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“Please drink your individual tea blend and follow me.” It’s drab and smells like a moldy forest floor with floating brown bits.
“Pass.” He gives me a Serge urge. It’s like he’s nudging me with his eyes. I slowly sip and to my surprise, it tastes worse than it smells. This is neither tea nor a blend.
“Yum.” No reaction. Serge is like the Palace Guard with a mantra.
The door snicks behind me and I spy my sheets, pot holders, and tea cozy all clean and folded. And leave my ‘tea’ in the bathroom. What’s left of Ginny’s personal tea smells like a Jasmine angel fart. There’s lots of colored liquids labeled Ginny or Kat. Hers are pastel. Mine are a series of browns and murky grays. I drink hers. They might be cleansers, doesn’t matter, I’m thirsty. I lie down on the bed, close my eyes letting my mind swim in the sound of that laugh.
When I wake up Ginny’s on her bed with a bindi on her forehead and a Johnny Was caftan. Still wish I could pull one off.
“Oh, shit you bought in.”
“You know I love an accessory. They put it on after my facial.”
I sit on her bed and stare at her glowing face. “Facial?! Why do I get tossed in the sweat gulag and you get a fucking facial?”
“My chakras are fine, my pores are big. How was the lodge?”
“Confusing. I’m supposed to follow a laugh. It’s my spirit animal. It’s a whole thing.”
She rolls her eyes. “Come on, we’re late.”
“For my life?”
“Fire ritual.”
I toss on clean jeans, my dad’s vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt and some low top Chuck Taylors. This is the best I’ve looked in a while. Everyone else in the welcome circle is wearing pasty vegan flowing gauze. I’m out of place, but something more out of place catches my eye.
As we bow our heads, I see some erratic dark hair sticking out of a worn baseball hat. I glimpse the bottom of his dusty, faded frayed jeans, his left black Chuck Taylor worn at the side, his pinkie toe sticking out just a little. I hit Ginny and point.
“What?” She whispers.
“That guy has to be the laugh.”
“What guy?”
“Shit. Did I hallucinate him?” I toss my head all around looking for him.
“What was in your tea?” She says.
Oh, shit, did Serge dose me?
A gong reverberates, old dudes chant, and I smell burning rubber. I worry for a moment I have a tumor. After the stinky smoke clears I set out to find if he’s real or a hallucination, brought on by too many beverages that should not be beverages.
Chapter 6
Bang A Gong
ZANE
Canyon Point, Utah
I was only there for the gong at the Swamis are Us circle. Holy shit. I shuffle to the outskirts of the formed circle and my eyebrows raise. Because I was like, hello what have we here?
In the sea of flowy pants, gurus, and gauze, there’s a pair of jeans that were made for somebody to admire. Perfect ass, red cascading hair. She’s got an outstanding curvy body wearing Chuck Taylors like mine and Stones t-shirt. And she stood out like a Roman candle.
Then because my luck and life suck, the cursed woman turned around. Standing next to her, confirming her identity, is my best friend’s fucking wife. I bolt out of sight.
The freaking Roman candle is the one woman on this planet I like less than I like being in Utah right now. Judgmental, obstinate, entitled, and just plain loud. I pull at my hair.
