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I heard about Shroomer Good Vibrations at luncheon with my co-writer frenemy from the afternoon Soap we wrote for. It was another writer’s strike and I was feeling a little down despite the fab weather, lots of my ex-husband’s money in my bank account, and a morning handful of anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds.
“Oh, you need to go see Shroomer Good Vibes, my positive manifestation Shaman. He’ll fix you right up, ” said Janice, a fourth divorce millionaire.
I stared across my overpriced afternoon spritzer, wishing they still came with a sprinkling of Miami coke, and considered the bling bling pink track suited 63 year old Janice’s proposal. Shroomer Good Vibes sounded more exciting than Xanax.
After another forty minutes of spritzers, catty gossip, backhanded compliments and insults we were both tipsy enough to pilot our luxury sedans home. Just before leaving the cafe though I asked Janice for Shroomer’s contact info.
“Oh, he’s in the dirt parking lot in front of the old fairgrounds every Wednesday at 2:45 pm. Just look for the ’78 maroon Ford parked there. That’ll be Shroomer. Bring $30 with you. Toodles,” Janice said with a dismissive backhanded wave as she left the cafe.
It was Tuesday. Thanks to the writer’s strike I was free all day tomorrow. $30 seemed like it was worth it for a positive manifestation, what ever the hell that was.
I parked my car slightly crooked in my driveway, went in the house and opened a bottle of wine. Just in time for Oprah. Eventually I became drowsy and napped. Ladies nap they don’t pass out.
I woke the next day curled up on the couch still wearing the same clothes from yesterday. Another trip to the dry cleaners. It was 11:30 already. Still a few hours away from my “date” with Shroomer. As I showered I began to wonder if Shroomer would be marriage/divorce worthy or not. A ’78 Ford didn’t sound promising, but you never knew. He might be an eccentric though with lots of cash or maybe a wealthy trust funder that just needs some convincing to tap into his riches.
An hour later my beautification is done, my meds are downed, and I’m in the drive-thru to get my coffee before my “date” with Shroomer.
I drive out to what feels like a sketchy part of town. I park across the street from the old fair grounds. Dust swirls with the passing cars as I dash across two lanes to make to the gravel parking lot. No sign of Shroomer yet.
At 2 pm, just as I’m about to leave I hear the rattle and backfire from his car before I see it. He swerves off the road into the gravel parking lot without signalling and a chorus of angry horns follow. I watch him turn off the ignition but his car bangs on in a shaky idle before the engine dies completely. Salt and pepper full beard, dark wrapping around shades, big toothy wolf smile, red Biker bandana wrapped around his head, a skinny frame in a hot pink tank top, faded board shorts topped off by what I believe are rubber Wellington sheep herder boots. Before I can silently thank the gods that he isn’t smoking a cigarette he lights up a thin joint and starts laying stuff out on the hood of his car.
“Uh, Shroomer I’m guessing? My friend Janice told me about you.”
“Hmm, over plump over priced gaudy track suits?”
“Yep, that’s her.”
“Never tips,” he says pointing to a plastic milk jug that’s been cut in half and has the word “KARMA” scrawled across it in black felt pen.
“Same thing at the cafe,” I think.
Shroomer has a little tackle box full of cheap looking gift shop colored crystals sitting open on the hood of his car. A red, black, and white checkered patterned Navajo blanket is across his hood. On the edge of the blanket he had tiny smudge pots burning what smelled like sandal wood incense and sage.
“So, uh what are we doing today Shroom?”
“Best if you just follow along. It’s a guided meditation positive manifestation, so easy enough for you.”
“Okay, what do I do first?”
“Thirty bucks and we can get the show on the road.”
Digging in my purse I found my wallet, removed a ten and a twenty and handed it to Shroomer.
“Pre-Karma is good Karma,” he said pointing to the tip jar.
“Some racket you got here,” I said digging another five out of my purse. “You aren’t rich by chance are you?”
“Shroomer is free from the temptations of evil capitalism.”
“Is that an anti-capitalist tip jar?” I muttered.
As I dropped the bill into Shroomer’s Karma bucket I was began composing in my head the bitchy text message I was going to send Janice the minute this whole positive manifestation fiasco was over with.
“Alright, good to go then,” Shroomer said. “I just need you to lay down here on my magic carpet face up and we’ll get the positive groove a grooving.” he said as he snuffed out the joint on the hood of his car.
Setting my purse high on the hood of his car near where my head would rest and scooted my fat butt onto his rug. I lay there mummy like with my arms crossed over my boobs. I kept my sunglasses on to block out the bright sunlight that shone down.
A police cruiser drifted by and slowed as it passed. I saw Shroomer’s hand go for his door handle and I thought for a second he was going to bolt. The cop kept going though and Shroomer seemed to relax again.
“Okay, so I’m going to have you close your eyes and take deep slow breathes. I’m going to place these power crystals along your Chakra meridian. But just so you don’t think I’m a freakster I’m going to use these solid silver chop sticks to place them on your body. Shroomer doesn’t cop feels regardless what the sheriffs department says.”
“The boobs are fake, so I don’t care about those, but if you touch anything else I’ll pepper spray your ass and call the cops.”
“Noted.”
I closed my eyes and listened to Shroomer drone on in his best Wayne Dyer imitation.
“Just be open. Open yourself to all your possibilities. Let your Karmic energies flow through you and through the power crystals and up into your highest vibrational possibilities.”
I felt nothing but the merciless sun beating down and ageing my poor skin. Shroomer drifted from his Dyer woo woo pep talk into slow deep repetitive “Aums” that were just as annoying. I started thinking I should have just paid him thirty five bucks for a couple of joints and been done with this whole silly mess.
Shroomer paused in his “Aums” and I listened to the traffic, cars, trucks, and buses, whooshing past out on the the road. Then there was a rustling sound. I opened my eyes just long enough to see Shroomer waving what looked like purple feather dusters up and down the length of my body. After three passes he stopped and said softly, “All done.”
I sat up and slid off the hood of his car rumpling his blanket with my butt.
“Feel better?” he asked sheepishly.
I didn’t feel any different other than feeling really stupid and even more pissed at Janice.
“Nope, don’t feel a damn thing,” I said.
“Might be a while before it takes. Things will change. You’ll see.”
“Sure, whatever,” I say walking away from Shroomer and heading across the street to my car.
I’m in the middle of the road, phone out, three words into my bitchy text to Janice when it hits me. A silver anorexic looking dog riding on the front of a bus. A catch the dog and part of the grill out of the corner of my eye just before impact. I feel myself spinning off the tremendous thump and then lights out. Nothing. Black goneness. Then the pin prick white light and whoosh, mystical roller coaster ride and I’m back.
All around are concerned voices, “Is she alive?” “Did someone call an ambulance?” “I’m not sure if she’s breathing. Is she breathing? I think she’s breathing now. Her eyes are open.”
There’s pain, but I feel great. All the anxiety, depression, my deep blue existence are gone. I feel great. I need Shroomer, need to tell him everything is fine, that it worked. I was wrong all this time. I try and sit up so I can see him. I turn my head painfully to the left just in time to see the taillights on his old Ford tearing out of the gravel lot. I feel strong arms gently forcing me to lie flat as I’m loaded on to a gurney and whisked off in an ambulance. I watch as they start a morphine drip and wonder why. I feel so amazing already. Nothing does positive manifestations like a Greyhound Bus to the head.