Two in the morning
headed home from the gig
where Route 133 crosses Old Route 1
and the lights are ON
at the Rowley Psychic
$10 Special
and this idea buries itself in my brain
there's no spirit in particular I'd want to conjur at the moment
but why are the lights on right now?
even though the car is still physically headed towards home
I can't stop considering how much fun it would be to even try
BUT by the time I decide go for it, I'm way too close to home, passing the flea market
although the real action won't begin until sunrise
I see few scramblers setting up shop under floodlights
and wrangling them up seems like a Fun idea too
post gig adrenaline. the psychic. the flea market. What would Hunter Thompson do? Ride the second wind for the sake of Journalism? Go home and pour a drink and fabricate the story?
if I go to the flea market right now at least $20 of the $100 earned tonight will be used on some Thing, just to write about the guy I bought it from, and the haggling process. I do not need this Thing.
******
the tires screech in a U-Turn and I push in the cigarette lighter, one of the few remaining perks in this old truck. Not smoking is not an option before a two am meeting with a psychic in Rowley.
I rap on the door and she answers in yellow woolen robe. it is cleaner than I would have expected if I'd known she was going to answer the door in a robe.
"Seriously?"
Her question is intense but her face expressionless. She looks tired, but not because of the hour.
"Good Morning Ma'am. I must talk to the ghost of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. Immediately. I'm hoping you'll honor the $10 Special advertised in the window?"
It was a long time before she answered me. She spoke matter of factly, after first letting out a long sigh.
"The Good Doctor killed himself. It seems like you know that already. His spirit is in perpetual torment. You may not want to hear what he has to say."
******
"Twenty dollars?"
Neither of us are buying his faux-outrage, I only wonder why his accent seems so Southern. We are in Massachusetts. There was a R where I expected an H. It sort of dragged, then caught the S on the way by. Dollarrrsssss.
The sun would be coming up soon. Going over budget was Not an option. Not after the Instructions we had received.
"Aw shucks man, your girl really wants it, plus I paid at least FIFTY for that. I can't let it go for at less that that, right?"
His voice bobbed like a damn frog, making the question seem as though he was addressing a child.
Ro-ight?
"Jimbo, lets get one thing straight she's not my Girl. My old lady is at home asleep not far from here, but I'd never tell you in which direction. This woman is my personal Psychic, and from tonight on will be a salaried member of my Team. We are on a mission concerning the Spirit World. We MUST purchase this vinyl Eat A Peach, we must listen to all 33 minutes of Mountain Jam, and although you are welcome to join us, we MUST pay you TWENTY dollars. These terms are from the Doctor himself and completely out of our hands."
She pulled the yellow bath robe up around her neck, and shivered it bit, then turned to the man behind the table. "Jimbo, did your Ma wear glasses?" Her accent suddenly seemed slower and Southern too.
His aluminum can hit the ground and beer splashed everywhere for a moment, then slowly started pouring onto the dirt. He made no attempt to pick it up.
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