Metaphysical Furniture

  Chapter 4 — Notes The office of Dr. Calico Verde smells faintly of lavender and paper that has spent a long time thinking about itself. Not old paper. Not dusty paper. The kind of paper that has been written on by careful people who enjoy margin space. Her office sits above a bookstore that sells astrology charts, dream journals, and the sort of crystals that promise enlightenment but mostly deliver buyer’s remorse. I do not believe in crystals. But I believe in Dr. Verde. Mostly. Dr. Calico Verde did not look up when I entered. She was reading a folder so thick it could knock a guy out cold if you hit him with it. “You’re late,” she said “I’m early for tomorrow.” I waited for some semblance of a smile at that wry one-liner, but she only nodded as if that makes perfect sense. With Verde, it usually did. “Avery Bloom,” she said, flipping a page. “You met with her.” “I observed her,” I said. “Observation is cheap and quick.” Dr. Verde smiles the small, satisfied smile of someon...

  Chapter 3: Boyfriends, Am I Right? Boyfriends come in two varieties: defensive and performative. This one was both. That’s why I don’t like dealing with boyfriends. But Dr. Calico Verde recommended I speak to what Avery referred to as her “growth companion” and “alignment ally” who provided a “narrative support system” and stabilized her “emotional infrastructure.” All I could think about was how I wanted Calico to stabilize my infrastructure. Duty called, though. He met me at a minimalist coffee bar that charged extra for emotional authenticity but offered a 10% discount for anyone in a thrift store cardigan. His name was Benedict, though his online presence called him “Bené,” which felt like a decision made during a personal rebrand crisis. He shook my hand like he’d practiced it. Firm. Measured. Influencer-adjacent. “I’m not sure how I can help,” he said, sitting down. “Avery’s fine.” He said fine the way people say the market corrected itself . I let the silence ...

Chapter 2: The Influencer My mild flirtation (if that’s what it could be called) had my brain reeling. Romantic entanglements Being a metaphysical detective isn’t the glamorous life of sex and violence I imagined it would be. The job came to me the way most jobs do, I suppose. I answered an ad. Unemployed after quitting the police force, money was tight. Hope even more so. When the season makes its awkward transition from winter to spring, my thoughts make their own tenuous shift toward the positive. I start thinking there could be more to life than helping some poor schlub figure out why his subconscious is having lunch without him. Dr. Calico Verde could be that something more. Someone more. When the job came my way, I assumed my evenings would be spent wrestling sentient armoires or interrogating clocks that tick in conditional tense. The truth is less cinematic. Most days I sit in an office that smells faintly of dust and anticipation, waiting for someone to tell me the universe ...

                                  Chapter 1: Regular Irregularities There’s a peculiar arrogance to spring. Winter spends months convincing you the world is a closed system. Fixed, dim, manageable if you lower your expectations. Gray skies, wind chill factors, the omnipresent threat of snow (meteorologically and existentially). Then the vernal equinox arrives like a polite rebellion. Hope springs eternal, as they say. Equal light. Equal dark. A mathematical suggestion that maybe balance is possible. I’ve never trusted balance. Like I said, the universe is always up to something. Or, rather, someone has found a way to help the universe act up. As a metaphysical detective, I make my living in the uneven places. The hinge moments. The almosts. People don’t come to me because reality exploded. They come because it tilted half a degree and won’t tilt back without a Herculean nudge. Spring doesn’t ex...

  NOTE: This piece was originally published on my old blog, Upstream of Consciousness , on August 18, 2010. It is presented here in light of current events because life is all about the clicks.  Last summer I worked the beer stand for a Kid Rock concert.  Lynard Skynard opened for him.  It was a very enlightening cultural experience to say the least.  First of all, every sentence was punctuated with the phrase "m*****f*****." Every one. "I'll have two Bud Light drafts, m*****f*****." "Gimme one them pretzels, m*****f*****." "Kid Rock rocks, m*****f*****." "Reformed healthcare for everyone, m*****f*****!" The souvenir stand sold thongs. Red, tiny, lacy thongs. I am not making that up. Several women in their mid-50s were there showing off their need for proper dental care. I watched one girl get arrested. She was flopping around the ground like a violent fish screaming "NO NO NO!!!" as she was being cuffed. Ironically, she d...

  Chapter 27 — Closing Time The Perpetual Egg was empty except for a couple of strays looking for a late night/early morning meal that wouldn’t go down easy. Dawn hadn’t quite arrived yet, but it was thinking about it. The sky outside the windows was the color of a bruise that had decided to heal. Frank sat at the counter with a cup of coffee that was doing its best. I sat next to him with my own cup, giving myself space to breathe. Frank sipped his coffee with contemplation. Not because he needed the warmth. Because it felt real. “So,” he said. “That’s it?” “That’s usually how endings work,” I finally said. “They pretend to be smaller than they are.” Frank snorted despite himself. Then, to his own surprise, he laughed. Not the brittle, defensive laugh he’d perfected over the years. This one came up from somewhere deeper. Somewhere unguarded. “I kept waiting for the big reveal,” Frank said. “The perfect door. The right life.” “Doors close,” I said. “People open.” Fr...