I stood in the cold rain with the box held in my arms. And I watched them. Three beautiful, shapely young women dressed to impress and undress. I glimpsed shadowed and lined eyes, ruby red lips, finely arched brows, cosmetically blushing cheeks. The rain seemed to part in the sky for them, not daring to mar their perfection. They quickly discussed who would knock on the bus door. The tall, leggy blonde tugged her tight leather pants down to a position a little lower on her slender hips, stuck her chest out and reached for the door. The two others, nearly mirror images of the first, adjusted straps and breasts, lipstick and asses in a flutter of movement.
I stood wearing my raggedy black cords, frayed at the cuffs and three sizes too big, my black Distortion pull over the only guard against the weather. Pale, dishwater hair wetly curling down my back in thick masses and tangles. No make up, no jewelry, nondescript.
The door swung open and banged against the side of the bus. A pale hand, corporeal almost, emerged from the domain to beckon the girls forth. I could hear their giggles as three sets of strappy, high-heeled sandals clicked sharply up the steps into the bus. The door shut, a final punctuation to my plight.
I looked down at my feet. The tops of my black boots peeked from beneath the frayed edge of my cords; the spotless military polish couldn’t hide their broken, dejected appearance. I sighed and bent at the waist to place the box carefully on my boots, safe from the swirling rivulets that covered the parking lot. Locks of hair pasted themselves wetly to my cheeks, while the rest hung limply down my back. I rummaged in the front pocket of my bulky pull over and came up with a cigarette and a slim box of wooden matches. I cupped the cigarette, struck the match and inhaled deeply. I let the smoke out in a rush and returned my eyes to the box resting on my feet.
Footsteps splashed through a pool directly to my right. I watched as the disturbed water surged midway up the soles of my shit kickers and then subsided again. My glance registered only a lanky figure, a bit taller than me, face concealed entirely from the elements by a black hoodie that read simply, “26 Red.” I took another long drag, careful to cup my cigarette from the rain. Returned to gaze at the gift.
“Fucking cool box.” A soft-spoken male voice emerged from the hoodie.
“Thanks.” I sighed again and looked back at the bus and it’s closed door.
“What are those designs on the lid? I can’t see them way down there.” The soft voice questioned from inside its retreat.
I reached down and retrieved the gift from my feet and gently passed it to the hoodie man. “The pattern is called ‘Loops and Whorls’. I designed it.”
“You did this design? On the lid? Carved it, or did you just make the design and get it carved?” He was obviously incredulous. I decided to be flattered at his interest rather than annoyed at his amazement that a girl like me could possess a useful talent.
“I made the entire box. Designed, worked, carved the entire thing. And it’s not a lid; lids come off or hang in with a hinge. The top of the box is what’s called a ‘slip door.’ It slips downward into the box when you press the upper corner.”
I demonstrated for him. The carved sandalwood door slid, as explained, smoothly down into the box to form a false back wall. I tapped the top of the wall and the door slid upwards and the box was closed once again. I took the gift back from him, suddenly embarrassed and concerned because I had let him handle my heart’s work.
“That is a beautiful work of art. You’ve got mad talent. Will you show me what’s inside?”
I flicked my cigarette aside and handed the box back over to him. I remembered the three nymphs that had been admitted to the bus- whereas I had been turned away. Nobody wanted the gift from me. So I showed him what no eyes had seen or hands had held in six months, months of search and research, find and acquire, polish and perspiration. He opened the box.
The overhanging flood light illuminated only a shallow pool of pavement a few feet away, but it was enough. He stepped into the light and I could hear him quick intake of breath. The seven crystals glowed richly, purely, powerfully from their bed of black velvet. They lay arranged in their proper order; violet amnythest, deep blue azurite, sky blue aqua marine, emerald green moldavite, beautiful yellow tigers eye, orange sunstone, and finally, brilliant red rubelite.
Beneath each, on parchment I had pressed myself from wood pulp, was the name of each of the seven major charkas and corresponding crystals. I was a firm believer in holistic healing and the power of Mother Earth’s crystals. My throat stuck and I could not speak.
