The music cut off, and Coleman fiddled with the bullhorn in his lap. “How’d you come up with this great idea, anyway?”
“Can’t take credit,” said Serge. “It’s a new underground Internet phenomenon. Check it out on my smartphone.”
Coleman scrolled down through various video clips. “Damn, hundreds of others are all doing the same thing we just did.”
“And people say America doesn’t have culture.” The Stingray crested a small hill leading out into the countryside.
“So what is your next job?”
“That will become readily apparent when we get to Cassadaga.”
Coleman twisted up a fat one. “Never heard of it.”
“Most people haven’t,” said Serge. “But it’s possibly the most unique place in all the state, way off the beaten track between DeLand and Deltona. There isn’t even a proper highway exit, so you have to keep jumping country roads until you reach this tiny—and I mean tiny—little town out in the woods.”
“How much longer?”
“You’ll know when you start seeing the signs.”
They started seeing the signs: Medicine Man Pastor Pete; Psychic Shop; Crystals, Jewelry, Aura Photos; Mediums & Healers; Purple Rose Readings; Native American and Metaphysical Stuff; We Now Do Astrology Charts; Tarot Cards; Certified Mentalist On Duty; Kathy Is Here.
“You’re right,” said Coleman. “This is the weirdest place I’ve ever seen. All these psychics.”
“But that’s not the strangest thing to me,” said Serge. “It’s the total retail hegemony, like if you drove into a town and every single business only sold yogurt.”
“But how did this place happen?”
“Founded in 1894 by a New York man named George Colby, who wanted to establish a paranormal-friendly community.” Serge made a right turn onto Stevens Street. “What caps it off for me is all the history, like the majestic Cassadaga Hotel over there, built in 1927. Where else can you drive deep into the sticks, and then suddenly find this time-frozen grande dame rising out of nowhere with spinning paddle fans on the sitting porch and an antique wooden phone booth in the lobby that’s been converted into a ‘Meditation Station,’ where you go inside to make toll-free calls to your third eye?”
“What’s this other place across the street?”
“Where we get our start.” Serge parked in front of a century-old wooden-slat building with a new tin roof. They entered through double doors beneath a sign: Bookstore and Information Center.
Coleman strolled down an aisle, picking up items for sale. “This place sure is into scented oils and candles.”
“Like a Pottery Barn without the strings.”
They moved along a wall with shelves full of crystals in the shapes of pyramids, obelisks and opaque spheres resting atop tripods. Other crystals were raw in form, glistening green with pointy purple formations encased in rocks that had been cut in half by special saws.
“What’s the deal with all the crystals?” asked Coleman.
“They’re imbued with a menu of special powers by those so inclined to think,” said Serge. “Healing properties, energy, spiritual connections. Some even believe they contain ancient memories.”
“How do they work?”
“Many ways. Some believers put them in glasses of water to drink, or boil them with potions to produce a pleasant vapor for aromatherapy. Others rub them on their skin or just carry them around in their pockets. But I think mostly they just look at them.” Serge grabbed a statue of a wizard holding a crystal. “Like this thing. Stick it in the middle of the dining room table full of believers, and everyone gets jazzed.”
Coleman chuckled. “That’s messed up.”
“Maybe on the surface, to outsiders,” said Serge. “But I’m not so quick to judge. The part where they simply stare at the things is likely a placebo effect. On the other hand, these are real chemical compounds, forming lattice structures in compliance with the laws of the periodic table. This crystal may look totally solid, but most of it is actually empty space with electrons furiously orbiting shit, so who really knows what’s going on? Ironically, it’s science itself that causes me to be open-minded and insatiably curious about something apparently unscientific. Now I must do further research.”
Serge grabbed a large reference volume off a shelf and approached the counter.
“Anything else?” asked the cashier.
“Just the book on lucky crystals,” said Serge. “Sorry, I’m guessing ‘lucky’ has a pejorative tone around here. I meant ‘all-powerful.’ It’s about respect and proper manners. If you’re a guest at someone else’s church, you don’t stand there the whole time the pastor is preaching and sarcastically say, ‘Yeah, right,’ or worse . . .” He turned toward the crystal display and said “Yeah, right” again, but this time he also pumped a fist up and down in a jerking-off gesture. He faced the cashier again. “That would be bad, too. How much for the book? . . .”
Serge grabbed his gift bag and walked to the back of the store. A wooden sign hung high on a walclass="underline" Expect a Miracle. Below it was a door. “I must open it.” He led Coleman inside an empty room that looked completely different from the front of the building. Drop ceiling, wood paneling, American flag, long folding tables with plastic cloths covered in sunflowers.
“This is like an Elks lodge,” said Coleman.
“It’s exactly like an Elks lodge,” said Serge, staring at a podium under another sign: Southern Cassadaga Spiritualist Association.
From behind: “Excuse me, can I help you?”
The guys turned to see a middle-aged woman wiping her hands in the doorway of the adjacent kitchen.
“Sorry if we’re not supposed to be in here,” said Serge. “I see new doors and need to open them. You have to live by a code. I’m naturally curious, more so than most.”
“That’s all right,” said the woman. “We encourage curiosity around here.”
Serge’s head snapped back with a puzzled look. “You encourage curiosity? And yet you call yourself a religion?” He quickly covered his mouth. “Oops, I think I just offended everyone in the world.”
“Nobody gets offended around here. Everyone’s free to be an individual.”
“I’m beginning to feel that vibe,” said Serge. “Not like those creepy walled compounds out west where church elders banish all the young men and force the women to wear gingham and become grandmothers before they can vote.”
“Are you okay?”
“Listen, I don’t want to horn in on anyone’s action,” said Serge, “but the episode only lasts a week and I need to fast-track my next job as a psychic. I have a gift.”
“Ah, I understand now,” said the woman. “You’ve come to develop yourself. That’s absolutely wonderful. I’m not quite sure, though, about a week . . .”
“Any advice would be greatly appreciated.”
“May I suggest coming back here Sunday morning? We have a nice breakfast in this hall purely on a donation basis, followed by the Grove Service.”
“What’s that?”
“In the old days, it was held out in an orange grove, but now we have this building. You’ll meet regular and apprentice mediums who go table to table for a series of three-minute readings.”
“Cool. Psychic speed dating,” said Serge. “But Sunday’s pushing it. What about, say, right now?”
“In that case . . .” She pointed back through the door. “There’s a separate room at the end of the store. You’ll find a telephone and a washable whiteboard with listings of everyone currently on call—”