to it or not. Or maybe these folks knew damn well what a smudging was, and they wanted nothing to do with it.
To add insult to injury, the manager on duty asked me to stop by her office before I left. What I was being called out on this time, I had no idea. One thing was for sure. Mindfulness practice or not, my patience could only stretch so far, and one of these days I’d snap and say something I’d regret. In fact, I was chanting a mantra to myself when the showdown finally came. Don’t react. Do. Not. React.
I was chanting it so hard, I almost neglected to hear what the manager actually told me.
“I noticed your probation period is up.” She clicked through a few computer screens. “And you got a few really nice customer feedback cards this week. Most people don’t bother filling those out unless they’re complaining. So I’m putting in a recommendation for a raise. It’s only twenty-five cents an hour, but it’s better than nothing.”
I thanked her. Sincerely, even. Not for the stupid quarter, but for the lesson she’d just delivered. I’d spent my shift worrying about my failed text message (the past) and preparing for a confrontation (the future) that turned out to be nothing. I shifted my attention to the present and felt the linoleum under my feet, smelled the product-and-flat-iron salon scent.
Everything was fine. I just needed to stay out of my own way.
I did my best to stay present, all the way home. It wasn’t easy. But I did it. And once I got there, a call came in. Not from one of my customers. From Pilar.
“This text you sent,” she said cautiously. “Is it for real?”
“If it’s an offer for me to come clear your space, then yes. But before you say anything, I have two caveats. One, it’s a psychic cleansing. Cleaning out your garage or steaming your carpets is not part of the deal. And two, I didn’t mean to tap you—you’re not on the list. So feel free to ignore it.”
She could have dropped the whole thing, left the conversation at that. But she didn’t. “I’ve always thought spaces had certain energies to them, but I never brought it up with you. I figured you would just tease me.”
“And at the time, you were probably right. I guess I’ve had a change of heart.”
* * *
I studied harder for my first smudging than I had for my State Board Cosmetology Exam. If it was just some random customer who liked my head massages and bottles of rocks, maybe I could’ve winged it. But not with Pilar. I cared about her too much to just take her money without giving her my best effort in return.
Our session was scheduled the next morning at the ungodly hour of nine, to give us a good couple of hours before we’d need to head out to our respective salons. Pilar picked me up at quarter till so we could hit a botanica on our way over and stock up on some sage—not the kind that comes in the little jar in the supermarket spice aisle, but bundles of dried leaves meant for arcane uses, not culinary.
“Are you sure this is the place?” Pilar asked as we pulled up. “It looks…spooky.”
“It looks abandoned,” I added, though I hoped it wasn’t. As far as I could tell, sage was the main ingredient in a smudging recipe, and I didn’t want to try any substitutions on my first official ritual.
The store’s webs
ite had seemed normal…as normal as you could hope for with an esoteric type establishment, anyhow. But to call the physical location a hole in the wall would be putting it kindly. It might even be an insult to wall holes.
An eye-level sign on the door in English, Spanish and Polish informed us that photography was not allowed inside the shop. I hadn’t been planning on taking any pictures, but now that the sign said I couldn’t, I was tempted. We stepped inside, where we were the only two customers. The aisles were narrow, so closely packed that Pilar looked like she was worried she might not fit between them. Or maybe it wasn’t her body language I was picking up on, but a thread of emotional discomfort.
I was also getting something from the frowning woman behind the desk, though to be fair, her facial expression alone spoke volumes. Her stiff hair was a box-dye black that sucked the light out of the room, and she had a pair of reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose—all the better to scowl at us over. I would have been glad to simply grab what I came for and leave, but her hostility prompted me to stick around long enough to prove a point. While I strolled up and down the few narrow aisles, I took a mental inventory of what was stocked and how it was arranged. What was priced to move and what was covered in dust. Basically, whatever piqued my interest or tickled my fancy.
Only once I’d conveyed that glaring at me would only ensure I lingered did I meander up to the counter. Small items that could be easily pocketed were displayed there beneath a scuffed plexi surface. I was struck by the selection of crystals and tumbled stones—mainly I was surprised I already owned so many of them myself. The incense on top of the counter, though, was another story. Inside tall glass apothecary jars, nuggets of resin glowed amber, crimson and gold. The names were exotic: Dragon’s Blood, Three Kings, Mayan Copal. They were pricy, but they intrigued me. Plus it was satisfying to put that sour woman through the effort of scooping out just a tiny bit of each one into tiny wax paper bags.
All told, we only spent about ten minutes in the store. It felt a heck of a lot longer, though, and Pilar seemed even more distressed than she had when she first picked me up. “That woman was horrible,” she said. “Maybe she was psychic. Maybe she sensed the darkness around me.”
“Or maybe she’s pissed off at the world, and it had nothing to do with you at all. There’s no ‘darkness’ around you, girlfriend. You work for a sonofabitch, your kid left for college, and you’re stressing. That’s all.”
Pilar gripped the steering wheel hard, blinked rapidly, took a few deep breaths, and sighed. When she spoke, she was all choked up. “Things just aren’t the same at Luscious without you. I miss you so much. It feels like I chose Ralph over you, and I hate it.”
Despite all her job interviews and talk of leaving, she was still at Luscious. Considering the bullshit Ralph must put her though on a daily basis, I wasn’t necessarily sure the vibration of her house had much to do with her distress. Even so, I’d try my best to help.
Inside, I consulted the instructions I’d saved to my phone, lit up the smudge stick, and began filling the house with sacred smoke.
We determined that burning sage reeks. And also, her smoke detectors were fully functional.
If it were only my own happiness on the line, I would have given up sooner, like I did back at my own place where I called it quits once my incense stick burned down and I was sick of sandalwood. But not only was Pilar paying me—she needed to know she had an ally. Each of us took the other seriously, and that made a huge difference in how much of myself I poured into the smudging.
By the time we’d smoked out the entire place, I felt as if I’d just finished a brutal session of interval training. I rolled my shoulders and wondered if I could count the house smudging as my Wednesday workout. ’Cos, man…I felt like I needed a Gatorade. Afterward, we sat together on the porch in silence. I’d tried—but come on. House clearing? The whole thing was ridiculous. I’d blundered through the place like a moron, waving around a bundle of smoldering twigs and trying to “push” my energy around. I’d made a fool of myself, but at least I’d done it in front of a sympathetic audience.
Maybe it was a farfetched idea to think I could do esoteric rituals as some kind of sideline, but the day hadn’t been a total loss. I’d seen firsthand what sort of ulcer I’d be nursing if I was still working at Luscious—plus I’d spent time reconnecting with my friend, and I’d been able to act supportive. That had to count for something.
“I think the house feels different,” she said tentatively.
“You don’t need to stroke my ego.”
“Gracious as ever about taking a compliment.” Pilar heaved herself out of the wicker chair. “It’s later than I thought—I’d better take you home.”
When I pushed open my front door, it seemed to me the place wasn’t quite as dauntingly empty as before. The scent of incense lingered, and all my boxes were still there, pushed up against the walls along the perimeter. But mainly, the space was filled with a calm silence, a patient potential. I didn’t mind being there, I realized. Even by myself.
As I stood in my big open room and considered the possibility that the smudgings had actually done something, I felt the buzz of an incoming text. One of the Soiree folks had replied to my offer.
And they couldn’t wait to have me smudge their apartment.
Chapter 32
Compared to what I would have earned for a couple hours’ work at a high-end salon, the fee from house smudgings wasn’t all that remarkable. Given that I was no longer working at a high-end salon, however, but at ClipLand (where a five-dollar tip was a big deal), the money was fantastic.
I’d done nearly a dozen sessions throughout the city and my confidence was growing. I felt less self-conscious about the proceedings, and more tuned in to the smoke, the Vibe, even the client. For the customers with more money than they knew what to do with, I managed to upsell a few gemstone bottles. For the ones who needed their hundred dollars a lot more than I did, I worked out “mini” sessions and cut them discounts. And for the guy with a sleek new camcorder sitting untouched in its box, I negotiated a barter and scored a decent birthday present for my man. Jacob really dug it, too. No more futzing with the buggy app on his phone.
Win-win-win.
Still, despite the fact that I was now able to pay both my rent and my minimum credit card payment in addition to the whopping test fee, signing up for the psychic screening was daunting.
“You’ll do great.” Jacob murmured the words against my bare belly. He’d insisted on me spending the night at his place so I was alert and rested the morning of the big test. Instead I was borderline woozy. We’d gone so many rounds, I suspected I might black out if I didn’t replenish my electrolytes. The mattress pummeling did provide a distraction—at least until the big-O headrush abated, my heart rate slowed to normal, and I remembered I’d sold all my worldly possessions to prove I was empathic…a notion I wasn’t 100 percent sold on, myself.
I was so nervous I’d even considered breaking out my suit, which I only wear at weddings and funerals. But no. I felt like enough of a poser in my presentable job interview slacks and button down shirt. I was hoping to make a good impression, not psych myself out to the point of panicked failure.
The screening was downtown in the heart of the Loop. El tracks blocked the midmorning sun, pedestrians streamed in and out of skyscrapers that housed hotels, offices and department stores. Jacob wove through the El track girders and parked in the bus lane with a cop’s flagrant disregard to laws. He turned on his hazards, leaned across the seat, and pulled me into a kiss. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll be amazing.”
“What I’ll be…is relieved when it’s all over.”
“You’re sure I can’t pick you up later?”
“Nah. Train’s right here.” I bumped foreheads with him. “See ya on the flip side.”
I checked my directions and rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor.
There was a table set up outside the suite where a man and a woman were waiting to sign folks in. She had on a silky blouse that showed off her cleavage while he wore a hardcore no-nonsense suit, but both of them were rocking a nametag. Beatriz and Jack.
Although I was currently their only customer, neither of them jumped to attention to greet me. They were too busy bickering with each other.
“It’s fine,” Jack said.
“It’s not fine,” Beatriz shot back, with an accent that gave her proclamation twice the oomph. “Your name isn’t the only one on that report. If you turn it in late, you make me look just as bad.”
I toyed with the idea of turning around and leaving—I was hardly on their radar. And yet, if I did run off with my tail between my legs, what then? Go back to my empty apartment, call my boyfriend who was as emotionally invested in the process as I was, and tell him I’d changed my mind?
No. I was committed to this thing, and I’d damn well follow through. I stood there in front of the bickering testers and waited for them to stop their kvetching. Finally, Jack turned to me and said, “Sorry—what was your name?”
“Curtis Ash.”
He turned to a list and began paging through, while his cohort Beatriz looked me up and down. “Do you work with other people?” she asked me playfully. Perhaps even flirtatiously. Except when I thought about it, I didn’t pick up any tug of sexual chemistry. The flirting didn’t feel manipulative, exactly, more like business as usual. Most men probably went out of their way to steal lingering glances at her chest, and she’d figured out how to use her looks to her advantage. Who was I to judge? When I cut hair, I did my own rendition of the low-cut blouse and the fluttering lashes.
“Sure, I work with people.”
“How do you stop yourself from strangling them?”
She might’ve been trying to distract me from my jitters, or it might’ve been an attempt at building rapport. Either way, she wasn’t particularly invested in my opinion, and the question had less depth to it than, Got any kids?
Skin After Skin - PsyCop 8 Page 24