Page 29

Emily Bond

Sort of Seeing Someone

I haven’t seen Shereé Jackson in person since bumping shoulders with her at Sweet Baby’s, but it came up on my Instagram feed that she will be at the Bucktown Holiday Market covering the event for Windy City Today so I keep an eye out for her as I finish setting up my table.

Speaking of my table, I have a new sick setup.

After sending Yas a link to the semi-botched Windy City Today interview, she commended me for expressing a desire to take things to the next level: in-person events.

However, she alerted me that the difference between popping open a garage-sale plastic card table and commissioning a local woodworker to build out something exclusively for MBA could translate to way more sales.

“It’s called ‘creating an Instagrammable moment’,” she explained.

And so I used the cash tip from my stint at The Brockmeier to have a local maker build me my very own pop-up booth.

It’s a light-colored reception desk with my logo hand painted on the front in black acrylic paint. The top is a slab of wood painted a slate gray. The whole thing can break down to fit flat in a trunk.

On the surface of my table, I’ve turned three wooden crates on their sides so they look like shadow box dioramas.

Inside them, I’ve organized my Love Potions and noted the prices—based on sized—on small, circular chalkboard cut outs.

Slices of tree branches about six inches in diameter serve as risers to give a little dimension to my display.

And of course, I light my namesake candles to really set the tone.

All in all, the setup screams HGTV meets Sabrina the Teenage Witch, which Yas approved.

While attendance at the show is slow to start, I pass the time by adding some more handwritten notes to the spell book.

I title a page ‘NEW QUESTIONS’ and underline it twice. Then I free write the things I’ve been wondering about as of late:

How far into the future can I see? I’ve seen immediate future (Yas—yoga studio incident; bus driver—impending vehicular breakdown; Lily—admissions letter at the nail salon) and I’ve seen, what I assume is, the near-distant future (Ollie—getting our freak on).

Can I see beyond that? What will Ollie look like when he’s sixty?

Do the visions always come true? I can validate what happened with Yas in the yoga studio.

I saw the bus break down. And I can safely assume Lily got into college.

Which leaves me with my semi-kinky vision of being with Ollie.

All I can say about that is that I have a pretty good gut feeling that’s where we’re headed.

That’s four for four with Exexveei accuracy. And if that’s the case…

Dare I…monetize this? So far, I’ve managed to make income on everything except “my gift”—which is essentially palm-reading on steroids.

As Angeline mentioned, people would pay big money to have access to a human crystal ball, especially one who doesn’t look like a grandma-faced troll.

How much would I charge for something like this?

Do I set my table up on Michigan Avenue with a sign that says, “Step Right Up”?

Do I need a permit for that? Insurance? Maybe I should consider doing bachelorette parties…

At that, a familiar voice interrupts me and I slam the book shut.

“Excuse me, I’d like to buy some…wait. Don’t tell me. Give me a sec…some sort of hocus-pocus lotion?”

Close enough.

I discretely set the spell book face down on my chair and get up to greet Ollie, who kept his promise to come find me at the Bucktown Holiday Market across from where he lives.

“Good memory,” I say with a smile.

“Engineers have a lot of storage space in their brain. It’s kind of like a hard drive up there.”

“Speaking of, I’m a little shocked to see you, Robot Boy, at my booth.”

“How could I not come?” Ollie steps up and blows out my candles. “Fire hazard.”

I roll my eyes as I fan the smelly curls of smoke.

“Plus this place is practically in my backyard. Or, front yard, rather…I live right across the street.”

I lean to the right to look out the windows behind him.

Perhaps if I can catch a glimpse of where he says he lives, I can cross check it with the vision I already saw and put two-and-two together, but no dice.

All I can see is a city bus boarding a line of passengers wearing puffy coats on the street. I guess time will tell.

“So how’s business today?” he asks.

“A little slow,” I admit. “Which is weird because the holidays are coming up. You’d think people would want these for stocking stuffers—or maybe even just for themselves. Everyone wants someone to kiss as the clock strikes midnight on New Year’s Eve, right?”

I point to my display.

“Love Potion,” he reads the sign slowly. “So that’s really a thing, eh?”

“I’m hoping it is,” I say. “I made a whole vat of it in my bathtub. Going to add insult to injury if these don’t sell and the rose petal stained the porcelain for good.”

“It’ll come out. Just make a paste with one part peroxide and two parts baking soda. It has to be three percent hydrogen peroxide though. You’ll want to apply the paste with a damp sponge and let it sit for about a half hour before gently scrubbing and then rinsing.”

Brain like a hard drive , I remind myself.

“So what do these things do?” Ollie asks, picking up a jar and giving it a once over.

Before now, I’d assume he was humoring me by asking. But now that I see how his brain works, I genuinely believe he is thirsty for knowledge—even if the subject has nothing to do with the laws of physics.

“It’s a sensual oil. The little ones, you roll on your wrist. Kind of like a perfume sample. The big ones, you spray around in the open air and it triggers the senses of those around you to help manifest romantic desires.”

“Interesting. Can I try?”

“Sure,” I say, handing him the tester tube. He rolls a bit on his wrist and sniffs it.

“Are you in love with me yet?” he asks.

The question nearly knocks me out. He’s being facetious. But the truth is, maybe, possibly, someday, I could be. I know he isn’t expecting me to answer, so he trails on.

“Well, I’m going to be honest. I can’t say I believe it works.

But, if that’s what you say these things do…

then you need to shout it from the rooftop.

Advertise your key selling point. That’s Sales 101.

Go to enough meetings at The Brockmeier with someone from themarketing team present, and you learn stuff like that. ”

“Shouting is not really my style,” I say. Thanks to the Shereé effect, I haven’t had to ‘advertise’ anything—and I don’t plan on starting now.

“Come on! This is a city full of people who are tired of Tinder. Who needs a dating app when all you need is a spritz of Moonie Miller’s Special Love Potion and a Friday night at a bar—preferably one with a goodHVAC system so this stuff can circulate through the air!

That’s how you would hook someone like me, at least.”

I never thought I’d have a crush on a guy whose love language is good HVAC .

Just then, Ollie darts over to the booth next to me—a pop-up coffee shop who is already sold out for the day.

I can see him talking to the person working the table, but I can’t hear what either are saying.

A moment later the two shake hands. Ollie proceeds to grab his chalkboard sandwich sign and bring it over to my table.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Helping you,” he says. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to pay me.”

Ollie uses the sleeve of his plaid long sleeve button-down to erase the words “COFFEE SOLD OUT” from the sign. He then pulls a piece of chalk from the back of his blue jean pocket and writes, “FUCK TINDER. GET LOVE POTION INSTEAD.”

“There,” he says, positioning the sign so that anyone walking in front of my table will have to stop, read it, and see what the hype is all about instead of ignoring my presence altogether.

“I like it. But…I don’t think you can write the word ‘fuck.’ This is a family-friendly event,” I explain as a mom pushing a double stroller passes by and gives me a death stare.

He erases the U and turns it into a * instead.

“Better?”

Before I can run the aesthetic changes he’s made to my sales floor by Yas, Shereé Jackson approaches my table in one of her signature swoon-worthy looks—high-waisted black leather pants with a gold belt emblazoned with two big “Gs”.

I’m not one for name brands, but even I recognize the Gucci logo.

Tucked into that is a silk, cream colored blouse.

She’s wearing thin, tortoise shell-colored sunglasses—inside.

Probably to deflect the shine of her five-carat diamond engagement ring.

“Hey, Shereé!” I exclaim as I pop out from behind my desk and give her a hug.

“What’s up, Moonie? Good to see you, girl. How’s it going?”

“Can’t complain. How’s wedding planning?”

Ollie gives me a thumbs up in the background and then disappears into the crowd while I schmooze with the unofficial queen of Chi-town.

“Oh, you know. It’s basically like planning the Met Gala, but I live for that kind of thing. So tell me, what do you have here?”

She steps away from me and reads the sign out loud. Here’s to hoping Ollie’s impromptu “Sales 101” lesson isn’t going to backfire with someone who has so much clout.

“ Fuck Tinder . Ha. I can get down with that. Wanna do a quick segment on my Instagram Live?”

While I want to say that my days of doing live interviews are over, I can’t help but to think back to the last time Shereé showed me some love on her social media feed. I can’t say no to the offer. Especially since I’ve yet to sell even one of the hundred bottles of Love Potion.

“Sure, let’s do it,” I say emphatically as I quickly reapply a fresh layer of Blood Moon to my lips.

“Hey y’all, it’s your girl Shereé Jackson, soon to be Porter .”

She flashes her ring to the camera for the umpteenth time.