CASE ONE: A Haunting in Silver Lake, Part 2

The home on Lakeview was a Los Angeles dream; flat roofed, multi-terraced, glass and concrete. Luisa and I had had to drive by it three times to find decent parking, and with each pass it filled out with more and more attendees, only increasing my anxiety. I hate being late, as a rule, even if its to a place I’m already anxious about going to.

“I just don’t get it,” she said as we huffed up the hill. The only decent parking spot to the house had been two streets away. A short distance from the house linearly, but owing to the twisting, nearly fracteline geometry of the tight, winding streets of the Silver Lake hills, it was a real schlep. “You’re an even bigger non believer than I am, Iz. I swiped right on you because of your Carl Sagan cosplay.”

I tried to shrug but the action was hard, panting for breath as I was. “I used to be bothered more by it but it just took too much energy to keep caring. If a belief system causes no active harm I take no issue.”

Luisa grabbed her foot and pulled it up behind her, stretching her hamstring like a runner, and I couldn’t help staring. She was a squat, powerfully built woman and her legs drove me crazy. The first time we had sex — on our first date, I’m no prude and sex on the first date doesn’t preclude a good relationship — she’d had to stop me concentrating on her thighs so I could finish going down on her. “ I don’t know,” she said. “Telling a woman you can put her in touch with her dead husband seems pretty harmful.”

“Of course I see your point,” I said, continuing towards the house. “But my metric for harm is designer dogs. As long as what you’re spending your money on is not as bad as the French bull dog industry, I’ll give it a pass.”

The house rose above us now, and though it was a beautiful example of the Los Angeles Mid Century Modern, something about it felt foreboding, looming even, but that impression was immediately softened. Opening the imposing glass and metal door let out a cloud of smoke — either sage or palo santo, I’m nose blind to the difference. Passing through the thick herbaceous stink we arrived in a palatial multi level sitting room, adorned with various ‘eastern’ statuary and a statuesque Santi, standing nude in the center as his body was painted with ‘tribal markers’. I had to fight down a wave of fear that Luisa might walk off with him.

“I can already tell this is an appropriative jerk off session,” Luisa muttered, less under her breath than she might have thought.

“Yes, it might be, but that’s Hollywood, right? We can enjoy the food and sneak off when the channeling starts.”

“Oh! Iz!” Santi cheered, jumping a little and startling the people painting him, especially those below his waist. “Over here!”

Santi broke away from the painters and bound towards us, only pausing long enough to squeeze himself back into a pair of snake print tights.

“Is he high?” Luisa asked.

“Santi? Probably not. At least not yet. He just gets this way around this kind of stuff. It fires him up.”

Santi made it to us and clapped a huge hand on my shoulder. “Glad you made it! Brad’s over on the balcony and Tori and her girlfriend are…somewhere around here. ” He held open his arms to Luisa, waiting for consent. “I’m Santi. It’s so nice to finally meet you!” Luisa grimaced but accepted. “Iz has said a lot of nice things about you. Come in. There’s a whole catered buffet from Dune in the kitchen. Charlotte made vegan brownies — psychedelic and regular. Some guy I’ve never met is doing tarot readings over in the corner, and here,” Santi grabbed two burlap hand sized bags off a table, “these are some gift bags the hostess put together.”

Luisa opened hers and smiled, surprised. “I was expecting a crystal, not a 20 dollar Sephora gift card.”

“Everyone needs creams,” Santi said, scooping himself a bowl of falafel and baba ghanouj. “Regardless of their beliefs. ”

“Bad skin is one of the few human universals,” I agreed. “Santi, I’m always amazed how you end up invited to these sorts of things,” I said, reaching for a browny. Santi pushed my hand away and directed my attention to a sign on the tin reading ‘sacred’. I reached instead for the brownies in the tray marked ‘profane’. “I mean, the spirituality is one thing, but this. All this glitz and glamor.”

“I think it’s because I have big eyes.” Santi handed a bowl to Luisa. “Everyone wants me to join their cult.”

“Is this a cult?” Luisa asked, dropping the bowl.

“A light cult,” Santi answered.

“Most things in LA are on the cult spectrum,” I said.

“Can I talk to you in private, please?”

“Ok,” Santi and I both said.

She pulled me towards a flight of stairs and Santi followed, either oblivious to the fact the Luisa had only wanted to talk to me, or not caring either way.

“I have religious trauma,” Luisa whispered once we were safe in the stairwell. “A cult is not a safe place for me.”

“It’s like getting coffee outside the scientology center,” I offered, doubting it would help. “We’re not a part of it, we’re just eating food near it.”

Before Luise could tell me just how vacuous she felt my argument, a figure blocked the light coming from the top of the stairs, casting a long gloomy shadow. Luisa gasped, so did I, but much quieter.

“Look at this Morticia Adams ass queen!” Luisa scream sang once she finally looked up at the figure.

“I was going for Stevie Nix in black but I’ll take it. I’m Aileen, this his my home,” said the glamorous older woman in all black.

“You have a lovely home,” I stammered, feeling guilty, but for nothing in particular. “We were just saying — “

“Is that vintage Ferragamo?” Luisa interrupted, pointing at what could have been a caftan, robe, or scarf as far as I could tell.

“You have a good eye,” Aileen said as she playfully modeled the unnamable garment. There was something very young about her, like a teen who had died her hair silver. “It was my husband’s mothers.” A wave of sadness passed across her face. She stopped to dab at her eye. “I’m sorry, it’s his birthday today. That’s why we’re all here.” She clutched at her collar. “I miss him in a way I never even thought was possible.” She shook her head violently and forced a smile. “Hopefully I’ll get a chance to talk with him tonight. Let’s go back to the party, shall we?” She walked down the stairs and took Luisa by the arm. “Before everything starts, I have some pieces I’d love to show you.”

All smiles, Luisa followed. As she passed me she leaned and in whispered, “I still don’t love it, but hey, it’s not French Bulldogs.”

“Ha,” Santi laughed. “I have no idea what that means. Wonderful.”

“You know,” I said as we walked back to the party. “I’m glad you had this idea. Now that she has something fun to do I’m sure she’ll feel much less out of sorts with this whole thing. ”

As we headed back towards the buffet table we were accosted by a contact improv jam. Santi leaned his back into the back of a man who I vaguely recognized from Burning Man or a Burning Man adjacent event. The other dancer came up from his fetal position and leaned his weight towards me. I politely declined.

“What about you?” Santi asked, bowing to his contact partner. “I know this isn’t necessarily your thing.”

“Yeah, true,” I agreed, “but you went with me to that Astronomy On Tap event, so I can be a good sport.”

“Are you an astronomer?” Santi’s contact partner asked, very excited, perhaps confusing it with astrologer. I’ve gotten used to this, as jaded as that sounds. The people in Santi’s crowd always seem deeply interested in what I do for the span of three lines of dialogue.

“A mathematician actually. I study number theory.”

“Oh. I suck at math,” the man said improvising his way out of the conversation.

I was about to remark how, no matter what circumstance I’m in, unless I’m with academics, everyone always says that, but I was interrupted by the pleasant ringing of a gong. The sound pulled the attention of the room towards a seated man in front of a whole array of singing bowls. He was younger than I would have expected, dark complexioned; maybe Turkish, or Persian, perhaps a Floridian. He rimmed the edge of the bowl in front of him with the gong beater until a steady vibrato filled the room.

“Mhh,” Santi groaned like a guy who likes jazz. “That’s getting the emotions going. I’m sad, a little euphoric.”

The sound pulled him towards the center of the room like a Loony Tune pulled by a good smell. Naturally I followed. I tended to follow Santi pretty often, something he never asked for but I still resented. We found our way to a bundle of thai reclining pillows and made ourselves comfortable — more difficult for me in my chinos than for Santi in his tights. Luisa joined us and smiled at me in the way she did, screwing up her nose and peeping through tight eyes; it was incredibly cute and, strangely, never failed to not turn me on.

“Look what Aileen gave me.” She held up a beautiful knit scarf she’d dropped across her neck. “It was her husband’s. It’s vintage Burberry!”

“I love it,” I cooed. I wasn’t lying as much as bending the truth. I didn’t dislike it, I just found it hard to get excited over a scarf.

“So what do I do at this part,” she whispered into my ear, still awfully loud, and a little wet.

“Just chill and enjoy the sounds. If it’s really bothering you say you have to go to the bathroom and I’ll come find you.” I whispered back, using it as an opportunity to show her how to actually whisper. I felt bad about being passive aggressive almost immediately.

“Welcome to the circle of friends,” the man up front said in a voice so smooth and gentle it felt intimate.

“Great yoga voice,” Santi whispered.

“A real talent. Very impressive,” I whispered back, side eyeing Luisa to see if she was taking notes.

“I’m Kazem. I’ll be your guide tonight. We’re here for a specific purpose, as to the request of our host, but exposure to the world of spirits gives gifts to all of us, if you know how properly to ask.”

“Damn, this guy’s really good,” Santi said with a nod.

“Got our attention immediately, personalized it, got us all on the same page,” I listed.

“A rare skill,” Santi said, snapping like a guy who likes jazz.

“Shh!” Tori shushed, from across the room. I grimaced sheepishly then waved at her, she waved back.

“It’s always nice to see Tori,” I whispered to Santi. “We’re not friends per-say, more good acquaintances, but I always like running in to her.”

“Really? She thinks you’re friends,” Santi whispered. “She was just saying so last week. She had some very nice things to say about you… and some things that weren’t necessarily nice but were… I don’t know, existentially kind? Surprisingly insightful into your particular human condition, maybe? I was impressed.”

“Huh,” I said.

“Shhhh,” Tori shushed.

“A cup of sacred tea will be passed around,” Kazem intoned. “Sip from it and state your intentions.” Luisa rolled her eyes. I offered her an apologetic smile. The tea went round the circle, intentions were set — ‘know myself’, ‘get closer to the universe,’ ‘heal’; the standers. When the cup came to me I was disappointed to find it was only Yogi Tea’s Sweet Tangerine; Positive Energy — a tea I could place by taste alone. It was a favorite of an ex of mine who used to insist we drank it after sex. I guess I had been expecting something more herbal and bespoke.

“I want to be here for the people I care about,” I said after I sipped. Santi rolled his eyes. Some variation of this was my go to intention at these things, genuine enough to not get flagged for bullshit yet vague enough to need no follow ups. I passed the cup to Luisa.

“I want to…” She searched the air for something to say. “I want to sit with my discomfort.” Heads around the room nodded in affirmation, a few people muttered encouraging things.

“That was very sweet,” I whispered, “I know that was hard for you.” She shrugged and passed the tea on. It made its way back to Kazem before the ritual got too boring — another good mark for his skill as a leader.

“Tonight,” Kazem said, rimming the edge of a large bowl to his side. “We ask the universe to join our world and the spirit world.” He let the large bowl ring as he began drawing tone from a smaller one. Luisa gripped my hand. “We ask our spirit guides and protectors to aid us.” He struck a mid sized bowl in front of him, all three tones rang in a pleasant, lung pervading harmony. “We ask them to bring forth the spirit of Bruce Kaplan on the day of his birth.” Luisa gripped my hand harder. Kazem turned towards Aileen. “The spirit will need to hear a familiar voice to guide it in.”

“Puppy,” Aileen whispered. It sent a painful shock of emotion through my chest. ‘Puppy,’ how intimate and childish a pet name. It made the whole thing feel very real. “I miss you baby and I just want a chance to say happy birthday.”

Luisa’s grip grew so tight on my hand that I became very aware of my bones, aware that my hand was not a singular unit but made up of many small breakable parts. A thought which, if I had let it, might have pulled me into a ruminating tailspin. Kazem stilled the sounds of his singing bowls. The room went still, Aileen chuckled, embarrassed.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Luisa moaned, standing and rushing towards the large guest bathroom with the Japanese style sliding door¹.

“That may happen,” Kazam said, smooth as silk, his voice as calming as a sedative — a consummate professional. “The spirit has entered our realm. Bruce? Speak through me, Bruce.” Kazam’s eyes rolled back in his head. He took a deep, wet breath, the sort of breath Santi had taken to calling ‘tasty breaths’ on account of how good they felt.

“Brucy? Puppy?” Aileen asked, so hopeful I, as the non-believer in the room, still hoped against hope he would respond. “Are you there?”

Kazam blinked and sat upright. “Huh?” For the first time all evening his perfect composure left his face. “The spirit definitely came through but I don’t know where he is.” He grimaced, embarrassed. “I swear this has never happened before.”

“Fuck yes!” Santi whispered, gripping my arm. “Now shit’s getting good.”

“He’s definitely here, but I can’t find him,” Kazam said, his cheeks turning red. “Is anyone… in contact with a ghost?”

Everyone in the room burst to action. Some began meditating frantically, others pressed hard against various pulses and chakras, some chanted loudly, staring off into the ether, all trying to find the spirit. Santi rubbed his palms together with glee. I stood to find Luisa.

“Luisa?” I knocked on the door and got no answer besides the sounds of heavy breathing coming from the bathroom. “I’d prefer not to come in if you’re using the bathroom. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable with that — far to the contrary in fact — it’s just that the toilet is often the only time one gets to one’s self in a day and I’d hate to take that from you.” I knocked again. “Luisa?” I held my breath and opened the door. Thankfully I found her with her clothes on, curled on the floor, gripping the scarf Aileen had given her.

“Hi Luisa, I’m sorry about all this. I really didn’t think — “

“Why are you in my house!”

Luisa leaped to her feet and clocked me hard in the nose. I flew back into the opposite wall and sank to my knees, shocked more than hurt — well maybe as shocked as hurt. Despite what my small nature and bodily discomfort might have you believe I’ve taken my fare share of punches to the face. My mother had me wrestle and do Tae Kwon Do throughout middle and high school in a mistaken hope that it would make me ‘bully proof’. The wrestling singlet only showed that I had not yet learned to manage my heavy Ashkenazi bush, and as for the Tae Kwon Do uniform, a nerd with a colorful belt is only a sillier nerd. That being said, the punch my five foot girlfriend of three months delivered to my face was shockingly hard.

Luisa roared, her voice preternaturally deep. She emerged from the bathroom, furiously glaring at all the guests. “How did you get into my house!”

“Brucy?” Aileen asked.

“Oh shit!” Kazam screamed. “She’s possessed! Everyone run!”

¹ Those doors give me terrible anxiety. They don’t lock. I understand that other cultures are less uncomfortable with the idea of someone else walking in on them but I’m a creature of my own culture and I just can’t cope with that.