Revenge of the Paste Eaters Read Online Free Page B

selections of pop. The breakfast line was closed at a quarter to ten because the cook ran out of meat, and the lunch line opened with a woman sitting at the cash register who had no idea how much anything cost or how to ring it up. It was all I could do to keep Nancy and Mary from vaulting over the counter and taking charge of the kitchen.
    We were attending the first ever Spiritfest, a largely outdoor activity spread around the grounds of Camp Chesterfield where mosquitoes the size of bumblebees sapped the life force out of terrified guests. There were artisans selling their wares, musicians performing, and the grounds themselves, lush and unseasonably green, to roam—but those who ventured outside soon came back to the foodless, drinkless restaurant with giant welts all over their bodies and dark, sickly circles under their eyes. Rumor had it one driver lost his temper and thumped a mosquito and put a big dent in his bumper.
    I run into a friend at the Spiritfest who gives me the name of a psychic I should consult. “He’s wonderful,” she assures me, “you’ll love him.”
    The psychics who do not have cottages of their own have gathered in the far end of the dining hall, where each has a small table arranged with a clipboard for scheduling appointments, their business cards, and whatever small touch of grace they feel will give us a sense of their gift. One woman has thrown a lovely scarf with a dragonfly in batik over her table. Several other tables have floral arrangements. One psychic does readings based on flower petals, several others read tarot cards.
    I sign up for the young man I will “love,” and then I wander the grounds alone for a while to absorb the ambiance. Nancy has told me the entire property hums with the vibrant energies of the people who live there, and for a while I struggle to hear or taste or in any way sense this. I have never seen anyone’s aura. I have never been blessed with any sense of who or what a person is beyond the obvious. My cat, from all appearances, has more insight into the characters who come to visit his house than I do.
    It is more than wanting to know about the future or wishing I had more information about the present than I have. I want desperately to believe that the earth is one giant living organism bound by rules and interactions of nature both seen and unseen. I was trained to believe in nature as a machine, for every action there being an equal and opposite reaction, cold, bloodless, and utterly devoid of feeling: all of my life I have been drawn to those who believe in fairies or the earth as a sentient being, people who believe that animals, like us, have souls and feelings and significance that is inherent and undeniable. When I look into the eyes of my cat I see more than instincts and blood, I see a being, a thinking, intelligent personality that speaks and thinks in a language different from mine. I want and need to believe that life is about something more than the relentless production of crude oil.
    What I find is Mary sitting on one of the many benches in the shade. She is people watching, perhaps. We talk briefly about Nancy, who is our common bond, and we talk about the flutes one of the artisans is selling and how Nancy wants one but will probably never spend the money for something so frivolous. I would spend money that frivolously, but I don’t know enough about flutes or what draws Nancy to them to presume to make the selection for her, and Mary agrees. She would buy the flute: she does not know which flute would be appropriate, and she thinks the decision of which flute she wants may be that place where Nancy herself is undecided.
    Susan consults a pet psychic to contact the spirit of her recently deceased horse, but balks when he starts giving her financial advice.
    I consult the same psychic to have my dead cat tell me why my living cat is losing weight.
    We go to the chapel and listen to a seventy-eight-year-old woman tell us about living