I sat alone with Evita at the lodge table. She would not make eye contact with me. The tray of brownies she brought for us all lay untouched.
"So you used psychic development to overcome alcoholism?"
Still no eye contact.
"Yes. Over twelve years now on the wagon."
"Well.." She blurted. "... would you consider teaching a class here?" She continued to look out a window at the steam rising from one of the springs.
Her proposal took me by surprise as our weekend at the Hollywood in the mountains ski resort was nothing short of disastrous.
A drunk woman sat on the edge of my futon at Evita's condo there, compelled to give me the graphic details of how she and her partner's son was conceived. During the rather sordid narration, I imagined the turkey baster delivery implement bronzed, resting on the mantle of their fireplace somewhere in Idaho Falls next to a pic of the shadowy, trench coated donor father.
She burst out crying. Apparently lesbianism was frowned upon by the state and she was dead sure some Mormon goons from CPS wanted to take their son away from them. In attempt to recompense this after midnight room intrusion and the mandatory dinner party evening with the samizdat crème de la crème of Sun Valley as well, I busily sketched an apotropaic mandala in a notebook I recently burned in the fireplace of my now foreclosed home.
The gay astrologer sitting across from the dyke did his best to one up her conception tragedy with a story of his own. I had heard his spiel about his Catholic upbringing several times that weekend in between our workshops at the holistic convention- the sudden rainstorm, subsequent flood and he down on his twelve year old knees in some Boston church in front of a thunder cracked glass Madonna. All alone, of course.
Evita didn't bother to tell us that there was no furniture in her condo prior to our arrival there. Nor did she inform us that we would have nowhere to sit at her booth, since selling all her unicorn, crystals and incense crap from her bookstore was more important to her. The tuning fork healer woman got offended and eventually we all ended up outside too, communing with some swans near a pond and doing readings for a few stragglers that our hostess commandant sent our way.
On the trip back to her resort late Sunday, we were all silent. Then, after about an hour of driving, Evita brought up the phenomena of the 13th moon calendar and its harmonic frequency, contrasting it with the more discordant Gregorian calendar, baiting the astrologer to chime in, looking in the rear view mirror at us, before she burst into tears.
"None of you were there for me." She sobbed.
"You didn't show up for my dream workshop." I said coldly, after ten miles of thinking about it.
"I was meeting with a realtor." She explained as we neared Pocatello. I did my best to clear the Mormon miasms out of her aura, sensing the programming most likely first occurred during her baptism. It could have been the Planet X source of the Mormon code at work in her, though I wasn't too sure at the time.
Our little side trip to Craters of the Moon park pissed Evita off as well and she made sure to bring it up again as we drove on. Apparently her leash wasn't long enough to allow that. While there, the place where moon landings where supposedly practiced, the astrologer swabbed Young Living essential oil on his nose and contemplated the lava spread. The tuning fork lady was menstruating according to him and refused to get out of the car Evita had lent us.
How we upset our hostess's plans, in the metaphysical scheme of things, I'll never know even with the guiding light of a baker's dozen of lunations to help me.
I stared at the brownies, wondering what would ensue if I ate one of them. They looked dried, made in haste from some store bought mix.
"I'll have to think about it." I said, for such a sobering proposal had put me on guard and rightly so.