In 1972 I met a woman who would alter my life.
Her name was Marcia and she was a well known card reader. Straight black hair framed a round, pock-marked face pale with lack of sunlight. An omnipresent cigarette either dangled from her thin lips or burned like a cheap stick of incense perched on the butt-filled ashtray. An inveterate night owl, Marcia's clients arrived six days a week in a steady stream from late afternoon until nearly dawn.
On each seventh day, she rested.
Late one summer evening, accompanied by her nephew Alan, I found myself entering her small apartment on upper Alfred Street in West Hollywood, CA. The windows overlooking the residential street were covered with thick drapes enveloping the room in surreal silence.
"Wait here," Alan said as he disappeared down a narrow hallway.
I sat on the purple velour couch, its once plush fabric now frayed and tired. When my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, I took stock of my surroundings. Other than the couch, the only other furniture in the room was a wooden coffee table and an old stuffed lounger, its padded footrest partly elevated. The white plaster walls of the room were naked. Through an archway I could make out a small dining table and some chairs.
To my left I noticed several shelves built in to the wall crammed with books. Standing, I made my way to the unexpected library. Scanning her collection I saw the names Blavatsky, Steiner, Yogananda and many other strange names with which I was unacquainted.
As I reached to remove a book titled Isis Unveiled a voice from the dining room, whisky-gruff from decades of smoking, startled me.
"So, Alan tells me you'd like a reading. Come on then, sit at the table."
To be continued...