Read Pluto Walks the Earth, Chapter 1: Go West
Welcome back to Pluto Walks the Earth, a mystery novel/social satire serialized here over the course of approximately 60 weeks. The first few chapters are free to all, after which Pluto will become a premium for paid subscribers only. The more important reason to pony up, however, if you ask me, is to support my work in the shrinking speaking-truth-to-power sector (that column will continue to be published at the beginning of every week and remain available to ALL subscribers). Pluto, for its part, is a picaresque adventure, narrated by an eccentric cast of characters in the telling of some positively strange events. Should you decide to give me your financial support, I shall be most grateful: BullyPulpit.Substack.com. Meantime, here’s the second helping:
Mary Lou
It wasn’t an ashram. It was — is — a vegan health-food store selling high-quality organic produce, seeds, nuts, tofu, plant milks, yeast, herbs, macrobiotics, blue-green algae, seaweed and many supplements for natural healing of rage, fear, procrastination, blame, eczema and other afflictions of both body and mind. One of our biggest sellers is Emotional Rescue, a blend of St. John's Wort, Gotu Kola and Black Cohosh root in either tablets or drops. It’s my store, Mary Lou’s Chakra ’n’ Awe, and I don’t suppose I’ll ever forget the day Pluto walked into our lives. It lives with me.
The date was June 1, 2012 — a partile trine between the Moon and Neptune, when an individual’s needs are entwined with ancestry and culture, plus the kickoff of Madonna’s MDMA Tour. I’m behind the store-manager’s counter nestling a potted cactus in my fave macramé plant hanger when the chimes ring and I look up and there’s this lanky boy, with a big sweep of chestnut bang across his forehead, a navy-blue blazer, chinos and some sort of penny loafers. This is Santa Fe. He could have been wearing Samurai robes and blended in better. But butter my backside and call me a biscuit! Oh lordy, he is glor-i-ous! High cheekbones, dark eyes, cleft chin on a square jaw. Smoldering, and just goddamn delicious. I myself am from New Albany, Mississippi and he puts me in mind of those Ole Miss boys, except he’s stone sober and doesn’t have his tongue in someone’s ear.
Please don’t mistake me. I’m old enough to be his mother, have never been one for cradle robbing and am fully committed to Candace, my partner of almost 10 years. It’s just that this young man is fine as frog hair split four ways. You can’t help noticing. I also can’t help but notice that Lotus, our produce and nut manager, who 10 seconds earlier was the most comely being ever to set foot in C ’n’ A, is also stricken by this stranger’s presence. Her arms fall to her sides. Her macadamia pyramid collapses. And she just gawks.
This is a woman who, every day, makes our male and female customers stumble over their words and sometimes their own feet, buffeted by the sheer force of her beauty. Pale blue eyes, straight blond hair, so skinny you can’t see her shadow and, oh my, hotter than a fresh horseshoe. I’m talking Helen of Troy in India print and moccasins. And still she’s absolutely unmoved by the charms of the countless men and women who choke back their fear and intimidation to try forging a relationship with her beyond organic, unblanched almonds. Bless her heart, she’s never unkind or cold. On the contrary, she projects so much erotic energy and pure confidence that I think my customers leave the store sunburned. However, my produce and nut manager has plans for herself, and they include neither a romantic relationship nor, as far as I can tell, even casual sex. Lotus aspires to Peghwar psychic surgery, which, if all y’all will permit me to gloss over the details, allows a physician to channel the ancient healers and manipulate the patient’s own vital energy, in synchrony with surrounding vortices, to heal diseased internal tissue. (No, smart aleck, Blue Cross Blue Shield doesn’t cover it. Ha, ha. Heard that about forty-leven million times.) You may think: Psychic surgery? The lady’s talking about reiki. Even though everybody thinks that, there is a very big difference. Every reiki master and his brother claim to eliminate blockages from the seven chakras to remove the negative energy at the root of physical and emotional disease. And this goes with a lot of touchy-feely, literally hands-on, contact. I’m a Mahapandita Shaman of Peghwar, which resides entirely within the chakran aura. No skin-to-skin, thank you very much, because ew. Candace always says Peghwar is the brushless car wash of psychic healing. The girl does go on, but she has a way with words and that’s near about the best explanation I’ve heard.
Needless to say, the level of enlightenment required is not gifted to everyone. It’s not like crystal work, polarity therapy, acupressure, the Hakomi Method, sound remedy, color healing, Rolfing or — yes, garden-variety reiki — where masters are plentiful. This training is difficult to obtain. Even physical surgeons are a dime a dozen, because medical schools are everywhere. But there are precious few teachers in Peghwar’s surgical harnessing of ancient energies, especially after you further filter out the charlatans and pervy old men looking for favors. (It’s like, “Master, my chakras are up here.”) I know this because I am such a healer and Lotus’s teacher.
The point is, the woman knows her mind. And then Pluto beams down from Planet Ralph Lauren, and what does my employee-protege do? She goes limp. Now, I should say, at this moment we don’t know what Pluto is seeking. For all we know, suitcases or no suitcases, he’s here for the quinoa flour. He does not have “spiritual journey” written all over him. If anything, he looks like someone in search of a lacrosse game. We also don’t immediately understand certain of his, well, deficits — such as difficulty in assessing consequences and, let’s face it, not exactly being the tangiest zucchini in the ratatouille. As Mama says, “That boy ain’t got the sense God gave a goose.” I mean, weaving through the aisles lugging two heavy bags, instead of plopping them down at the door — that might could be a red flag. Or rather two green ones; he’s got those high-and-mighty English Globe-Trotter suitcases with the rubberized panels and leather strapping riveted on. I think they’re worth more than my Sentra. Anyway, he maneuvers around the checkout stand and the organic melons and past the leafy greens and approaches the counter where I pretend to not much notice. You know the fruitiness that somehow penetrates the melon rind and wafts above the case in the faintest perfume? That fog of fragrance? Well, it’s like he’s emerged out of that. An apparition. An apparition with fantastic bone structure.
“Excuse me,” he says.
“Mm-hmm. How can I help you?”
“I’m here to begin my journey.”
“All right. Any particular items I can help you find?” He produces a page torn out of a three-subject notebook. Which for me it’s been a while, seeing one of those things.
“Well, I’m looking for a guide. My understanding was this was the Shamanic Energy Co-op and Sangre de Christo Chanting and Meditation Circle.”
That clears one thing up right quick. I explain that those are Gus’s groups. Gus is our morning cashier. He uses our address for his spiritual work. For most of my team, me included, health food is more or less a side hustle to our serious endeavors. People call it “New Age,” but most of the time it’s in a snotty, condescending tone of voice, so I try to avoid the term. Candace calls it Synchrony Exploration, which works for me, even though she’s not heavily invested in the spiritual-energy arts. She’s a supervisor at the Motor Vehicle Division.
“So then this isn’t an ashram?” says the God of L.L. Bean.
“No, sir. It’s a store.”
“I wondered about the cash registers.” Then he sets to glancing around, swiveling his pretty head about 270 degrees, sniffing like a bloodhound.
“Kind of funky,” he says. “Kind of like a hardware store. Like a gay hardware store.”
Well, I declare. We have sawdust on our rough pine floors, and we sell mangos, which that day may have been a hair overripe, and incense, and soap nuts for natural laundering. But “gay hardware store” was a new one on me.
“I’m not saying like that’s anything bad,” the boy hastens to add. “I love hardware stores. And gays, also, for sure. I guess I love everything. But the thing is, I have very highly tuned senses, so …”
“Well, young man, I can see that you do,” I say, not even trying to hide how flustered I am, because this sure does seem like a moment. You better believe I kick into full-on televangelist mode. Now maybe part of me might’ve been saying that this boy’s one bubble shy of plumb, but this was one of those, I guess, crossroads where a pulse of destiny materializes from nowhere and you must embrace it instantaneously. It wasn’t even so pronounced when I met Candace, who (even though she is actually a published poet) at the time was demanding my water bill as proof of address before issuing my driver’s license. Pluto was more like a messenger from the universe … or the message. So, yessir, I leaned in.
“My name is Mary Lou and I’m here to tell you that you aren’t necessarily mistaken. On the subject of guides, you are indeed in the company under this roof of passionate searchers. And, if you don’t mind me being presumptuous, something tells me you are in precisely the right place.”
The smile this brings to his face is positively angelic. Sweet Pea, it’s as if he wandered a desert his whole life and stumbled upon home. O, Priya, Goddess of the Third Light, I know something is happening. Please don’t let it be a shit show.