Chapter 5 - The Man of Wind and Moss

On paper, Sasha and Marco should’ve been dating, but this thought only occurred to him once or twice, and whether it occurred to her at all was never clear. Since meeting in college, they had gotten on like gangbusters. They both had an appreciation for literature and trashy horror movies, often swapping recents on Goodreads and Letterboxd. At football games they found themselves near the edge, talking shit about others, drinking shoulder to shoulder. She let him rant about Monchito and Pansy, and now, in Brooklyn, he accompanied her to poetry parties where he stole IPAs and hit on girls with bedbugs. Every group of friends has that one friend who, inexplicably, still stuck around. Sasha had literati friends, journalist friends, and writer friends. She went to seminars and retreats and was shortlisted for a residency. The ongoing rumor was that Sasha was afraid to cut the cord completely. Afraid to leave the nest of nostalgia.

That said, Marco was glad that Sasha kept him around. She was Chinese and had been adopted by a white family in the suburbs near Jupiter. She was skinny and had dyed-blonde hair. She wore black framed glasses from Warby Parker. She was pretty in a faux-laid-back-Muji sort of way. In short, she was cool and relatable and even back in college she made him feel cool by proxy.

Now, when she came down the steps and met him on the platform of Atlantic Avenue, he couldn’t help but smile. She carried thirty nicely—most everyone did, really—it was hardly an age that hit you over the head. But the symbolism of it was inescapable. You were out of your twenties. It was no longer fun and sexy to be confused and frazzled. Now, you had to have a thing. Sasha had found hers back in college and leaned into it more every year: She was a witch.

You see, back in college she couldn’t find a group to save her life. She had vented about it plenty of times when she would come back from FSU’s Asian Student Union. By no means was she the first adopted girly to be there, but even among the others, there seemed, to her, a disappointing lack of sisterhood. She had always described it to Marco as a weird competition. If you didn’t know specifically where you were from, you weren’t trying. If you weren’t whole-hog into a niche subculture, you weren’t trying. If you weren’t even trying to learn your language, you weren’t trying. Trying at what, was always the question. Trying at what? And when they found out she was into witchcraft but not into the right Asian witchcraft, she spiraled even more.

Once in Brooklyn, she expected to really find her people (read: other witches) but she ran aground early on. Nothing fit. No one system aligned with her beliefs, and the groups she did go for weren’t interested. A helpful voice on Reddit assured her that a solo witch was just as valid, but everyone knew that was malarkey. Distressingly, she likened the rejection to her being adopted. In a sad essay she pitched around, she wrote about the ongoing absence of her biological parents. It was a touching idea, but nobody bought it. Nobody really cared. The essay was a lot of mental masturbation about finding your place, who you are without roots, and coming of age while ethnically confused. It was titled “An Unrequited Coven.”

Marco, as her self-appointed keeper, promised early on to get her a witchy item every birthday. First, it was the easy stuff: nifty cards, sigil chalk, an Etsy pentacle. Then it got harder and a little more abstract when things like pentacles were old news and she was onto shapes with all sorts of points. He got her a small pendulum, color-coordinated vials, and at one point a goofy spyglass. Now keep in mind that Marco approached all this with an open-minded skepticism. Remember, he grew up with his dad drinking mojitos and “talking to ghosts,” but when he got older, he had re-labeled that phenomenon as “drunk Dad talking to himself.” Was he superstitious? Sure. Did he believe in the occult? Probably. But even if he was a hardcore naysayer dickhead, he still cared for Sasha. He was the first person she showed that essay to. The night he read it, he thought of Monchito and cried.

Anyway, all of this is to say that she was a thirty-year-old woman now who bought her own witchy gifts. She told Marco it was a grimoire and that his gift to her would be coming to pick it up. He looked at her cautiously, admiring her under the harsh lights of the subway platform. “Anything for the birthday girl,” he said.

And she smiled in return, “You won’t regret it.”

* * *

The pick-up was at a metal show. It was a doom band from the Hudson Valley called Black Arms, and they were playing in Gowanus. When they climbed out of the subway, walking to the venue, Marco burned with urgency to pitch her his Pansy Plan. Sasha had a right to know. But every opening he had, she kept squashing it. As they approached the dingy warehouse, she spun around and put her arms on his shoulders, stopping him in his tracks.

“Please, Marco. I don’t want to talk about Pansy tonight. She’s exhausting. She’s always the center of attention. I’m very burnt out on her. And I’m your girl, I’m your rock. But I don’t want to talk about Monchito either. I know he’s your brother, but he bums me out and, frankly, he’s a black hole of empathy. It’s my birthday. Can tonight just be about me?”

It stung to hear, but fuck it, she was right. “Yeah. Of course.”

“I mean don’t you want the next thing? Aren’t you ready for your life to start?”

“That’s literally what I’m trying to talk about.”

“Okay then go. Tell me your plan.”

He looked at her face. She was on one. Her mind was very much elsewhere, in the warehouse, at the show to be exact. Behind her, the line started entering the venue.

“Forget it. I’m with you. Let’s get your gift.”

She grabbed his face and kissed his forehead. “You’re the best. C’mon.”

The vibes were miserable. There’s a certain flair for theatrics that accompanies most metal shows and because of this, it’s really easy for the vibe to dip into camp. But what’s concerning is when the show doesn’t feel like it’s performing at all. When you go into a show that’s so underground it feels like you’re snooping in on something wicked and illegal. Like at any moment they’ll pull out a naked girl and perform some sort of ritual abuse. That’s what Black Arms felt like.

The place was crowded, and the warehouse was hot, and a counter gave shots of whiskey and cans of Genesee. The opener came and went with little fanfare and when Black Arms took the stage, it was unnerving how Sasha stood at attention. Comprised of three pasty white guys that were all shockingly short, the band moved in tight unison and the wall of sound came out like a slow, evil sludge. It wasn’t a mosh pit type of show, but a stand-in-a-trance type of show. It was the type of show that made you queasy. Everyone around them was tattooed, alt, fringed-out, and crust, but not in any way that looked trendy or photogenic. It was in the way that smelled like dirt and detritus. This wasn’t the first time that Sasha had done this either. She always dragged him to some new scene she wanted to try out, and while Marco wasn’t a stranger to metal shows, this one felt wrong.

“These guys are no joke,” Sasha shouted. “They’re like actually pagans.”

“It’s Brooklyn,” Marco remarked. “Everyone and their mother is.”

Sasha laughed. “No, for real! Like they’re published with Voivodum.”

“What’s that?” Marco called.

“Remember that book from college? Forget it!” she said and squeezed his arm. “Get me another drink!” she shouted. “Please not another beer and shot. Anything else!” Marco nodded. He pushed through the crowd to the bar, and with his back to the stage he suddenly felt on edge. It was inexplicable, but it felt like someone was glaring at him, like he did something wrong.

He ordered a beer and shot for himself and got Sasha a vodka Red Bull that the bartender threw into a Solo cup. They had gotten drinks earlier and he knew they were headed for a hangover, but whatever. It was her birthday. This place was weird, this errand was strange, but he was happy to help her out. Marco looked back at the crowd. For a second, he thought of his dad and the mojitos. That’s what these people looked like, rapt and in conversation.

He took his shot and slapped some money on the counter. A sweaty guy bumped into his back and reached a big arm forward and pointed at some whiskey and shouted at the bartender. Marco wasn’t ready to go back through the crowd, so he inched along the counter to give the guy space. The stage lights displayed red thorns over the walls and ceiling.

“D— . . . c—the ink?”

“Did you— . . .—ink?”

Marco didn’t realize the guy was talking to him until he grabbed Marco’s shoulder. Marco looked at him, confused. He was holding a big book wrapped in a dirty cloth.

“What?” Marco shouted, cupping his ear.

“Did you come with the chink?”

“What?”

“Yeah, you did,” the guy growled, nodding, like he approved. “I love a witchy chink. I’m glad she came.”

“Fuck off, man, don’t call her that.”

“Relax, brother, I got what she came for,” he said, lifting the book. “Go get her for me. I’ll be right here.”

Marco stammered, annoyed, his blood boiling. Somehow, he was a do-boy now, shackled to this transaction, forced to oblige. He headed back and pushed through the bodies fast and handed Sasha her drink. She shouted thanks—inaudible over the wall of noise—and drank it.

“Some freak is looking for you!” he shouted.

“Oh! Where is he?” Sasha turned, looking around. She started to move towards the bar, but Marco grabbed her elbow.

“Sasha, I don’t like this. He doesn’t seem right. He called you a chink.”

“A what?”

“A chink!” he yelled over the crowd.

She looked at him, horrified. And then she cackled.

“Who cares? I’m not fucking him; I’m getting my gift.” She led Marco through the crowd back to the bar and Marco, sweaty with nerves, followed her.

The transaction itself was quick and to the point. When the man—the bookseller—saw Sasha approach he moved from the bar to the bathroom area where a dim light shined over a table covered with cups and garbage.

In the better light, the man was even more menacing. Marco had visualized picking up the book from some Ivy League professor all clad in tweed, or maybe some Hocus Pocus style witch in a moon gown, but this guy was slovenly and bloated and wore a ratty hoodie. His boots were hanging on by a thread, and his neck and hands were scribbled in tattoos. Despite all of it, though, he looked smart. Or at least attentive. Maybe it was his eyes. They were unblinking and he held firm eye contact and a stern expression like he was concentrating on a puzzle.

Sasha moved to the bookseller before Marco could assess the situation. They were surrounded by people, and he tried to find safety in it being a public setting, but the setting itself only added more stress. A riot was technically a public setting.

In moments, Sasha showed him something on her phone and he nodded and slid the book to her. She picked it up and put it into her bag. Then she turned to Marco. “Let’s get out of here, I’m going deaf.”

Marco nodded and followed her, but as they neared the exit, he turned to give a mean last look at the man. The man raised his hands in mock surrender. Then he gave a thumbs-up and Marco saw that he had a compass tattoo on the top of his hand, only it was distorted by scar tissue. Sasha didn’t see; she was walking ahead, but the man noticed that Marco was staring, and he raised the compass to his mouth, winked, and bit down on it. Dark red filled the man’s teeth, and he grinned and blood streamed down his knuckles and Marco panicked and hurried forward, pushing Sasha along.

Once outside, Marco was too rattled to ask her about the book specifically. Yes, it was her birthday, yes, the night was about her, but in fairness to him, it would be like asking about her cards, her crystals, or her charts. Every other time she replied with an esoteric, “It’s too hot right now, I’ll explain when it’s cooler.”

Whatever that meant. Some witchy workaround. Instead, they filed into a ramen joint and got loaded on sake, and Marco made sure to avoid a variety of topics.