Jerry trekked to the edge of town. Down a dirt road, he found the trailer. 

The psychic Maggie only accepted walk-ins. He crossed his fingers hoping his timing was right. He knocked. She stood in the shadow of the open door, sizing him up. With a husky voice, she said, “Enter.” 

The odor of stale tobacco pierced Jerry’s nostrils. When his eyes adjusted—all the blinds were drawn—he noticed her muumuu emblazoned with small, black and white cows, smiling cows, some upside down, some right side up, floating about in a blue sky with puffy clouds. Her hair was a rat’s nest, dyed raven with extensive gray roots; her face, wobbly; her skin, mottled; her eyes, intense spots of focus.

A black cat dashed out of the living room and zipped down the hallway.

“Have a seat.” She motioned to everywhere. “I gotta grab my Coke.”

Jerry navigated around a pile of Life magazines with John F. Kennedy’s grin on top, past another of National Geographics poised to topple and a third of the Port Townsend Leader newspaper. He found some available floor space next to a scratched up Lazy Boy. On a coffee table, a ceramic ashtray crammed with cigarette buts was a veritable art d’object. A small tv with rabbit ears trimmed with aluminum foil balanced on a collapsible table. 

Over in the kitchen, grocery bags stood in a row, one full of empty cat food cans, another, TV dinner trays, and another, Coke cans.

Maggie returned with a fresh cigarette and a can of Coke. 

She flopped onto the Lazy Boy, then turned her gaze on Jerry, as if discovering something out of place. After a thorough once over, she settled into his eyes and smiled. 

“You seem troubled,” she cooed.

Jerry nodded. “I’m a little embarrassed to talk about it because it sounds crazy.”

“Honey, don’t you worry. You can’t sound crazy here.” She acknowledged her surroundings with a glide of her hand and let out an explosive belly laugh. Jerry stared at the dancing cows.

“See, I’ve been on this spiritual journey,” he continued.

“Good for you.”

“Yeah. Except I feel like it’s time to get back to the business of life.”

“Right. Business of life.”

“I thought you could tell me what to do?”

She let out another ferocious laugh, smoke spewing out of her mouth and nose, skin jiggling every which way. “Honey, look at me.” She launched into another gale of laughter. 

“Well, I want to go to Jerusalem. So that’s a problem. See, I think maybe God is calling me there, but I’m not sure.” 

“OK.”

“And word is you have the gift of discernment.”

“Yeah.”

“So, like I said, I thought you could tell me what to do.”

“Hand.” She extended her hand, and he gawked at its size, each finger a tree trunk emanating from a helipad for placing his own hand. When he complied, a jolt of electricity coursed up his arm and through his body. She turned it over and flattened out his palm. 

“Hmmmm. You have a very pronounced destiny line.”

After a long drag on her cigarette, she stubbed it into the ashtray. She placed a pad on her lap, tightly held Jerry’s hand, readied her Bic pen and closed her eyes.

After 30 seconds she wrote furiously which continued unabated forten minutes, then stopped. She slumped back into her chair and dropped into a deep sleep. 

Jerry waited, not moving. Just when he thought he should leave, she jerked up, grabbed a cigarette and lit up.

She exhaled a plume of smoke and said, “Sorry.”

“What.”

“Shit.”

“What about it?”

“Too much shit.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s all I see. Just a bunch of deep doo doo.”

“So what should I do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“Because it hasn’t happened yet.” Out erupted more laughter, with cigarette sparks and ash flying.

And this time Jerry joined her. Yes, it was truly funny, all of it, talking with God, going to Jerusalem, it was really, really funny, his life. They laughed and laughed till the tears streamed down.

“Ooooh boy, that’s a good one,” she said.

She took three quick drags on her cigarette like she was a train chugging up a mountain. 

“Look, I feel you drowning. You’re fighting for your life. I get it. There’s something big coming up, and it’s not Jerusalem. It’s your shit. It’s big. That’s why I can’t see past it.

“As for going, there’s only one person who can make that decision.”

You, she mouthed soundlessly blowing a perfect smoke ring his way.  

***

“So, this is what’s next for you in your journey,” said Ken with a smile.

 Jerry occupied the now familiar leather chair in Ken’s office. Through the window, he admired Mt. Baker which stood free of all cloud cover. 

“It’s my mountaintop experience,” Jerry said. “I’m all in.” He had packed every double shift he could into the past year and now Christmas was drawing close. It was time.

“You decided.”

“I decided.”

“You’re sure.”

“I’m sure. No, of course not, but I’m going, what the hell.”

“Why?”

“Zihuatanejo.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Heaven on earth. I thought it was here. And it is. But it’s there too, in Jerusalem, for me, and I need to go.”

Ken nodded. Under his hooded eyes there was a sweet sparkle. He dashed some notes in his notebook, snapped his book shut, stood up and extended his hand.

“Godspeed.”

They shook hands, then after a momentary awkwardness, Ken came around his desk and they laid into a hearty hug.

“Drop me a postcard,” he said.