DAAARRIIIIN!
A Portrait of the Writer as a Young Witch
With thanks to David B. Clear for the inspiration
When the student is ready, the master will appear.¹
Remember that weird college friend? The one who changed the course of your life as if it was a mighty river and they were Superman? My weird college friend’s name was Judith. She hated “Judy.” She happened to stumble upon me when I was drinking alone somewhere in the vicinity of Washington Square Park.
In case you were not paying attention in Geography class, Washington Square Park is on the island of Manhattan, which is one of the five boroughs of New York City, which is not the capital of New York State, which is part of the United States of America, a country justly famous for its population of idiots, lunatics, gun-huggers, conspiracy theorists, and destructive — self and otherwise — people of many varieties.
Wondering what that geography riff has to do with the price of a bottle of Night Train? At the time Judith and I both majored in early childhood education at New York University, which is located on and around Washington Square.
Due to my extreme degree of self-pity, I was on my way to good American self-destruction. From the perspective of 52 years I cannot fathom what the fuck my young and beautiful self had to pity itself about.
When the loser desires self-pity, the justification will appear.
Judith saw me, saw what I was doing, explained something to the effect that if I was feeling lost, or however I would describe my navel-gazing self-absorption, drinking was not the way, and invited me to her apartment. Thinking I was going to get lucky, I took her up on her invitation.
She had no intention of fucking me. She moved me into the friend zone and introduced me to the teachings of Swami Satchidananda, her guru at that time.
I began going to Yoga classes — a complete waste of time. However, somewhere along the way I met one of Judith’s friends, a yoga instructor who indeed wanted to fuck me and who nearly broke my dick in the process, as I have explained, or at least mentioned, elsewhere.
I lost touch with Judith as we neared graduation but she re-surfaced in my life when I helped her get a job at the toxic workplace where I worked. At that time no one had imparted to me the adage friends don’t help friends get jobs at toxic workplaces. Hell, at that time, the term toxic workplace had not been coined, so how the fuck was I supposed to know?
We reconnected. She told me later that, fucked up as that workplace was, she needed the money, so I’d done her an actual favor.
When the broke friend needs money, the friend with the connection will appear.
By this time she’d moved on from Satchidananda to become a High Priestess of Wicca.
Wicca, in case you don’t know — now you Wiccans reading this, you know I love you— is a weird combination of practices and rituals from the Church of England, Freemasonry, Theosophy,² and ceremonial magic cobbled together by Gerald Gardner during the late 1940s. Later practitioners would appropriate elements from Italian folklore, Celtic and Norse mythology, and, on this side of the pond, First Nations oral history. If it fails to run away fast enough, the Wiccans will appropriate it.
Judith — now Lady Uma — wanted to form a Wicca coven, so I was soon drafted along with her alcoholic boyfriend and some strange dude I barely remember. Her boyfriend and I were drinking buddies, so at least I had fun.
When the High Priestess wants a coven, the weirdos are already hanging around.
I left the toxic workplace to teach at a residential school for — let’s see, what is it called nowadays? At risk of being cancelled I’ll go with children who aren’t right in the head — in Liberty, New York. I arrived wearing a necklace of donkey teeth — symbolizing will — a gift from Uma. As all of us new teachers were in our twenties, we paired off. My pair-off was the woman who would become my first wife five years later and turn my life into a bad country song seven years after that. The donkey teeth told her I was the one. She claimed to be interested in Wicca before she met me — a likely story — so Lady Uma added another head to her trophy wall. We spent the next two years driving back and forth to Brooklyn to do Wiccan things and celebrate Wiccan holidays.
The last time I saw Uma it was mid-January. She was keeping herself and her good-for-nothing boyfriend from freezing to death by means of a hair dryer under a quilt as the snow melted its way through a gaping hole in the roof of their house on Dean Street. Unlike Elizabeth Montgomery³ she couldn’t wrinkle her nose and fix everything.
When the heat’s turned off and the numbskulls are cold, the fire hazard will appear.
They abandoned that dilapidated house and decamped to San Fransisco. You read that right. They abandoned a house they owned, in Brooklyn. I don’t remember how they came into actual possession of it, but
when you rent the upper floors to losers who destroy things and don’t pay the rent, the situation will deteriorate rapidly.
A portion of the Barclay’s Center now rests where that house collapsed — unless it was demolished first.
I look back in wonder that Lady Uma served for years as spiritual lodestar for years for me, my ex, and other assorted goofballs.
This story is part my how-have-you-not-written-about-that series, written at the badgerment of my personal comedy writing guru Amy Sea, to whom I also offer special thanks for her amazing editing chops.
¹ If you didn’t check out that link, you should.
² Basically the New Agers of the 19th century.
³ The star of the old TV Series Bewitched, which ran from 1964 to 1972, which is almost the year I met Judith.
When the coincidence is not exactly coincidental, the BOFace will squeeze it in anyway.
More of my funny stuff from MuddyUm
Now here’s one by Amy. I kind of owe her.
What more funny in your life? Who doesn’t? Check it out —
