Unrevealed

gift.
    To further complicate my brother’s whole engagement, he and his fiancée, Lisa, decided that they needed to drag it out by first having a “spiritual blessing” by a “shaman.” Mike, if you’re reading this (and I know you’re reading this), why in the hell did we have to drag our asses across two states and end up in Sedona? If the attraction was the New Agers,
we could have packed a lunch and driven over the hill to the Socialist Republic of Boulder, Colorado. It’s infinitely closer than Sedona and I could have escaped the gathering sooner.
    I hope Mike doesn’t hire this “shaman” to marry him because I don’t think that quack has a license to do anything except wave a turkey feather and blow sweetgrass smoke in your face. I keep putting “shaman” in quotes because when I think of a real shaman , I think of a four-foot, ten-inch, oilyskinned Peruvian male wearing nothing but a loincloth and a piercing stare and carrying a humble walking stick. I don’t think of a bloated, sixty-year-old Jew who looks like Jack Klugman, wearing a Budweiser T-shirt and a pressed pair of dark denim jeans. Seriously. They were ironed. Who irons their jeans? Oh, that’s right. Bloated, sixty-year-old Jewish “shamans” who drink Bud.
    I know, I know. I come off as an abrasive cynic. But it comes with my job. I don’t think anyone else at Mike’s spiritual blessing gave this “shaman” a second thought. They just accepted him for whatever he said he was and left it at that. But not me. I looked at the “shaman” and pondered what thought process it took for him to craft this odd little image. I wondered what his distraught Jewish mother must think. “My son, the SHA man,” I could hear her crying, with a roll of her eyes. Did he scour the Internet looking for “shaman props” to incorporate into his shtick? How many New Age workshops did he sit through in order to develop this ridiculous persona?
    People are always saying I’m judgmental. Screw ‘em. It’s not judgmental; it’s called observation . I suggest you learn it. If more people would take the time to observe other people and not just accept what they see on the surface as fact, they wouldn’t have so many damn problems. I’m not saying
they’d be happier; I’m saying their lives wouldn’t be so complicated. As a cop, I can’t help it. It’s in my blood to probe beneath the surface. Once you learn the basics of reading body language, posturing, intonations and all the other subtle diagnostic tools good cops use to discern what’s in front of them, you gotta go to the next level, and that next level is unexplainable. It’s a knowing that grips you and leads you toward the truth.
    With me, what you see is what you get. No illusions here. But I’m an odd bird in a flock of fakers. I looked around the crowd in Sedona as our “shaman” floated another cloud of sweetgrass across the air. God, what a motley bunch. Those who weren’t standing in bare feet were wearing flip-flops. Who in the hell wears flip-flops to a damn “spiritual blessing”? I even spotted one guy wearing a tenement T-shirt. You know? Those sleeveless numbers that are ribbed and so thin you can see the outline of the guy’s nipples if a cold wind blows? I thought this guy was waiting around to load up the folding chairs before we left for the “honoring of the elements” down by the water feature, but apparently he was a cousin of Lisa’s. America, say hello to your future: It’s wearing a damn tenement tee and flip-flops.
    We’re standing around this stagnant fountain that supposedly symbolizes “emotional freedom” as Mike and his future bride are repeating their “intentions” to each other and I can’t take my eyes off this guy in the tenement tee. Lisa’s cousin. I’m starting to wonder if maybe I busted him for doobie years ago. I’ve got a good memory for faces, and I can remember most of the boneheads I’ve taken down over the last two decades. But I can’t figure this one out. Then he looks over at me and nods his head like he’s acknowledging me. Now I’m really confused and I can’t focus that much,
especially after Mike and Lisa jump on their road bikes to cruise down the hill to the eco-friendly reception where all the food is green…even the cake. (I’m serious. I can’t make up this shit.) I start to move toward the crowd and this wingnut in the tenement tee makes a beeline for me.
    “Hey, Jane,” he says in a hushed