There was a time when I didn’t mind strange men sitting down at my table at the coffee shop and talking some kind of shit at me. Those were both simpler and more complicated times. On one occasion, the young man that plopped down across from me was a member of a traveling pack of hippies who toured the country just because they wanted to, camping out and making music. He didn’t look the type. He was clean-shaven and his hair wasn’t any longer than that of the art school boys I was used to. This would have been at least five or six years ago. Anyway, the traveling hippie musician had extra-twinkly eyes, the kind that make reasonable girls sit straight up and say, “here we go, charismatic alert, bolt for your life or be consumed.”
Being naturally susceptible to this sort of thing, I am amazed I never called the number he left me with after telling me that the traveling pack of hippies had a few openings for naked fairy girls covered in glitter. I mean, obviously I wanted to travel the country with my boobs out, dressed in a few scraps of moss and sparkling from not only the aforementioned glitter, but also the constant polygamous sex and various chemical substances that I was certain were present in the subtext of this kid’s pitch. If only just to say I’d done it.
In the end, I imagine I was smugly sure that this wouldn’t be my last chance to join a cult, and that as I got older, I could pick and choose among all the existing hippie cults of the universe until I found one that was the best match for me. But as it stands, I was never recruited again. It recently occurred to me that I am too old and jaded to be a naked fairy in a traveling hippie cult now. One of them would be like, “Wooo, we’re going to this town to BLOW their MINDS with our LOVE!” and I’d be all, “probably not, though.”
But wouldn’t it have been a great story?
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