by John Gaspard
The knocking continued and it took another long moment for me to realize that someone was at my apartment door.
I stumbled to the door, not fully cognizant of the fact that I was only wearing boxer shorts and a t-shirt. I swung the door open, fully expecting to see Harry and instead came face-to-face with a large gift basket. Wrapped around the basket was a wide, red ribbon.
“I come bearing gifts,” a muffled female voice said from behind the basket. “Are you in any condition to have visitors?” Megan’s face peeked out from behind the bountiful basket and her eyes widened playfully when she glimpsed my attire. “Perhaps I should come back later,” she suggested.
I woke up, fully and completely, in an instant.
“No, no,” I said, as I turned toward my bedroom. “Just give me a second.” I scampered—yes, that’s right, scampered—into the bedroom, reappearing a few moments later in jeans and a cleaner t-shirt. “To what do I owe this surprise visit?”
Megan was already in the apartment and had placed the large basket on the kitchen table.
I stepped around her and shut the door, wondering for a moment if it was more circumspect to leave it slightly ajar. I decided that dorm rules didn’t apply after age thirty and closed the door.
“I heard about Arianna this morning and got very upset,” Megan said as she straightened the ribbon that surrounded the basket. “So I walked over to your shop to talk to you. Harry explained that you were in the hospital, and so I got this basket together, but by the time I was ready to deliver it to the hospital, he said you were already home. He told me I could come up,” she added.
There was an awkward silence as we stared at each other, and then Megan redirected our attention toward the basket. “Anyway, these are just a few things to help you recuperate, although you seem to be doing just fine. How’s your head?”
I gingerly touched the bump on the back of my head. “Still sore. But getting better.” I looked at the basket, which was filled to overflowing with various and sundry items. “This looks amazing.”
“Well, it’s a mix of useful items along with some other, I don’t know, more playful things.” She began to unload the basket. “First, we have some Chicken Matzo Ball soup from Cecil’s Deli. Powerful stuff. Good for what ails you.” She handed me a quart-size plastic container, which was still warm. I held it between my hands for a few moments, enjoying the warmth and letting the aroma waft around me, and then set it on the counter.
“Just as powerful,” she said as she dug into the basket further, “is chocolate. Never underestimate the power of chocolate.” She handed me two small wrapped boxes. “I didn’t know if you were a dark chocolate guy or a milk chocolate guy, so I got you both,” she added. “Personally, I don’t have any preference, so I’ll be happy to eat any you don’t like.”
I set the chocolate on the table and watched with interest as she continued to empty the basket. She was having fun and that made it even more fun to watch.
“In case you get bored while recuperating, I got you a book. But not just any book. My favorite book.” She held up a hardcover book. “Funniest book you’ll ever read. Ian Frazier’s Coyote vs. Acme. Funny, funny stuff.” I held up my hand in a just-a-minute gesture and she stopped talking, holding the book in midair.
One of the benefits of living in a small apartment is that you don’t have to go far to find something. I took two steps, which moved me out of the kitchen and into the living room. I reached up to a shelf on one of the two bookcases that line one wall of the living room and pulled out a book, identical to the one she was holding except that the cover was more frayed and worn. Megan gave a small yelp of joy. “You’ve already got it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, now you have two.” She handed me the book. “But this one’s inscribed.” I started to open the front cover, but she put her hand on top of mine to stop me. “Not now. Wait ’til I’m gone. Otherwise I’ll get embarrassed.” She returned to the basket and I gently set the book on the table, my curiosity now completely piqued.
“Back to foodstuffs. Chicken soup is vitally important while you’re sick, but for me the real cure can be found in sugared cereals.” The next items out of the basket were six small boxes of sugared cereals, all held together under one cellophane wrapper. “Each box says that it’s one serving size, but I think we both know that all six boxes equals one serving.” She handed me the cereals and I turned the package over in my hands, seeing several favorites and feeling the pull of their sugary siren song.
She stopped digging for a second and turned to give me a serious look. “Eli, you may not agree with this, but I thought you needed a stuffed animal of some kind,” she said, “as the stuffed animal offers a unique level of comfort that may be missing in the life of someone who lives alone. I’m speaking from my current, personal experience. However, you are a very manly man, and so the choice of stuffed animal was particularly important. With that in mind, I believe I have made the correct selection.”
From the basket she pulled a small, stuffed version of the cartoon Tasmanian Devil. “He looks quite fierce,” she said as she ceremoniously handed it to me, “but in reality he is quite soft. I tested him out for you.”
I stood there, holding my stuffed Tasmanian Devil in one hand and the boxes of sugared cereal in the other, feeling better than I had in days, perhaps even years.
My headache was gone and the sore spot on my head was, at that moment, hardly noticeable.
Megan continued to pull items out of the basket. “I also raided my store for a few select items.”
She placed the objects on the table as she described them. “A Get Well card, handmade and hand-printed by a local artist with way too much time on her hands. She makes her own ink, for example, and I think the paper is homemade as well. I wouldn’t be surprised if she grew the trees and mashed her own pulp.” I picked up the envelope, which had the rough, primitive feel of homemade paper. Megan had written ‘Eli’ in big, broad letters across the front. I set it down on top of the book.
“I also brought some candles and essential oils. The idea is, you put the oils around the wick and they burn as the candle burns. Each one has a different property and is designed for a different intended effect, like harmony, balance, serenity, and so on. I color-coded everything to make it easier for you. Oils with the red dots go on the candles with the red dots, blue goes on blue, yellow goes on yellow. You should be able to figure it out with no problem.” She set the small box filled with vials on the table, and then placed several different sized and colored candles next to the box.
“It’s like Garanimals for the New Age sect,” I suggested as I set down the cereal and the Tasmanian Devil and picked up two of the candles. I gave them each a quick sniff. Unlike the odor that permeated Arianna’s shop, these actually smelled quite pleasant.
Megan again stopped unloading the basket and looked up at me with a wicked grin. “Hey, you might be onto something there. Could be a million-dollar idea.”
She winked at me and then reached into the basket and reverently withdrew a small, purple velvet bag. A braided gold cord was used to secure the bag around the top. She undid the cord and released the contents into her hand, then held them up for my inspection.
“I’ve saved the best for last,” she said.
Her hand held four stones, crystals I guessed. Megan gazed at them with wonder, but to be honest all I saw were four small rocks. However, I did my best to look sufficiently awestruck. “What do we have here?” I asked.
“I brought you some exquisite crystals,” Megan answered, practically cooing at the stones as if she were holding a handful of tiny, adorable kittens. “They all emit a different kind of energy, working on singular vibrational levels. Each one will vibrate with your aura in a different manner. For example, this blue one,” she said, picking it up and holding it gingerly with two fingers, “is specifically attuned for healing.” She gently handed it to me.
“So, what do I need to do?” I a
sked as I rolled it around on my fingertips like I would a coin during my magic act.
“Nothing, really,” she said. “Crystals are natural forms of energy. You just need proximity. You can carry them in your pocket, put them by your bedside—”
“Wear them as jewelry?” I offered.
She shook her head. “Maybe, but sometimes surrounding them with metal can have a negative impact on their intensity.”
“Kind of like how when you put Kryptonite in a lead container, it no longer has any power over Superman?”
She laughed. “Exactly the same principle.” She picked another stone and placed it in my hand. The gesture was surprisingly intimate and, well, erotic. “This is a black crystal,” she said, looking up to meet my eyes. “It provides protection.”
“Great. Where was it last night when I was getting clonked on the head?”
She laughed, quieter this time, and picked up the third stone. “This is a gold crystal, which increases wisdom.”
“Yet another item that would have come in handy yesterday,” I said as I took the crystal from her. Our fingers touched for much longer than was necessary for the exchange. She picked up the final stone from her palm and held it up.
“And this is my favorite. The red crystal. It provides power, with a particular emphasis on one type of energy.”
“What type would that be?” I asked, noticing that she was moving closer toward me.
“Sexual energy,” she said and before the last syllable had left her lips she was pressing those very same lips against mine. Our positioning was a little awkward, with the kitchen table between us, but we managed to get around it without disengaging, and before I knew it we were as one, standing there in my tiny kitchen, arms wrapped around each other, trying to find just the right placement of our various limbs.
“Hold me closer,” she whispered during a brief break for breathing.
I couldn’t help myself and quoted Groucho Marx. “If I were any closer,” I said, “I’d be behind you.”
As funny as that may have been, the only reaction it produced was a longer and even more passionate kiss. And then, just as quickly as it had started, she stepped back, pushing herself away from me. She ran a quick hand through her hair and straightened her blouse.
“I’m sorry,” she said, not quite looking me in the eye. “I probably shouldn’t have done that.”
“Well,” I said, taking a step toward her, “If you hadn’t, I would have.”
She held up her hand. “No, no, it’s too soon. This is too fast. I’m confused.”
I took a half step toward her, and she countered with a full step backward. She was almost to the door. “I’m sorry, Eli,” she said again. “I think you’re great, really I do. It’s me. I’m a mess. I’m—”
She didn’t even finish the sentence, just yanked open the door and raced through the doorway.
By the time I got to the doorframe, she had made surprising progress down the stairs. She rounded the corner two flights below and vanished into the magic shop, which struck me as ironic for about half a second.
I stood there for a long moment before I slowly shut my door.
The apartment, which had always seemed small, now felt even more undersized. The sudden mix of emotions that had raced through my system in the last three minutes, from instant elation to instant rejection, gave me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I realized that I hadn’t eaten anything since that morning, and I wasn’t even entirely clear how long ago that was.
I saw the container of chicken soup on the counter and then shifted my gaze over to the two boxes of chocolate on the table, vacillating between the options—healthy food versus a quick shot of pleasure-inducing sugar.
And then I saw the book she had left for me.
Masochist that I am, I immediately picked it up and flipped to her inscription. In a flowery hand, in blue ink, she had written, “Eli, hope this book makes you smile as much as you make me smile. Megan.” Under her signature were a line of small, blue Xs and Os, which if my junior high vocabulary was working properly, indicated kisses and hugs.
Figuring if I was going to feel bad, I might as well push it to the limit, I opened the Get Well card, tearing open the handmade envelope with ferocity. The card had a watercolor image of some kind on the front—a splash of yellow that might have been a sunflower or a sunset or just a splash of yellow. I opened the card and read what she had written: “Hoping that the enclosed gifts help heal what ails you. Megan.” This was also followed by a row of Xs and Os.
I was in the midst of setting the card back on the table when I heard a feeble knock at the door. I figured it was Harry, making a rare trek up the stairs to learn what I had done to inspire my guest to depart the premises with such speed.
I opened the door without enthusiasm, prepared to block his questions with whatever evasions I could muster on the spot.
Before I could get the door even a third of the way open, Megan pushed her way back in, slamming the door behind her. She grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me toward her, and we started up exactly where we had left off moments ago. It was as if she had never left except now we were standing by the door.
She broke away for one moment, leaning back against the door and surveying me as she took her hand and ran it through my hair. “Sorry about that. I had to plug my meter,” she said, a little out of breath.
“There are no meters on this street,” I countered as we returned to kissing with the intensity of teenagers.
As I mentioned earlier, it’s only a few steps from the kitchen to the living room. And from there, only a few additional steps to the bedroom. We made the trip in a record number of steps. Not that I was counting.
A short while later—wait, strike that. A reasonable amount of time later, by which I mean a respectable amount of time, nothing too brief and embarrassing, and yet nothing that drifted into the Tantric, we found ourselves wrapped around each other, fitting quite nicely, thank you, within the confines of a twin bed that I’d called my own since about age twelve.
A warm, yellow light dusted the room, courtesy of the streetlamp below my window and the marquee on the front of the movie theater next door. Megan played absently with the few sad hairs that called my chest their home. I looked from her to the red crystal that she had grabbed on our way into the bedroom. I picked it up off the nightstand and rolled it around my fingertips, enjoying the hard, smooth surface and watching as it picked up the dim light in the room.
“Well,” I said, holding the crystal up for her benefit, “I think it’s safe to say that this one works. I’ll put a little Inspected by #24 sticker on it and we can try the next one.”
“Sorry to say, I only brought the one,” she said. “But I have a feeling that this one will continue to work as the night progresses.” She took the stone from me and ran it, slowly and seductively, across my chest. “So, am I your first?” she asked as she peered up at me.
I wasn’t sure how to respond and the look on her face was giving me no help at all. And then she burst out laughing.
“My first what?” I asked as I laughed with her. “My first psychic? My first landlady? My first divorcee?”
“Actually,” she said, as her voice turned a bit serious, “I’m not yet a divorcee. I’m still technically a married woman.”
“Well, then, you are my first married woman,” I said. “With the exception of my first wife, but I don’t think that counts.”
She laid her head back on my chest. “It’s so sad,” she said quietly.
“What’s sad?”
“Divorce. Any divorce. Mostly my divorce.” She sighed. “I saw Pete the other day, brought him the divorce papers to sign. He was all set to sign them. And then he just started crying. I felt so bad for him.” I ran my hand across her back in what I hope would be perceived as a sympathetic move.
“So I said we could wait a bit,” she continued, more softly. She turned back and looked at me again. “But, as I think my actions t
onight have indicated, I for one have moved on. At some point he’s going to have to do the same.”
“It’s hard,” I said. “I’ve been in his position, sort of. I’m sure it’s difficult to be the one who leaves. But, believe me, it’s no picnic being the one who’s left.”
She sighed again and we lay there in silence. “Pete and I started out so well. I just hope we can come out of this as friends. Do you get along with your ex-wife?”
“We’ve reached something of a friendly impasse. Basically, I try not to make fun of her husband, and she tries to keep me out of jail.” I took the crystal from Megan and set it on the nightstand. “Currently we’re each experiencing difficulty in our assigned tasks.” I leaned in to kiss her, but she was still looking at the nightstand. Her gaze moved from there to scan the entire room.
“This is almost exactly as I pictured it,” she said.
“You’ve fantasized about my bedroom?”
“No, well, yes. I mean, I just sort of wondered what it would look like.”
“Well, as the landlord, I believe you have the right to enter at any time for an impromptu inspection.”
“I may have to exercise that right on a more consistent basis,” she said. She reached over to the nightstand and I thought she was bringing the crystal back, so was surprised to see that she had grabbed the deck of cards that was lying there. “You play a lot of cards in here?” she asked. “Like solitaire?” she added with a wicked smile.
“Magicians always have a deck of cards within reach,” I said. “It comes with the territory. I mean, I’m willing to bet you have quite a few crystals scattered about willy-nilly at your place.”
“Willy-nilly,” she repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Well, yes, but those are for mystical, not practical, reasons.”
“Whoa, full stop. Let’s not underestimate the mystical qualities of a standard deck of cards,” I said, taking the deck from her and doing a quick fan of all the cards.
