II. The High Priestess. [Reversed]

The Coffee Shop—DAY

I am sitting alone at a table in a Coffee Shop in the city.

So this is the first stop Anna wanted to make? I think, Coffee? Though she is nowhere to be found, I realize it is a book that she has given me before disappearing. So, I figure there is nothing more I can do now but sadly sip a cup of coffee and pretend to read so that no one will see how sad I am that Anna is gone. 

Also Joan Baez is playing on the sound system. And that sucks more than a little too.

The book it turns out is The Book, a Torah.

She has left a bookmark in Mishlei, the Book of Proverbs. Some of Solomon’s wisdom couldn’t hurt, I think, but the book must be in Hebrew. Or else in any case, the words swim on the page and I cannot make heads or tails of them.

I look around for help. Through the front windows, I spot a long, black pickup truck sliding into a spot. I know it immediately. It is my old nemesis, Spike.

Why do I have an old nemesis you may ask? I don’t quite remember to be honest. But I suspect that we all have one. Especially up and down the roads of uncertainty and temptation.

Unluckily, mine now closes in on the Coffee Shop, and I keep my head down, praying either Anna would return or Spike won’t notice me. As I transfix on the brown crescent coffee stains on the table, Spike saunters towards the cafe with his entourage. He is tall, muscular with spiked red hair (hence the name) and a rockabilly suit. He flings open the front doors as if a superstar entering the place. Spike looks around the room and spots me immediately. Of course.  And soon slides into a chair next to me at the table.

The rest of Spike’s friends, following a pace behind, soon also crowd me at the table.

One is Gunny Bill, a messed-up Vietnam vet-type in fatigues and a beret; his buddy holly frames have one blacked out lens. He lost an eye in the war, I suppose.  He sits on my left.

The other friend is a schizophrenic junky whore-type who sits on Spike’s lap to my right. She goes by Guillo-Tina Chopstwice.

All three ramble about crazily, to themselves. Spike now formally initiates the meeting.

“Okay, now that we’ve found Frank. Here’s what we gotta do—”

“—What you’ve got to do is fuck me, lover,” smooches Guillo-Tina, wrapping her arms and legs around him.

Bill ignores the scene. “Fuck, man. We can’t talk about all this here. They got ears everywhere.”

Guillo-Tina plucks at the buttons of Spike’s jacket. “Com'n, Spike. Let me give you a BJ. A little one. Right under the table.”

Gunny Bill is incensed. “Let’s not talk about BJs! Let’s talk about LBJ! And JFK in DP.”

“DP? Dealey Plaza?” I think to myself in the middle wanting just to curl up into a ball and escape.  A Waitress large and gruff in a greasy apron, approaches and clears her throat. She stands over us holding two large coffee pots, black and white, regular and decaf. She stares at us frozen in this position for a moment. A vision in a blue wait staff tunic, serene and wise between her columnar urns.

At length, she slams the decaf pot down on the table, rattling the silverware and spilling the full water glasses. The water splashes over me and dribbles over the table edge into my shoes.

“Hi, I’m Frank.” I say frankly flanked. “I’m sorry about the noise. They’re with me. I guess.” The Waitress adjusts the little white paper diadem on her head and tops off my coffee with regular, knowingly indicating Spike with a shake of the decaf as she picks it back up.

“You know, He’s the reason you lost Her. You are losing Her, don’t you know? And, She was the lone spot of happiness for you.”

Meanwhile Spike and the Guillo-Tina are kissing sloppily. The Waitress slams down the decaf coffee pot again so she can jab an accusing painted nail at each of us in turn. She jabs Spike’s chest.

“This is the woman you left Her for? (She jabs at Guillo-Tina) after She left Him— (A jab at me)—for You (Back at Spike)?”

As my brain catches up, I look to Spike in horror at the Waitress’ reveal. Has Spike been seeing Andrea? Have I been cuckolded by this devil and his entourage? That explains so much! I stand up slowly weak with dread, as Spike and company sneer and the Waitress shakes her head sadly. I weakly grab my things and toss a wad of cash and coins on the table.

II. The High Priestess.

In The Mountains-DAY

I guess I was able to get out of the Library. But I am not sure where the chimp got to. I find myself now instead walking up a path with a beautiful Chinese woman in a flowing blue gown. When I realize we are holding hands albeit awkwardly, I smile at her.

“Are you——?”

“Yes, I am, Frank.”

“Yes, you are what?” I ponder, lost. “You’ve answered before I could ask it.”

She laughs, “Yes, I am Anna Feng.”

Ah, so that is why this feels so familiar. I fooled around with Anna a bit back in college. We both had exes to make jealous. Of course, I was much grander then. No one would be jealous of this intimate sojourn today. My crown, my pompadour, may stick up here in the mountain drafts, but even it thins and fades. She is as statuesque, brilliant. And young. As she always was.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” She squeezes my hand tighter. “You are mostly glad to be close to a beautiful girl. Enjoy the silence.”

We emerge from the wood to a sunlit mountain face over a vast green valley, lush with flowers. The sea is beyond. The path drops from here winding down the slopes to who knows where. Anna notices my concern.

“Here, look. The road takes some twists and turns and detours and delays but we will get where we are going eventually.”

“Eventually? Damn, that sounds a long time.” I remember Andrea, sick at home. “So this won’t be just a little foray?”

“I wouldn’t rush it. There is much to see. Our first stop is just ahead.”

“I need to get home. My wife—”

“We can start back if you want, or perhaps I can suggest a short cut?” she presses something into my hand.

“No! No!” I reconsider the dangerous beauty of it all against the dreariness of Andrea’s bedside, shut out against even the rose arbor. “I don’t want it to end any sooner than it needs to!”

I. The Magician.

The Library—DAY

I fight my way through the heavy double doors into the lobby with the Sailor. By the time I have Crossed the Threshold, I am near about to collapse. Of course this has not escaped the attention of the Guard, who frowns and waves for me to get out of the doorway and get about my business. I dump the Sailor in a chair and move to the circulation desk as if I have a purpose here. The Librarian eyes me suspiciously.

“Are you a patron? A cardholder?”

“Yes. We’re looking for the Inter-library Loan Office. That’s in the back right?”

“Down the hall and to the right.”

I nod “Okay” and return to the Sailor, to the Guard’s piqued interest.

“And what about him?” he smiles. Big smile.

“Oh! He’s with me.” I grunt, trying to hoist the man out of the chair, and turn my back to my inquisitors.

I give the Sailor’s arm one last tug and he flies up into my arms. Flies because on the last tug he is not Sailor Lou anymore. Flies because I tugged hard enough to yank a 280 pound man off the chair. Not a 50 pound baby monkey.

Yes. Monkey.

On the last tug, Sailor Lou has turned into a baby chimp in little kid’s clothing. A red corduroy jumper to be precise. The chimp clings to my neck. The Librarian wildly calls in additional security. The other security guards must have been lurking nearby out-of-sight, because they now pour in around me and the Sailor-Chimp. Curious patrons crown in too.

“What is that?”

“It’s a monkey!”

“Look at its little legs! It is a monkey!”

As I am swallowed by the crowd, I lift the chimp up over my head above the melee.

“I promised I was strong, old man.”

Nine of Wands

The City—DAY

The Sailor continues to cry lying there on the stoop. I look him over and repeat even louder.

“Sick like a heart attack or a stroke? Or sick like drunk and hung-over? Do you need a doctor. Or just sleep?”

No answer.

“Ugh. Probably just drunk. Let’s get you back home.”

The Sailor now laughs as I help the huge man to his feet. After cinching his robe, of course.

“A stroke? Hah! The only stroke I ever had was in Cambodia! Hee-hee!”

He coughs and laughs and looks up at me. I am puzzled.

“Huh?”

“It’s a joke. Or advice. Or alchemy. I don’t know. It’s just something a lawyer once told me.” he offers another phlegmy laugh-cough, summing, “The only problem is, how am I going to sleep with my wife’s hairdresser now?”

I ponder this but the man is too drunk to offer more. Lots of odd advice today. I begin walking the towering man home, guiding him best I can. Turning a corner, we are now coming upon the downtown, city center. Here the Sailor shrugs me off and doesn’t want to go further.

“No! Don’t go past the courthouse!”

“It’s a block too late to say that.” I look around for an option, “Why not anyway?”

“But! I’ve got priors for D and D.”

“D and D?”

“Drunk and disorderly.”

“Don’t worry. We can cut through the Library and out the back door to the alley. That will put us a block from home.”

I make a slight course correction towards the Library, remembering my earlier run-in with the Guard. Thankfully, he is nowhere in sight.

I lug the Sailor up the stairs but through the glass Library doors, I can spot the Guard at a security desk inside the lobby. He has a baton now, and taps the wand into his palm as we near.

The Sailor sees this too. He hates authority figures. When the Guard takes a step closer, Lou swipes his baton. The Sailor points down at me.

“Do you remember when you were a child, Frank? I used to pick you up. All the time.” With his other hand, he points skyward with the baton. I look up as if expecting to see something. “Way over my head. Way up in the sky!”

“Yes, Lou. Yes. I remember.”

“Remember how strong I was?”

I nod.

“D’ya think you could do the same for me?”

“Pick you up?”

“Yes. Be strong. Lift me. If you had to. To get away.”

I nod again. “Yea, if I had to. I guess. Sure.”

 

Knight of Wands

In The Mountains—NIGHT

The Sailor and I are flying down a winding wooded road in a driving snow; the Sailor is at the wheel of my old black Impala. The power is out everywhere but the Sailor drives down the darkest back road because he feels familiar enough with it. That’s what he tells me anyway and I guess I must have relinquished the keys because here we are.

I feel the tingle of danger, hair standing on end. He is going way too fast for the weather but I say nothing. I figure, he’s a tough old guy and tough old guys no how to handle a car.   

A deer darts out into the road, there is no chance to brake, safely or otherwise on the icy surface. But by some Supernatural Aid, the doe trots a few more steps which takes it to the side of the road as car whizzes past.

Before I can offer a sigh of relief, there is a second one ahead. A brazen deer with glowing red eyes.  More line either side of the road now.

I yelp. The Sailor has taken his foot off the gas by this time and can now coast to a gentle stop no more than three feet from the deer. But the deer doesn’t move, he just lowers his head and makes as if he’s threatening a standoff.

Eight of Cups

The City—LATER

I am walking down the street in the low rent district of the city, carrying, in addition to my usual satchel, a paper sack containing some beer and an adjustable wrench. Some policemen are nearby discussing that since it is carnival season again, almost everyone is bound to be carrying or looking for drugs. I shove the beer and wrench into my satchel.Suddenly my bag seems very heavy and conspicuous. Though containing nothing illegal, I’m sure the cops would find it suspicious if they searched me.

I try to look nonchalant as I walk down the busy sidewalk, heavy book bag swinging. I am consciously trying to look as if I am on a lazy Sunday morning promenade or something, but I am sure I come off very deliberate and ill-at-ease. Perhaps I should head down to the river for a stroll?

At that thought, I blunder through some children chalking a hopscotch board on the sidewalk. I am nervous around kids; I haven’t been exposed to too many and my Andrea is unable to have any in her condition.

One, two, three.  I hop the grid.

See?, I think to myself, I’m not a creep, kids.

Four, five six, seven.

At eight my hop almost lands me on a pair of legs strewn across the sidewalk. Someone is laying on eight. Lazy number 8.  I look up to find the legs belong to the Sailor, who is lying, blubbering against a cement stoop.

“Awful! Awful!” he mutters. He still wears his old red robe.  Now open and scandalously showing his faded boxers and wife beater to the neighborhood kids.

“Hey, Sailor Lou! What’s so awful?”

He clutches his chest.

“Sick! So sick!”

Concerned I kneel to look him over. “Sick like a heart attack or a stroke? Or sick like drunk and hung-over?”