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Tastes Like the Occult


I bought the Vapor Shark four or five quit smoking attempts ago. Going cold turkey didn't help, the gum didn't help, the patch didn't help, acupuncture didn't help, hypnosis didn't help, I'm allergic to Zyban and Chantix is a story for another day. Everyone I knew who vaped swore by it as the ultimate quit method. It didn't take much convincing. I marched my butt on into that vape store and went nuts. I bought a pen, a charger, extra batteries, extra mouth pieces, refillable oil cartridges and a snazzy case to carry around the whole lot. $75 later, I was feeling really good about this decision. I was all set to join the ranks of ex-smokers who think they've beaten their nicotine addiction. (Seriously, y'all just traded one addiction for another. Prove me wrong and throw that thing in the drink. You don't need it anymore. You haven't smoked a cigarette in five years. Just, you know, get rid of it. Go ahead, I'll wait.)
 
My resolve didn't last too long. Vaping is an interesting concept and a bit less damaging than inhaling burning tobacco, but it just isn't the same. I felt bad about quitting quitting again; not just because I failed at quitting, but because that little contraption was expensive and I don't like throwing money away. It was the cost of the silly thing that prevented me from getting rid of it. It sat in its case, with all the accoutrements, in my kitchen junk drawer for a few years. Until, that is, we discovered an alternate use for it.
 
As it turns out, vape pens that smokers use to "quit" nicotine are one and the same with those that are used to enjoy cannabis oil. I don't know how we didn't think of this earlier. No, really. How did we not think of this earlier? It's a brave new world.
 
We secured ourselves some happy juicy juice (not exactly difficult) and gave it a go.  This wasn't necessarily a good thing for me. Two or three hits off a joint and I'm set. Two or three hits off a vape will set me up just as well, but it's just so smooth and pleasant I'll likely forget what it is I'm pulling on and end up having a lot more than I should (meaning I'll be stoned enough to eat the house or, at the very least, a stick of butter).
 
The flavor we got was supposed to be fruit punch, but it didn't taste anything like fruit punch. What we had, tasted better than fruit punch. What we had, tasted like pure nostalgia. (Cue wistful music.)
 
Once upon a time, there was an occult store called Magickal Childe, somewhere around the corner from the Flatiron building in NYC. I was 14 or 15 - too young to be in the city by myself - so I can't remember how I found the place. Weird little place. Narrow, but long; dark, even in the middle of the afternoon. The jewelry case was, of course, in a counter by the register. I bought a black leather ring, that encased a very real looking blue eyeball (hence the blue eyeball in the hamsa tattoo on my back). The store was probably wider than I thought. Lots of tight aisle space. One could literally get stuck among the charms, books, candles, incense and jars of strange stuff. I bought a rabbit's foot. I don't remember having my tarot cards read there, but I know I did. The small table was set up in the middle of the back of the store, resting against an endcap. I remember overhearing some dude's reading, while I was browsing. The reader asked him if he'd been meditating. It sort of sounded like it came from a piano teacher, asking her young pupil if he'd been practicing. I was nervous for both him and myself. I imagined being asked the same question. Well...no, I haven't been meditating. Should I be? I bought a keychain: a gold-colored coin, with traditional "good luck" symbols stamped on it (rabbit's foot, four leaf clover, horseshoe and one more I can't remember). I know my dad hated taking me there, but he didn't say 'no' too much by that point in my life. Parking must have been expensive (always a garage). I bought a love spell kit. Pink candle, parchment paper, dragon's blood incense, dove's blood ink, orris root, "Love" incense oil, sharpened stick to use as a writing implement. I can still remember who I bought it for (didn't work). I loved, loved, loved the smell of it. The love oil and ink. I kept the ink (it really did look like blood) until long after it dried up, because it retained it's "Love" fragrance. I spent several years periodically sniffing the bottle, until the scent was no longer there. Thinking about it now, my eyes still roll back in my head, the way they did every time I inhaled.
 
Love. That's what this particular cannabis oil tasted like. If we only had an unlimited amount, I'd park the vape between my lips, like a nipple, and nurse. I don't even care to get high. I just want to taste that beautifully ugly store. It's no longer there. The owner, a Jewish Wiccan by the name of Herman Slater, died years ago. These are the nooks of the city I miss. Bells and dead quiet amongst chaos. Incense and the smell of warm air, wafting up through the subway grates when it's cold out. I thought I might live next door, one day.
 
Anyways. Such is how we managed to salvage what we thought was a dud purchase.

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