Lily Dale is a town in Upstate New Yorkfamous for its proliferation of psychics.We drive therein your 1998 Toyota Corolla,the perfect vehiclefor exploring the underworld.
I envisionatmospheric shiftsethereal mistchills of ghostsas we roll through the gate.But it’s summerand east coast humidityclogs the air.
The town seems empty.Maybe it’s off-season, I say.What season is best for contacting the spirit realm? you ask.Winter, I say, but I only think it.You’d disagree with me.
Small crowd gathers aroundan outdoor stage.Balding man with a soft bellyuses a microphone to ask seven onlookers,Does anyone have a deceased relativewhose name starts with P?Dianne Keaton haircutraises her hand.He sidles over to her,places his chubby fingers against her forehead.Her body trembles.
In the center of townstands a Victorian building, a cafewith intricate filigree, old woodthat whines and creakswith each step.
You flick your greasy hairout of your pockmarked face,stare at the limited menusearching for nut-free options.You’re lanky, hunched(a composer’s spine)pointed nose stained in inkfrom writing so close to the page.
You order a coffee,a grilled cheese sandwich,both of which you finishwithout sharing.If ghosts drink coffee,do they take cream and sugar?
We walk around the villagepeeking into windowssearching for answers to questionsI’m not ready to ask.I’ll find out lateryou’ve already askedand answered them.
The last time I talked to a psychicshe refused to read my tea leaves,said my heart was too closed.I didn’t need her to tell mewhat I already knew.
An elderly man sitting on his porchwaves us over.He’s wearing stained jeans,faded Mickey Mouse t-shirt.Do you want a reading? he asks.We sit at his small kitchen table.The house is filled with rooster décor:rooster curtainsrooster pillowcasesrooster salt and pepper shakers.Maybe roosters havespiritual significancethat I am not aware of.He takes my handsreviews the lineshis expression flat.
I see the color red, he says,the number 3.I see you driving a sports car.You will be happy, he says.
I slide him $40,the going rate forotherworldly knowledge.He pockets the cash slowlyas the roosters watch,then directs us to the door.
At dinner, you write a song for meon the back of aflimsy paper placemat.
You never play it,and I’ve forgottenhow to read sheet music.