A short walk later Roots stood at the front entrance of ROOTS' EDIBLE HERB EMPORIUM and proudly turned the key and entered the shop. The sight that greeted him was a large unlit room; to his left were rows of tall wooden shelves extending into the darkness, most filled about halfway with an array of unidentifiable objects. To his right were one long display case and one long desk forming an L shape jutting from the right wall. Roots switched on the lights and walked over to the old cash register sitting on the front desk. He counted out 37 dollars, in ones, opened the cash register and reverently filled the five slots with bills one at a time. Once he had filled his register with bills, he organized a messy collection of postal scales sitting on the counter and reached inside a lower drawer to withdraw a plastic “OPEN” sign. Roots held the sign in his hands and proudly marched towards the front door of the shop. He hummed a kind of epic, triumphant tune as he marched, and was reaching up to tape the sign to the inside of the door when the door opened abruptly and smacked Roots in the face. Roots dropped the sign and fell with a thud straight on his bum. He quickly scrambled to get up and regain composure; he was immensely embarrassed to look like such a fool in front of his very first customer. He looked to see the expression on the customer's face as he stood up, and was surprised to see that the customer, a rather intense looking man in a nice leather jacket, hadn't yet noticed him! The man was looking off towards the front desk with a serious, somewhat dramatic expression on his face. Roots ignored the fact that the man had just floored him with an overly vigorous door opening, despite the fact that the entrance door was clear plastic, and instead stepped into the view of the man and made a little bow.
“Good day good day sir! Very nice of you to come, thank you for visit my shop. Today is first day of opening, you are first customer! I make you special price, whatever you like, yes? Perhaps some thing for relaxation? Maybe you like Bai Shao Xiong? Very nice, very very soothing. Make you feel like you on nice soft cloud. Or maybe root of Tangkuei? Extra potent, super fresh. Make you super warm, real nice with wine. Or perhaps-”
The man seemed to have been half listening, with a bored disinterested look on his face, but here he interrupted Roots and very seriously said, “I've come for Salvia Divinorum.” Roots had gotten quite excited as he talked to the new customer, unconsciously swaying and moving his arms in animated emotion, doing a little dance in front of the rigid man. But at hearing the man's request Roots froze in the middle of this dance, his arms in an awkward kind of Egyptian stance, one raised and one lowered. Salvia divinorum. Játiva. The Diviner's Sage. Roots knew much about the “Sage of the Seers,” briefly he had lived in Oaxaca among the Mazatec shamans who still practiced the old ways. He had seen men enter the ceremonial huts, had heard the sounds that pierced through the clay walls, sometimes chanting, sometimes screaming, sometimes shouts of joy. He had seen the transformations that took place in those who underwent the vision quest. Often they would emerge with a look of dazed awe, many who chewed the leaves of the Sage found profound peace, but some did not. Roots had seen men enter the sacred hut with fear in them, he had heard stories of those who had tried to fight the Sage. For those who took the journey and resisted, the herb destroyed them. It killed their ego, murdered their self, decimated the mind. Roots knew the hallucinogen in Salvia was the most powerful natural psychoactive known to mankind. But he reasoned to himself, the Mazatec shamans consumed much higher doses than this man would, and Játiva was known to bring about a powerful change in consciousness, the nature of the herb was highly spiritual. Roots looked the man in the eyes,
“Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“Yes.” The man responded.
Roots shivered uncontrollably as a strange cold wind cut through his body. He hoped so.
6 comments:
"I'm Click...and I'm Clank...and together we're the Tappet Brothers and we thank you for joining us....." Was all that Raymond heard as the Pinto spit oil in his face.
"Thats it...I've had enough of this" Raymond thought as the NPR affiliate began its fund raising telathon. He slid out from under the car, got up and quickly yanked the radio's power cord out from the wall.
He then went on to shake his head wildly to get the oil out but then noticed that another sound had now filled the garage as his stomach emitted a ferocious growl.
"If I hadn't been so rushed this morning then I wouldn't be so hungry!"
Technically the end of car talk did signal the noon hour and therefore his lunch time but he rarely took that luxury as it required him to rub elbows with all the other people out for lunch.
Today he decided that maybe lunch was a good idea after all and sat down on the back bumper of the Pinto to think about what to do.
CRACK
The Pinto's bumper came lose on the end that Ray had his weight on and he fell to the floor.
"Gaul Darnit!!! wouldnt ya know!" he yelled loudly. The work on the Pinto had been fruitless so far and Leo had recently began bugging him to get it done with and now it was falling apart again.
He got on his feet and gave the Pinto a good look at, and then kicked in the other side of the bumper causing it to clang against the cement of the floor.
"Might as well give that new kid a clean slate to work with" He thought and a smirk came across his face. Might as well throw the new guy some of his work as he now had that Henry guy's car to fix.
Now what to eat? He pondered this question as he wandered out of the garage and down the street. He thought about the Diner but decided that he would much rather like to make his own meal at home. He was quite good at cooking as the death of his mother left him to often make his own meals.
He'd had Mac and Cheese last night and decided that he would like to have something a bit more complex for today's menu and then he saw the root shop, well the "Emporium" to be exact.
"Roots eh?" He thought as he looked into the new shop. There was an OPEN sign so he decided to enter.
He was immediately greated by an eager salesman type " Hello, Im Roots, welcome to ROOTS' EDIBLE HERB EMPORIUM, how can I help you on your journey today?"
There was nothing Ray hated more in the world than the overzealous salesman but because he was so interested in these roots he forced himself to stay.
"Um, yeah, can you show me some roots, I'm looking to make a quick soup, nothing all that complicated or expensive, just something that tastes good." Ray said to the man who called himself Roots.
"Sure, how about some Arracacha, that should work" said Roots as he motioned to a large Bin in the corner of the store.
"Yea um, just what I was thinking of, give me a few will ya?" Ray said as he pulled out his wallet. "How much I owe ya?"......
Ray payed his bill and trotted home to make a quick stew with the roots and get back to work. The nice thing about Leo is his long naps that allowed for extensive breaks from work, and today that break would let him fully enjoy his soup.
"How Am I supposed to make this?"
"What will this taste like?"
"Am I going to be Allergic?"
All of these worries ran throught his mind as he lit up the burner.....
A New Friend
“I love you Jason,” JLC whispered in his ear.
That was what she said last night as she came up behind him. Last night was the first night he had seen her in over 10 years. She was shorter than he, but still average height for a woman and slender, with medium length dark brown hair. As always, he found those brown eyes with a hint of grey. She was wearing a black dress; in fact, it was the same black dress he had given her for their two year anniversary. He had tried to forget what she had done, but nothing could replace the heartbreak he had felt. Then here she was, right in front of him, and he remembered everything. All the love. All the passion. All the hatred. He didn’t know what to say, what to feel, he could only stare. After a couple of minutes, seemingly an eternity, he got up and left, returning to his apartment.
It had been 12 years since someone had called him Jason. Twelve years of James. Twelve years of hiding his emotions. Twelve years of looking through life but never finding what he wanted. Twelve years of isolation. It had been 12 years of letting no one close, letting no one know what he was truly thinking.
“Why? Why now?” Jason thought. You see James was not his real name. His real name was Jason. “Why should I care? She betrayed me. Why do I still care? Do I care? If I don’t care why haven’t I moved on? I haven’t trusted anyone for so long, why should I trust her now?” With this thought Jason finished his breakfast and decided to clear his head by going for a ride. He put on his leather jacket, which though years old, smelled of new leather, dirt, and smoke, and left the room
He went to the garage to get his bright green and black YZF-R1 Yamaha bike, and turned onto Main Street towards the expressway. Weaving in and out of traffic, his surroundings blurred around him as he fought for freedom. Signs raced passed him as he pushed his motorcycle to its limit. He didn’t worry about the police, they never bothered him. He enjoyed these rides. It’s not like anyone ever cared whether he lived or died, so why should he. These rides always cleared his mind, but this time he couldn’t stop thinking about the past and about her. He had given her everything, she was his first and last. Everyone says how hindsight is 20-20, and now he understood why. She had manipulated and used him to get what she wanted. He had loved her, and loathed her, but now he didn’t know what to think. Had he over reacted when he found out? Could it really have been a simple mistake, a slip up, and that “word” still held meaning between them? “No,” he thought. “I was right for leaving, if she had loved me as much as she said, then she would not have…” And then Jason realized that he had ridden 200 miles outside the city. He needed to get back before he ran out of gas.
Once back in town, Jason stopped by the new root shop, Roots’ Edible Herb Emporium, which had just opened. As he approached the door, he saw a box lying just outside the door and a sign which read “Free Husky Puppies.” By now only one was left, a girl, who appeared to be sleeping. She was tiny and had a beautiful black and white coat. Jason wondered why someone would get rid of such a beautiful animal, but decided to think about it later as he walked into the slightly run down, hole in the wall store with the freshly painted sign. The owner immediately came up to greet him and asked him what he wanted, saying all the time that he was so excited about opening up this store and it was wonderful he already had his first customer. Jason told him he wanted the Salvia divinorum, a plant containing one of the most potent hallucinogens known to man. All of a sudden the man stopped all his giggling and dancing and was very serious. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” he asked. “Yes,” Jason responded. Jason paid and left, paying the man no more attention. Once outside, Jason found the husky puppy had awoken, climbed out of the box and was sitting next to his bike. The puppy just sat there looking at him with her beautiful blue eyes. The same color as his, but with more emotion. His were dead. He often heard people refer to his gaze as that of ice and death, lacking complete emotion. Jason carefully placed the puppy in his jacket, zipped it up, so she was not in danger of falling out and returned home.
Back in his room, he pulled 10 Things I Hate About You, one of his favorite movies, from the rack under the TV. He had given a lot of thought to naming the little puppy and finally came up with Sasha. Sasha on the other hand was skittering around the room, still not able to walk completely, sniffing and biting everything she saw. He sat down on the couch and began to smoke. Sasha jumped up in his lap, curled into a ball, yawned, and went to sleep, while Jason began to watch the movie.
Must... Stay... Awake...
I MUST! There was too much on this! Again, the buzz of the street lamp infiltrated my mental core, and I found myself drawn by the hidden beats within that noise. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt.................
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.....
.................................
(Earlier that day)
I strode down the street, avoiding eye contact and moving against the foot traffic. People careless bumped into me a few times - I ignored it and soldiered on, head bent over. The fellow at the root shop hadn't been helpful in the slightest - it was all "Good day!" to him, and he suspected the man didn't know even know how to talk properly. His act certainly didn't gain him any favor with Saul.
Lately, the other occupants of the building had been looking at him oddly, and crossing to the other side of the street when they saw him approach. They walked the other direction, and hurried into their apartment if they saw him coming down the hall. Saul was sure that Aretha hadn't just forgotten a canvas, but she quickly announced it to the air when she spied him coming down the hall, want back into her apartment, and he even thought he had heard the deadbolt turn as he walked past the shut door.
These petty items did not really concern me - but the reasons for them did. I wanted to be viewed with disgust. That was the reason for my manufactured rotten scent, the uniform I wore, and the way I conducted himself. But now, these people seemed to fear me. I do enjoy the new sentiments on a strictly personal level. Fear is a great motivating factor - but if feelings toward me continue down this road, it might be threatening to my mission to -
(At this point, I found myself to be rather close to a certain car who driver I couldn't see. The breaks screeched and squealed, and it seemed that I had escaped harm from my carelessness.)
But not quite. My legs suffered contact, and the vehicle was still at a sufficient rate of speed that I found my face in rather close quarters with the front hood. I jumped off as soon as I could, and the car sped off without me getting a chance to see the driver. Pokey came out of his stooping booth and asked me if I was alright, but I was fine. He apologized for the other car and said he'd talk to the driver about safety around the deck, but I persuaded him against that course of action. People were already spooked and it was my fault, after all.
Ms. Verdioso was standing across the street, rubbernecking at my minor calamity. I crossed and she didn't move away, but rather stood her ground as if bracing herself. Fair enough. "What in all Hell do you think that makes you a party to that little event, Ma'am!" I shouted. Let them stare. But no, she was staring, and not backing down. This wasn't going to work, and I knew it, so I walked away, almost feeling shameful, but not quite. She still shouldn't have been watching like that.
I knocked the doors of the Flats aside I strode into the hall. Van Vraken was at the mailboxes. He turned, and I SAW him. What eyes could communicate so much? Vraken pulled at his threadbare coat; the stitches were tested but held, and I knew it was time for me to let him be. I did not desire pain in one already hurt.
And then here came that fool Eros, making a smart stride as if the winds of fortune were at his back. I turned toward him and wanted to anchor that ship. But not now, not after being physically hit by a car and mentally walloped by the pain in those tormented eyes. I was weak.
He also made eye contact, and I saw the hint of a sneer, but there was no fear there. Only a haughty condescension and an arrogant gleam in his eyes. Oh no. Those were my winds, and that was my stride. What foolishness had he put upon my name?
Or was it not foolishness at all? I still had the strength for a vigil.
Everett tentatively pushed open the door. He stepped in the door, looked around, and wondered if there was some proper etiquette for a Root Emporium. A man behind the counter looked up at him, seemingly shocked by the presence of another in his store. He practically leapt from his chair to greet Everett.
"Roots! Welcome! Can I help you, what's your name?" the man said making wild gestures with his arms.
"Ah, Everett's my name. Just wandered in...out of curiosity I guess," Everett replied, carefully shaking his hand. "I uh, I don't think I caught your name."
"Roots."
No, your name."
"Yes, confusing I know. Roots is my name." Everett looked puzzled and nodded.
"So, do you have anything in mind?" the man said, continuing his bizarre, jittery movements.
"No, no roots for me please. I really just wanted to familiarize myself with some of the additions to the neighborhood." In his hands, Everett had a container of cous cous from Ya-ya's and Madame Fouquois' business card. On this particular afternoon, having read the entire newspaper and completed all the crossword puzzles inside his apartment, he decided to go browse the root shop for some variety. Everywhere he went, the people were friendlier and far more open than he expected. All and all he felt it was a successful afternoon.
As Roots chatted with Everett about his interests and any ailments of his, Roots gave him something brown for his achey joints and sent him on his way.
"Yes, I promise, I will come straight to you for all of my roots needs." Everett left the shop, smiling, glad he had ventured from his usual stops in town.
Returning to his apartment, he opened his mail box and inside was a thick envelope. He opened it on the spot. It was a bound copy of one of his manuscripts from the publishing company he'd sent it to. He chuckled out loud and trotted up the stairs.
2-16-07_____________Time: 3: 59 p.m
In present time I woke up, not knowing what day it was or where I was. Deja vu hit and my stomach rolled with unease and hunger, not knowing what happened last night or the night before is a leaded dread to wake up to. It felt as if no time has passed and and once again I am reliving that first morning I finally awoke only to find myself in a bare room with nothing but a blank journal and strange clothes. This time a strange nonsensical dream of scattered images and faces, lies distantly but still present in my mind. Compulsively, I reach out for that familiar journal, now filled with entries and as I write this it starts trickling back. Slowly at first but then a flood of memories and images from the past couple of days submerse me, wave upon wave. As I write the last ones come, like distant friends tugging at my memory, trying to tell me something. I see the a simple glass vial tipped over, but there are no contents left to spill, a rough piece of white paper with something scrawled on it. Take with caution, effective immediately. Dose- 1/3 vial at one time = 10-12 hours undisturbed sleep. I had taken 3 doses, and slept through a day and a half. But why had I wanted the draught in the first place?
Slowly it came back... I had misplaced hours and hours, I won't find them, they're no longer mine to keep. Time's an intricate thread holding the days together into a bigger patch, of month, year, decade; a quilt pieced together by those little minutes and hours, marking our time, our brief passage. Sometimes, time will disappear; hold, pause. Or sometimes it just stops. I will piece together the next three days as best I can...
Vaguely, I remember bumping into a young girl, reaching under the shelf for the last elusive paper back, and as I brought my eyes lower to the last shelf I saw it. That black leather bound journal, so familiar yet untouched as I felt the old leather bound cover and the floppy half pages, I knew so well. Each page held in by the leather stitched binding, sewn by hand. I had never seen another journal like it, until now. It was my own.
Time here, is no longer relative. Disjointed images blend together, like the pieces of snow in a snow globe, shaken up then falling ever so lightly through the water. That clerk with the lanky frame and thick, obscure glasses.
"Excuse me, are you, uh, alright? Can I help you find something?"
"No I've haven't seen that before (here a perceptible shudder, hand withdrawn as he noted the aged, time worn cover) but then, we have a lot of unusual books and editions here. Perhaps Mrs. Ryan's would know…" he stammered, trailing off swiftly and stumbling back with eyes unmoving from the black journal. Why had he reacted so? I wished to question him further but he stumbled out of the aisle, precariously knocking into a thick stack of books.
Another image, flashes of scrawled handwriting spilling out, twisting and turning over one another in attempt to escape from the page, dancing before my eyes. The cramped r's, and loopy a's, and half crossed t' all sloping slightly right running before my eyes. Feel of pliant and slightly piling underside of the fine leather cover, marked in the upper left corner, barely legible. Jude V n ra ke with a date, unreadable except as a black smear. The handwriting could belong to no other. I don't remember leaving the bookstore, or whether I paid for my thoughts or not, I'd pay for them soon enough.
In another image I find myself at the door way of a little shop, with the journal firmly bound up and secured in my coat. “Hello! Welcome, welcome, please what may I get for you? Love potion? Perhaps a ” A small flighty man with white hair and laughing eyes winked at me, letting me in on his joke. “I need...a sleeping draught, anything please, just make it strong.” He glanced at me curiously, and then nodded quickly dancing from bin to bin, gathering herbs and roots and mixtures before disappearing behind a dusty red velvet curtain in the back.
Finally I find myself with two secure parcels heavily weighing on my conscience at Thallow Flats. The image is a blur of myself going through the motions, but one point becomes sharp among the static. A young man, around my age but with a different air, a foreign air about him. The point of collision on the entry way of the third floor, and then the black cover peeking out of the packaging from the rare book bag. That black corner, so sharp, even in recollection it is almost piercing with focus. I stumbled, thoughts doing pinwheels in my head, automatically reaching for my package to touch the familiar worn cover. No, he can't, impossible. But really, how many journals are there? Did I leave behind one, or a series? Either way, I have to get my hands on that book.
La Mañana después, sábado, ella no tenia trabajar, pero ella quería lo. No pudo quedarse dormido, así que anduvo alrededor de los apartamento, preguntado todos los persones que ella encontró que limpie sus salas. Todos salvo el Italiano.
Una persona que aceptó era un señor extráno que necesitó ir al su raizeria rápido sobre algo crecía descontrolado.
En su apartamento, era un pintura que cogió su oyó. Anduvo hacia de lo, y comprendía qué eso pintura era. Era un pintura de su marido. “cómo?” Su marido, Carlos, hubo muerto tres años antes de ella llegó en América. “cómo?” ella dijo una y otro vez. Corrió fuera de la sala y se apresuró a su apartamento. Ella no pensaba sobre cómo señor de raíces consiguió el pintura. La vista de su marido era más que pudo encargar. Pasó el día llorando.
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