the witches

autofiction

I was at one of those “witch shops” with my friend Micheala. I’m not religious and I’m not particularly spiritual, aside from a vague interest in the unknowable, but I am a hypochondriac– which also means I am highly conscious of jinxes. The jinx preoccupation might have developed before hypochondria: I have distinct childhood memories of praying (begging) to God (who I didn’t believe in) not to “kill me”. I always figured eventually God would kill me over something minor. I stole a friend’s eraser in the second grade, for example. I still feel legitimately guilty about it. I’ll also add to this equation that I never had gone to church once, so this anxiety was completely informed by one lone episode of Veggietales and a cursory knowledge of my illustrated children’s bible.

Anyway, I wasn’t thinking about any of this in the witch shop, but I was a little nervous, as if I was in a church. Micheala has a very spiritual worldview (most of my friends have highly spiritual worldviews), and she was in the market for something very specific– so I silently browsed the shelves as she paged through a menu of oil-blends. The blends were mixed by hand behind a counter where two women— I guess literally speaking, the witches– who were having an argument. I only got bits and pieces, but it seemed like there was an issue with a fly infestation, and they were both peeved and worried and speaking with a lot of intensity about how burning a certain incense would permanently ward them away. They really didn’t seem to get along, and I didn’t see any flies.

After Micheala made her purchase, and we were a few blocks away in the rain, I brought up the “bad vibes” I had overheard. It was explained to me that a fly infestation is a sign of a curse. This of course peaked a little bit of residual anxiety– no one likes curses– but I brushed it off and a torrential downpour began so we said our goodbyes and soon I was on the L train to the N train to my apartment. I wasn’t dressed for the weather and the oil-slick rainfall destroyed my flats and the bottom of my jeans. My landlord had just turned on the heat for the winter season, so I stripped down and laid my clothing flat over the radiator. I stood there for a moment, watching the steam waft up, until I felt something small crawling up my cheek. A rice-grain sized fly. I investigated my sink. A hundred little flies were gathered around my drain strainer that I neurotically kept clean. I turned on the faucet and a hundred more flew up in the air. I screamed. I packed a backpack. I took a fifty dollar Uber to Michaela’s apartment.

Michaela had two well behaved cats and a comprehensive collection of crystals and semi-precious gems.

“You wouldn’t believe what I saw in my apartment.” I said.

“Flies. Hundreds? Don’t worry.” She replied, somehow knowing. There was a sense of belief that was so warm in this statement, I felt all the tension release from my shoulders.

I wrapped myself in blankets on her futon. Michaela brewed a cup of oolong tea for me, and with a soft casual wave of her hand, levitated it to the coffee table, not spilling a drop. I wasn’t aware she had this ability, but I suppose it’s the sort of thing you pick up on at a witch shop. I stayed for a week. For most of it we watched reality TV. Every so often she’d surprise me with telekinesis, telepathy, and psychic visions. I’d sit with her nice cats and watch her from the living room as she conjured vegan pastries out of thin air and enchanted water to boil with no flame. That warmth I described previously only grew more and more tender. Because it was so nice, I realized, to not believe in anything, when someone so dear to me believed in everything. Every night, I had incredibly vivid dreams.

When I returned to my apartment, the flies had mysteriously disappeared.