Read Online Secondhand Spirits by Juliet Blackwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Juliet Blackwell
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Unfortunately, a lot of them realize too late that high rents mean life on the streets, and many fall under the spell of easily available drugs. A lot of locals refer to them, as they do to themselves, as âgutter punks,â but I hate the derisive tone of the phrase.
Conrad liked to say he was high on life, but his blood-shot, often unfocused eyes told a different story. I had offered many times to help him get off whatever he was on, but so far he had politely and consistently refused my assistance. I was tempted to hurry the process along by forcing him with magical intervention, but as with so much in life, âthe Conâ would have to be ready to change before he could succeed in any sort of lasting psychic transformation. The effects of enchantment are not all-powerful; rather, they are limited in the face of the dogged human pursuit of self-destruction. You have to believe, to want , in order to have a dream come about.
This is true even for us witches. Manyâs the time Iâve wished I could just wiggle my nose and make things happen like a certain television âwitchâ I grew up watching on after-school reruns. But real magic isnât that simple. A properly cast spell opens and broadens opportunities; itâs then up to each individual to pursue them. Witch or no witch, there was no way around the fact that establishing a vintage clothing shop took a lot of long hours, hard work, and moving outside oneâs comfort zone. In some ways I wasnât so far removed from Conrad; I had to deal with my own daily fears and stubborn addictions.
Today I asked Conrad to unload the bags of Francesâs clothes from the van rather than sweep the sidewalk. I led him over to the driveway I rented right around the corner from the shop, opened up the vanâs sliding side door, and then hurried down the street to the quirky, funky coffee shop called Coffee to the People.
As its name suggests, Coffee to the People is an unrepentant throwback to San Franciscoâs famed Summer of Love. Classic Bob Dylan or Grateful Dead tunes dominate the playlist on the overhead speakers. The walls are plastered with bumper stickers reading: DEMOCRACY IS A MUSCLE; USE IT OR LOSE IT!, HAS ANYONE SEEN MY CONSTITUTIONAL RIGHTS?, and YOUR SILENCE WILL NOT PROTECT YOU. Large posters feature Mandela, Gandhi, Einstein, and Harriet Tubman, and dated pins plastered to the tables read, STOP THE OCCUPATION OF EL SALVADOR, SUPPORT OUR BROTHERS IN VIETNAM, and FREE NICARAGUA.
Finally, the coffee drinks are made from fair-trade beans, and there are multiple vegan options for baked goods that succeed in making me feel guilty about being an omnivore. Iâm always half expecting Angela Davis to pop out of the bathroom and deliver a lecture on issues of social justice.
Still, the times they are a-changing: The café now offers free Wi-Fi. As I swung open the dark wood-and-glass front door and walked in, few eyes looked up from the glowing screens of MacBook portable computers, and at least half the crowd wore earphones that attached them to electronic equipment while cutting them off from the people around them in a way I imagined must be anathema to 1960s ideals. This morning four bleary-looking students were already sprawled on the big, cushy couches near the back, while a group of young women sat at a large round table, chatting and knitting. All in all the ca féâs a bit noisy, some of the people can be rather fragrant, and I wouldnât recommend leaving your laptop unattended for even a second. But it is just so San Francisco.
I took my place in line, knowing from experience that it would move slowly. The sometimes surly baristas existed in their own world, involving one another, the music, or their friends leaning on the counter telling loud stories over the noise of the steamer.
But I bided my time, enjoying the chance to people-watch. Bronwyn and I had started swapping our favorite
Conrad liked to say he was high on life, but his blood-shot, often unfocused eyes told a different story. I had offered many times to help him get off whatever he was on, but so far he had politely and consistently refused my assistance. I was tempted to hurry the process along by forcing him with magical intervention, but as with so much in life, âthe Conâ would have to be ready to change before he could succeed in any sort of lasting psychic transformation. The effects of enchantment are not all-powerful; rather, they are limited in the face of the dogged human pursuit of self-destruction. You have to believe, to want , in order to have a dream come about.
This is true even for us witches. Manyâs the time Iâve wished I could just wiggle my nose and make things happen like a certain television âwitchâ I grew up watching on after-school reruns. But real magic isnât that simple. A properly cast spell opens and broadens opportunities; itâs then up to each individual to pursue them. Witch or no witch, there was no way around the fact that establishing a vintage clothing shop took a lot of long hours, hard work, and moving outside oneâs comfort zone. In some ways I wasnât so far removed from Conrad; I had to deal with my own daily fears and stubborn addictions.
Today I asked Conrad to unload the bags of Francesâs clothes from the van rather than sweep the sidewalk. I led him over to the driveway I rented right around the corner from the shop, opened up the vanâs sliding side door, and then hurried down the street to the quirky, funky coffee shop called Coffee to the People.
As its name suggests, Coffee to the People is an unrepentant throwback to San Franciscoâs famed Summer of Love. Classic Bob Dylan or Grateful Dead tunes dominate the playlist on the overhead speakers. The walls are plastered with bumper stickers reading: DEMOCRACY IS A MUSCLE; USE IT OR LOSE IT!, HAS ANYONE SEEN MY CONSTITUTIONAL RIGHTS?, and YOUR SILENCE WILL NOT PROTECT YOU. Large posters feature Mandela, Gandhi, Einstein, and Harriet Tubman, and dated pins plastered to the tables read, STOP THE OCCUPATION OF EL SALVADOR, SUPPORT OUR BROTHERS IN VIETNAM, and FREE NICARAGUA.
Finally, the coffee drinks are made from fair-trade beans, and there are multiple vegan options for baked goods that succeed in making me feel guilty about being an omnivore. Iâm always half expecting Angela Davis to pop out of the bathroom and deliver a lecture on issues of social justice.
Still, the times they are a-changing: The café now offers free Wi-Fi. As I swung open the dark wood-and-glass front door and walked in, few eyes looked up from the glowing screens of MacBook portable computers, and at least half the crowd wore earphones that attached them to electronic equipment while cutting them off from the people around them in a way I imagined must be anathema to 1960s ideals. This morning four bleary-looking students were already sprawled on the big, cushy couches near the back, while a group of young women sat at a large round table, chatting and knitting. All in all the ca féâs a bit noisy, some of the people can be rather fragrant, and I wouldnât recommend leaving your laptop unattended for even a second. But it is just so San Francisco.
I took my place in line, knowing from experience that it would move slowly. The sometimes surly baristas existed in their own world, involving one another, the music, or their friends leaning on the counter telling loud stories over the noise of the steamer.
But I bided my time, enjoying the chance to people-watch. Bronwyn and I had started swapping our favorite
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