Invitation Divination

Water dripped punctually through the hissing, grumbling machine, transformed into magical black liquid, and poured itself into Saffron’s cup at 6:11 that morning. Its completed mission happened as her alarm clock awakened her, set automatically because 11 minutes past any hour was supposedly spiritually grounding.

She arranged her flowing clothes, her handmade jewelry and her crunchy salad lunch the night before. Her eyes never fully opened until she had coffee, sat with the paper and her cat, ate an over-easy egg, put her glasses on and checked e-mail. It was the same routine everyday. She had to have her glasses. Far-sightedness ran in her family.

Her business, tucked in a tiny downtown Pittsburgh alleyway, was called The Broom Closet. It was practically a closet; miniscule and brimming with massage tools, crystals, chakra bracelets and earrings, and metaphysical books. She rented the space for merely $550, but still scraped bottom to keep her vision afloat. She capitalized on the superstitious college student with cash to burn or middle-aged women’s naïve desire to find knowledge and enlightenment in the latest rage of metaphysics. Like a vacuum cleaner salesman, she pedaled wares she didn’t use. The mark-up on tumbled stones was remarkably large as long as they were in hand-made blue velvet pouches. She stocked the store by maxing out a credit card to some overseas supplier. Out on a limb pursuing the impossible and trying to make it work, she shook apple trees to make oranges tumble.

June 11 and not at all sunny, summer was never easy where three rivers came together and everyone pretended smog never happened. Humidity stuck to her as she pried herself from the sheets, routinely flipped over, and touched ground.

Through liquid air sipping brown warmth, awakening her spirit and embracing the day, Saffron felt a dread she couldn’t quite label. What was it? Perhaps a bill went forgotten or stuck to something in a teetering tower of junk.
Her cell phone called to her with subtle new-age echoes of Enya. Saffron snagged it to find out who was calling so early.
Jezebell was sick. Throwing up. Unable to open the store or give Tarot readings.
Saffron didn’t have a second cup, didn’t sit with the cat, didn’t read the paper and didn’t grab her glasses or read e-mail.
Should’ve known then.

The shop’s main source of money came from Jezzie. She was the exploited bread, the over-rated butter and the reason the sign blocked the cracked sidewalk. Saffron had no other choice but to fake it and be a substitute.
The sign sat there all day. No one nibbled. Finally, at 5:45, a nervously vulnerable young woman who lacked lines on her hands purchased a cup of tea and requested “The Special”: a tea leaf and card reading combination. A quick $50 plus whatever tip she sent toward Saffron Demure.
Saffron stared at the spicy limp shape in the bottom of the pottery, post drink. A ball clung together with two arms and two legs sticking out of its sides. Lying through the teeth she didn’t brush that morning, “You’re pregnant.” The young woman’s eyes widened like the saucers that sat between them. “Male or female?” “Female”, a fifty-fifty shot. She read the body language, “This is your first baby. Girl energy, yin.” Saffron mirrored Jezzie.

Saffron rushed the reading. She had a date with Gabriel at 7:00. She had to go home first. She should sit with the cat, read the paper and find her glasses. Maybe she could skip her shower and splash some oil of lavender behind her ears. Lavender controlled Gabriel as if he was sewn of cursed cloth in New Orleans and she knew his soft spots and held all the pins.

She took 78 Tarots and put them in front of the weak-postured victim.
“Cut.” Saffron demanded.
Divided.
Death card.
“Death. Not sure who. Let’s see when.” Saffron eyed the clock. More cards. The Fool. The Chariot.
“Be careful on your way home.”
“I rode my bike.”
“Be safe.”
Saffron mumbled possibilities, making up every aspect. Clueless, she said the first thing that came to mind on each card that flipped over easily. Liar.

“6:00. Gotta go.”
“Uh- okay.”
She shoved trinkets at the pale thing. “You need a rose quartz. Buy this chain. Put it around your neck. You’ll stay safe that way. Your baby will go full term if you eat rice every day and carry this white feather with you.”

Saffron locked the door with her rabbit’s foot key chain dangling.
The dashboard digital gleamed 11 past 6. Seeing very little as the Pennsylvania dusk changed the buildings to shadows, she shot backwards out of the narrow alley.
Saffron felt something large bump under the wheel of her chariot.
Should’ve worn her glasses.


house of cards     fetish     black market








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