Casual Witchery

It had been about six months since we began our classes at the local metaphysical supply store. My friend and myself decided it would be fun to buy some crystals and sage for our new apartment. As third-year students at the local state university in southern Wisconsin, our new pad had to have the right mix of edge and sex appeal – we can finally bring guys over without the prying eyes of residential advisers, randomly or selected roommates. Naturally, the décor was the first step in setting the mood and teenage angst demanded an alternative lifestyle. The metaphysical classes came bundled with the sage. 

The introductory portion of the course taught us meditation using cleansing herbs that reminded my friend of a potent tonic her grandmother forced down her gullet. Supposedly, the alcohol infused brew was good for digestion and luck – her grandmother was a devout Irish Catholic. Having grown up without any religion myself, the ritual was soothing and a good use of my afternoon. Our instructor was a middle aged hippie. Dude smelled sour and he obviously was in no hurry to dry his clothes after they came out the washer. He insisted that tapping into your subconscious through a mix of hums, semi-uncomfortable body contortions, while facing east, would awake our third eye. We were pretty sure that he was throwing at us a hodgepodge of alternative beliefs that were unrelated. 

After a month, we had a small graduation ceremony, and we were invited to join the intermediate class at a twenty-percent discount if we bought more sage. We had come this far, so why not see what the next level was? Our personal instruction ended and we arrived at an evening class with five others. We began with an ice breaker where we had to regale the group with our most embarrassing experiences with religion. As I had never been to a church except for a few funerals, my story revolved around the horrible memory of being mid-dump at my aunt's funeral when the door, which was out of arms reach, slowly opened outward. Apparently, I had unsuccessfully locked the single unisex bathroom door and I was forced to see it gradually reveal my terrified expression to just about everyone in the tiny church. One onlookers walked towards me to close the door, right at the moment when a sizable turd plomped into the water below. The class looked at me with pity and my friend broke the awkward silence with a story about her tripping with the communion wafers. Unpleasant ice breakers aside, we got a run-down of the course material.

Our collective aim as a “coven” was to create a flowing energy where we all felt connected in a feeling outside of time and space. Graduates of the teachers intermediate class would have a similar understanding of themselves as birds do in a cohesive, yet fluid flock. I wasn't sure what he meant by all this, but the goals seemed simple enough, so we stuck with the curriculum. We mostly sat in relative silence with some new-age environmental sounds in the background. After warming up with meditation, we held hands in a circle and stared into the eyes of the person across from us. After class, we'd smoke some weed in the alley and giggle at the whole charade, but it was entertaining enough and the people in the group were pretty cool. 

One arbitrary day at around the six-month mark, we were informed by the instructor that we had achieved our goal and could move on to the advance class free of charge. Coming this far, I couldn't let us turn down our progress, plus I had begun to refer to ourselves as witches – I even got a new email address with “witchy” in between my name. Our first advanced class would appropriately be on Halloween, and there was a good party to go to in the town square afterwards. 

* * *

This time, we got a binder and syllabus at the start of the course. Our group grew in size, and I wondered where the other students came from. The metaphysical store was never that crowded, though there was a steady clientele buying incense, papers, and bongs. Looking around, I felt that this was the whose-who in alternative stoner circles. The first guy I walk up to has a carrot colored afro and his face is overwhelmed with freckles. He introduces himself as Moon Crystal, and I reply by calling myself the Blue Dragoon. Completely unphased by my made-up name, he says that it will be a pleasure to discombobulate with one another. Wondering if he means that we are going to turn into puddles, another character begins shaking my hand. She begins by telling me that if we join our energies at the same exact moment, we should be able to call down the stars. I feel like a Final Fantasy character at the start of an adventure. Eyes locked with no discernible blinking, I tell her I need to get a drink of water before we set off on tonight's temporal smashing hi-jinks. 

I go to the bathroom and laugh hardily into my hands, teetering on the edge of an entertaining hysteria. Once composed, I rejoin the group and the instructor sits as all down. He begins by saying, “tonight my coven, we reject the gods.” I wondered when we had made the leap from a flock of birds to godlessness, but I'm game. 

An hour passes and the instructor goes into a trance that sounds like he's yelling “Yosemite Sam, Yosemite Sam” over and over. Most of the stoners seem to be in awe, and they mumble in reverence to the convulsing hippie. No way I was gonna give that guy any mouth-to-mouth. After a bit of showmanship and an appropriate frothy mouth, he reverts back to himself and tells us that “we have been listened to.” The group nods in contentment and check off the start of the course in the syllabus. Hippie instructor tells us that we will one day have his power, and I got nothing better to do on Thursdays so I tell him, “see you next week.” 

That night, I stumble home drunk from too many long islands and throw up while trying to take a piss. While passing out I remember that I have test in the morning, that I hope I don't miss.