His beard hangs low. A purple hat twists up to the ceiling. Through the glass ball I see his warped face and find only suspicion for the thirty dollars I’ve paid. We’ve been on the 101 coming up the coast for over a week. I love my wife, but being in a truck with two dogs for that long would have made me pick arguments with Jesus Christ Himself. It’s raining as we finally abandon the coast and drive onto I-5. It’s still raining as we park our trailer in a dimly lit RV park in Gig Harbor. It’s still raining three months later when the calendar finally turns April. I’ve bought a motorcycle and I ride it from Belfair to Port Orchard to inspect the C-Side Record Store. The man working behind the counter is friendly, which is a welcome contrast to most of the people I’ve met thus far. On the counter between the discount bin and new releases, there’s a thick white pamphlet titled ‘Smokestack.’
He pulls me out from the glass. What is this? I ask. He doesn’t respond. He looks at me questioningly, as if we’re both finding something out for the first time.I’ve emailed the newspaper, hoping to solicit an amateur short story. The editor seems like a character. He tells me he likes my words enough to print them, and he hopes I have a Bitchin’ Day. Whatever that means. The first Friday of May rolls around and I ride my bike to every record and book store I can find. Beats ‘N’ Cats. C-Side. Ballast Book Co. That high-end shop in Poulsbo that sells really neat, really expensive art. My arms are stuffed with eight different copies of the newspaper. My wife and I go on a sunrise hike to Mount Rainier for an August meteor shower. I see a black goat who drags me through the trail, upset that I’ve left my trash on the trailhead, intentional or not. He’s even more furious that a group of hoodlums has started another wildfire… When I get back, my bike has exploded. Not literally, thankfully. But there’s a puddle of gas beneath the motor. Bits of oil cling to the bottom of the pan. I list it on Facebook hoping only to salvage a few hundred bucks. A young man in Olympia is interested. Like me, he has no money. He offers to trade me an acoustic guitar and an Orange Amp. A working guitar and amp for a worthless bike sounds like a fantastic trade to me. I trailer the bike to him and take the guitar home.
The Wizard yanks the ball from the red velvet table. The tablecloth jerks off, revealing a stained and warped antique table beneath. He demands another thirty dollars to see the rest. Hypnotized, I reach for my wallet.I’ve met the editor a few times now. It’s wintertime again and I haven’t seen the sun in weeks. I’ve gone on a few rainy hikes up to the Olympics. I’ve written several stories for this newspaper. Every month I go to as many stores as I can just to see what I’m a part of. I meet the editor for drinks and he tells me there are thousands of people reading the paper. Thousands, he says. We have too many beers. We smoke a few cigarettes. I tell him I’ve started learning the guitar and he’s ecstatic. Springtime finally comes, and my wife and I go to Seattle for a concert. We miss the ten-thirty ferry and end up way too drunk in Capitol Hill. A car swerves in front of us and I clip a curb on a scooter. We’re ass over heels and my wife is furious. I ask her to forgive me. I didn’t see the curb. My eyes don’t work too good. On a whim, I go to Port Townsend for a night. I stay in an old hotel. The receptionist asks me if I’m here with one of the ghost-hunting groups. My heart drops and I think of requesting a refund. No refunds, she says. I end up at a bar called the Uptown Pub. There’s live music this night. Bluegrass music. They’re picking something strange, ripping down on a fiddle like I was on the doorstep of the Appalachian Mountains.
One more thirty dollars, the Wizard demands. To finish the vision. I think he’s full of shit. I nearly tell him as much. This is a fantasy. A run-of-the-mill, small-town fantasy of what might become of my life. My wife is sitting on a bench outside, waiting for me to conclude this monkey business. We’re talking about moving up to the northwest soon. It feels like a fever dream.It’s summertime. For some reason, I’ve decided I like playing poker. I’m driving down to Spencer Lake a few times a week for a tournament or three. There’s a cash game in Belfair at the Northwest Chimney Service and I buy in for a hundred bones. I go all-in and get my Aces cracked. I take a step out for fresh air and check my phone. The editor of the paper is playing a show next weekend and he needs an opener. Do I think I can croak out a short set? All originals, of course. My name is on a poster slapped up against the door of the Manette Saloon. I stop for a picture in front of it. There are eleven people in the bar. Three of them are here for the second set. Three more of them are there to eat and catch a beer. The rest of the bar is the staff. I don’t know whether they hear anything I’m singing and I don’t mind it. I thank the editor for giving me more than he’s realized, and my wife and I drive back home.
The crystal ball is off of the table now. It sits in the Wizard’s hands. I’m ninety dollars deep now. For another thirty, he says he’ll let me take the crystal ball with me when I leave. I think the ball can’t be worth more than eight dollars. But it’s not really about the ball, is it?I walk out to the sidewalk to find my wife with a red straw in her mouth, sucking down a matte green drink that looks a little like throw-up. She asks how it was. I say it was…interesting. She asks if I have any clarity. If it helped make a decision. If we should hook our trailer up to the back of the truck and drive thirty-six hours from Central Texas to the Pacific Northwest. Before I answer, she asks what is in my hands. I look down and see a glass ball. I go back into the store meaning to tell the Wizard that I didn’t pay for this. But the Wizard is gone. There is no table. No velvet tablecloth. There aren’t even chairs. The store is completely empty. // JACKSON RUIZ
[Author’s Note: The first week of November, my wife and I will be throwing the trailer on the back of the truck and driving back down the 101. Back to Central Texas we go. My heart aches. I love this region of the country. I am more grateful than anything that I found this place. Perhaps that this place found me. To the Readers who have heard my stories, I thank you. To the Patrons who had to sit through my Manette Show, I pity you. To the Friends I’ve made, the people I’ve shared stories with at the bar, I’ll carry you with me. Jackson Ruiz <3 jackru09@gmail.com]
