The Weird Insights of a Scobberlotcher

Thirty-seven Sounds Swirling Yellow-Green

I was a bit disoriented at first. I came to sitting up in a chair, head bowed, staring down at my hands. Fingers were clasped in my lap. Where was I? Rifling through the old memory Rolodex for analogues wasn't helpful. In church preparing to follow in a prayer for my sins? Outside the principal's office about to suffer a lecture for ditto? Hardly. Then cigarette fumes intruded decisively. I decided to close my eyes again and see if the whole damn thing would just go away on its own. A vain ambition.

"We have to talk."

The lopsided lip formation was unmistakable. No one would ever accuse her of talking out of both sides of her face. I looked up and there she was. Lit cigarette sagging from one corner of her mouth. Right eye lids spastically winking and cringing from the contrail. Just like old times.

"Hey, nice seeing you again," I said, "but, ya know, we really have to stop meeting like this."

She ignored my words like they were punctuated puffs of air.

"You walked out on me in the hospital," she said a touch huffily, "I had something important to tell you."

"Ya, sorry about that, I thought maybe you were just an undigested bit of beef."

She said nothing. Just gave me a puzzled look.

"What can I say? You scared the dickens out of me. So, what do you want this time? Gonna fix me again? Or am I just in for a tune up?"

Cigarette plucked. Tap, tap into an inexplicably overfed ashtray. How did they never burn down? The income tax department wouldn't like this old woman.

"I want you," she said with a decisive sweeping gesture of her arms. "You're going to be taking over all of this."

Hadn't time to notice the change till then. Now it was just a room. The tent was gone. Just four walls. Ceiling had recessed lighting. Sparsely populated book shelf standing to my right. Generic framed picture of snow capped mountain peaks and placid sea hanging to my left. That was it. Pretty spartan. Could have been anywhere. Could have been some accountant's windowless back-room office. A rather modest accountant maybe but confident enough to conduct business across a card table covered with a Rummoli mat.

"How do you like what I did with the place? It's a bit bland but I thought it would suit you."

She wasn't wearing her gypsy regalia anymore. Now she was wearing a pant suit. With her white hair, profuse wrinkles and lipstick without borders she looked like she was on a shopping excursion from one of the local old folks homes. That or Clinton after she'd lost to Trump for a second time in hell.

"Suit me? What's this place got to do with me?"

"Think of it as your new business. It's not really a business but it's easier to understand that way for now. All you have to do is remember our motto, 'Don't worry, it'll come to you.'"

"Motto? Come to you? What will come to you? And who's you?"

She grabbed her ciggy between thumb and forefinger, pointed it at my chest, then stuffed it back in its mount.

"You. That's who."

I noticed for the first time what the trick with the cigarette was. While the ash kept growing the white cylinder always remained undiminished. Odd. Odd because I noticed just then and not before. Or was I made to notice? Like I was being subtly but deliberately distracted. Again? So much for free will.

"Look, is all this real? You haven't been hypnotizing me or something, have you?"

"Oh, it's real alright, dear. You're not under any kind of spell. I haven't deprived you of your senses."