The Shaman: No Good Deed

Gabe Wakeman swung his heavy teak front door closed and tugged it to be sure the lock had set. He took a deep breath. He liked getting up early before the pull of the day’s demands got hold of him. There was a mild onshore breeze, but the day promised to be hot. Dry leaves and twigs from the dense wall of tropical bamboo surrounding his house had collected on his Range Rover overnight. He liked the privacy the bamboo gave him but he was going to have to find time to chop it back before it engulfed his yard. He brushed the debris off his windshield and backed into the street.

The Southern California village of Seaside was a maze of shallow arroyos and narrow residential streets that snaked downhill to the town center. Gabe caught brief glimpses of the open ocean and railroad tracks paralleling the Pacific Coast Highway on his drive to Seaside’s casual downtown – six square blocks of businesses catering to locals and tourists camping at the state beach.

He had arranged to meet his client, Vince Conklin, for breakfast at the Lonesome Threesome Bar and Grill. The TLT was a local hangout that had come to serve as Gabe’s second office. He nosed into one of the parking spaces at the side of the building and cut the ignition. It was 6:30 and the restaurant wouldn’t open for another half hour.

He shut his eyes and leaned back in his seat to get a sense of what would unfold in his meeting with Vince. Gabe shuddered and the sunlight dimmed. The image of a shadow within a shadow appeared in his mind. Trouble was headed his way.

Gabe had been experiencing altered states all of his life. His vision would suddenly shift as if a transparent overlay was projected upon the world. These glimpses opened his mind to unseen truths about people and he was more likely to respond to their energy than what they said. He had learned to hide these moments out of time from his family and the world, but Tip had taught him how to look with an unfocused mind to discern their meanings.

The CLOSED sign was still in the front window when he walked around the corner of the TLT, but Mac had unlatched the door and the aroma of frying bacon and fresh coffee greeted Gabe when he entered.

He’d wandered into the restaurant to get a sandwich when he moved to Seaside six years ago. The invisible hand of fate must have been directing him that day. He’d begun a conversation with one of the owners, Clare, that was still going on. His regular meetings with her created a break in his isolation and gave him a sense of clarity and direction.

Gabe was intrigued by the people who ran the TLT. He couldn’t figure out how they fit together, but they felt like a family and their closeness soothed an abiding inner loneliness he didn’t usually acknowledge.

Mac, the rumpled gray-haired patriarch was in the habit of giving unsolicited advice to patrons, whether they were listening or not. This morning he was deep in the morning crossword. Gabe seated himself at his usual window table and Clare appeared with a cup and a pot of coffee.

“Do you have time to join me?” he asked.

“I’d like to, but Sonny is taking Sylvie to the aquarium and I’m covering for him today.” She filled his cup. “It’s early. Are you meeting someone?”

“One of my favorite clients. Vince Conklin. You remember I helped get their son into rehab last year. Vince called and asked to meet him before work today. He has a problem with his godson and he thinks Journeywork will help him.” Gabe didn’t mention his flashback or the disquieting image of a double shadow. He knew Clare would eventually draw it out of him.

“You’re reluctant.” It was a statement, not a question. Clare was a willowy blonde with a disturbing habit of sensing Gabe’s thoughts. He was attracted to her, but she’d been clear from the outset that romance was not on the menu. She’d become his confidante instead. She welcomed his visits but her life remained a mystery he couldn’t penetrate.

“Vince is vulnerable to manipulation. He’s big-hearted and he hires parolees and people out of rehab. But some people aren’t open to help and his godson may be one of his lost causes.”

“That challenge sounds perfect for you,” her grin was sly. “Let’s talk about it when we meet on Saturday.” She topped off Gabe’s cup and went to the open kitchen where Sonny and Chuy were singing Mexican ranchera ballads over the clatter of pots and pans.

Being a Shaman was Gabe’s work, and in a deeper sense, his identity. Guide, teacher, witchdoctor, healer. Ancient titles for a calling as relevant today as it had been for millennia. Gabe used counseling and psychedelic plants to help people find their spiritual center and make lasting changes in their lives. His private practice was busy and he facilitated quarterly Journey Groups on Friday and Saturday evenings. He lived with the constant pressure of phone calls and texts from clients, many of whom forgot he was their Shaman and not a personal coach.

Vince Conklin parked his dusty black Cayenne with a WYCO 1 vanity plate at the curb outside the window and strode into the TLT in a swirl of hyperactivity. He was a burly, weatherworn man in his early fifties with a decisive jaw, long nose, and thinning black crewcut salted with gray. He waved to Mac and made a beeline to Gabe’s table. Gabe had been working with Vince and his wife, Shelly for several years. They were high school sweethearts whose marriage was strained. They had a daughter in graduate school, but they’d never agreed on how to raise their troubled twenty-year-old son, Chad, and they were struggling with the fallout.

Vince’s handshake was raspy and perfunctory. He was a successful land developer and multitasking was his norm, but today he looked like he was juggling too many balls and was about to drop one. He pulled out the chair facing Gabe and sat down with a nervous sigh.

“Thanks for meeting me on such short notice, Gabe. I called you because I’m worried about my godson, Bobby Wyring. He’s my foreman on the Four Square Ranch project. We’ve got a hundred and twenty new homes going up and thirty days to get the models open. I put Bobby in charge because he’s a can-do guy who thinks fast and gets things done. But he’s not bird-dogging our suppliers the way he should and he’s making mistakes that are costing us money.”

“Slow down, Vince. I take it there’s a reason you haven’t fired him? Gabe experienced Vince’s anxiety as a pressure lodged between his solar plexus and his heart.

“Bobby is family, Gabe. His mother owns half the business. His father, George, helped me get started thirty years ago. We built the company together. Wyring-Conklin is still a partnership even though George died in 2002. His wife, Mildred, owns half the business, and Bobby and his sister are in line to inherit.

“George expected Bobby to follow in his footsteps. Chad isn’t interested or capable, so Bobby’s our company’s only hope. He has a head for the business and I’ve been mentoring him as best I can. But lately he’s falling apart. I don’t think his heart is in it. He completely missed our meeting with the subs this morning.”

“Hungry, gentlemen? The kitchen is open.” Clare appeared with a coffee pot and menus.

“’I’ll have the special,” Gabe said.

“One plate of Three Alarm Huevos.”

“Make it two,” Vince paused to admire Clare’s figure as she glided toward the kitchen. “Bobby’s marriage is in trouble.”

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-five. He and Jessica got married out of college and they have two nice kids. I’d hate to see them split up. Jessica says he’s moody and gambling too much. I worry about drugs.”

Bobby sounded like an evolving train wreck to Gabe. “Has he ever been on antidepressants?”

“No, I suggested it but he refuses to go to a shrink.”

“And he’s not suicidal?

“No way. I know this kid, Gabe. He’s headed for trouble. You’ve done wonders for me and Shelly and you’re the only one who can help Bobby. If you let him come to our Journey Group this Friday, you’ll get to know him and I’m sure you can point him in the right direction.”

Gabe felt the weight of Vince’s expectations and wondered how Gabriel Wakeman Saver of Lost Souls would look on a business card. Clients came to him seeking relief from deep psychological pain that didn’t respond to conventional treatments. Many had no idea he was healing their spirit as well as their psyche. He would talk to Bobby for Vince’s sake, but he was no magician.

“I need to interview him before I invite him to your Group,” Gabe temporized.

“Thanks, that’s all I ask.” Vince whipped his phone out of his pocket before Gabe could say more. “I’ll send him your number.”

“Two orders of Three Alarm Huevos.” Clare unloaded her tray and set a ramekin of Chuy’s Nuclear Salsa on the table between them. “Add this at your own risk,” she warned. “It looks harmless but it can burn you.”

Gabe’s compulsive need for privacy was memorialized in the rules for clients visiting his home. They were welcome in his living room, kitchen, and the guest bedroom and bath. The rest of his house was off-limits.

His home was a compact single-story block structure hidden behind a wall of thirty-foot bamboo. The garage, a windowless front door, and a gravel path into the foliage were all that was visible from the street. The path wound through the bamboo to a wide patio of rosy flagstone along the south side of Gabe’s house. A lattice built under the eaves sheltered a workbench and his prized collection of bonsai trees. There were two chaise lounges on the patio with thick canvas cushions. A gnarled Australian willow canted above the flagstone and cast lacy shade on a weathered teak table and the cushioned chairs that lived there year-round.

Gabe brushed off the chairs and put two sweating bottles of cold water on the table in preparation for his meeting with Bobby Wyring. It was eight in the morning and the August sun was already stifling. The flock of goldfinches that lived in his garden had retreated to the deep shade of the bamboo. He listened to their melodic whistling to clear his mind.

Bobby arrived on time. Gabe heard his feet crunching on the gravel and watched him bound up the patio steps in one stride. Gabe’s first encounter with a client was a critical moment that gave him a psychic print of the person — a clean gestalt — before the interpersonal field was muddled by familiarity.

Bobby was strikingly handsome in person. Blond and tall, about Gabe’s height. Khaki shorts, work shoes, a clean blue WYCO construction T-shirt, and Oakleys on a leather keeper around his neck. His skin was sunbeaten and his loose shirt hid a softening waistline.

“Gabe Wakeman?” he offered his hand.

“You must be Bobby. It’s good to meet you.” Bobby’s handshake was strong and callused. No wedding ring.

“We can sit out here,” Gabe gestured at the table. A small bald spot was visible on the top of Bobby’s head when he sat down.

“Vince wants me to talk to you about coming to his Group.” Bobby’s eyes were a piercing China blue. “He thinks I need it.” His smile was dismissive.

“And do you?” Gabe’s tone was light. “What do you want to change in your life?” Bobby didn’t expect his direct question. Gabe saw him searching for an acceptable answer.

“Land development isn’t exactly my dream job. It’s something I inherited. Vince sees me as a partner someday.” He shifted his chair a few inches back from the table, “But I don’t know if it’s what I want and I can’t talk to him about it.”

“Everything you say here is in confidence, Bobby. Vince may have sent you, but your private thoughts are safe with me. I don’t share secrets.” Gabe absorbed the sadness and longing hidden under Bobby’s personable façade. He let the silence stretch between them.

“Okay, if you want to know the truth, I feel trapped. Jess and I got married too young. We met when we were going to Santa Linda State. I used to surf at Pinos Riscos and she was the hottest girl on the beach. We got married after graduation. She’d done some modeling and wanted to be on TV so she auditioned to become the weather girl at Channel 8 but lost out to that Hawaiian girl on the evening news. She got a job selling commercials but that got boring fast, so then she wanted kids. Don’t get me wrong – they’re the best thing we ever did — Susan is seven and Jake is five – and Jess is a good mom but she’s restless, resentful. Kinda sharp edged … like I’m the reason she’s not famous. I work fifty hours a week and she goes shopping and gripes that I don’t do my share at home.”

Gabe didn’t interrupt. He’d heard this story dozens of times. He wanted to see if Bobby would take responsibility for any of the problems in his life.

“We don’t have anything in common except the kids.” Bobby ran his thumbnail down the damp paper label on his water bottle and wadded up the strip. The plastic cap clicked as he twisted it off.

“You’ve been seeing other women.” Gabe asserted.

“Yeah.” Bobby looked up, surprised. “But none of them are serious. You know how it is — you meet a girl working for a supplier or a woman at the casino. Maybe married. No strings, just looking for a good time.”

“What do you get out of it?”

“Fun. Release. But even that isn’t helping lately.”

“Does Jessica have affairs?”

“God no. She’s too preoccupied with the kids.”

“You mentioned the casino. How much do you gamble?”

“A little. I like it. Sometimes too much. But my gambling’s not hurting Jess. If I come up short, I can always get money from Mother. That really pisses my sister, Dana off.” Bobby grinned. There was mischief in his eyes, but no remorse. “She and Mother don’t get along. Probably because they’re too much alike. She thinks I’m the favorite.”

“Are you?”

“I’m the son they always wanted.” Bobby took a drink and set the bottle neatly in the wet ring it had made on the table. “I got plenty of attention but I’ve never felt like I belonged.”

“Why not?”

“I’m adopted. Except for Jess, only my sister and our family housekeeper know. Dana is three years older. Mother couldn’t get pregnant again so they adopted me.”

“Vince doesn’t know? He’s your godfather.”

“It’s a big secret. I don’t know how they managed to have Dana. They would have had to sleep together. Mother probably had rules about that. It’s easy to see why Dana is such a complicated bitch. She was born mean, and nothing was ever her fault. Mother sent her to therapy but it only made her angrier. Our house was a damn war zone until she left for college.”

Gabe imagined Bobby growing up in the Wyring household. Alienation carried into adulthood, driving him to medicate with casual sex and gambling. Gabe felt into his own experience to understand Bobby. He recalled the hollow echo of his father’s footsteps on the hardwood floor of his childhood home. He’d grown up tough and self-reliant, joined ROTC in college and blindly followed his father into the Army. The military gave him an identity and a place to belong without the risk of emotional closeness.

If his helicopter hadn’t crashed in Columbia he might never have found his own identity. The trauma kindled intense visions that Gabe’s doctors at the VA tried to suppress with medication. He fell into a suicidal depression and would have killed himself if Dr. Joseph Tipton hadn’t shaken him awake with a powerful combination of psychedelics and psychotherapy. Tip recognized his episodes as a rare talent and offered to teach him the art of Shamanism. Gabe apprenticed under Tip’s relentless supervision for eight years before he began his own underground practice of Journeywork. Tip’s mentorship had grown into a deep friendship.

“What has Vince told you about my work?” he asked Bobby.

“He says you give people psychedelics and they talk all night. Somehow that lets you see your life more clearly.”

Gabe smiled at Bobby’s description of Journeywork. It was like comparing a stroll in the park to a mountain climbing expedition. Guiding souls safely through the abyss of their unconscious required steady nerves, insight, and an intimate familiarity with your own demons.

“What’s your history with psychedelics? Are you on any medications or have any health issues I should know about?”

“Nothing. A little pot. Shrooms a few times with friends and some cocaine back in college. I drink on weekends. That’s it.”

Gabe hadn’t seen any indication of a mood disorder or the drug use Vince had mentioned. Bobby Wyring was emotionally immature but most men his age were. He was acting out the conflicts in his life instead of dealing with them and he hadn’t cultivated any greater purpose than working and having fun.

Tipton had taught Gabe to see how clients handled medicine in a solo session before introducing them to Group work. Breaking protocol by letting him come to Vince’s Group was a risk. But Bobby needed help now, and the next Group wouldn’t meet for three months.

“All right, Bobby. The Group that Vince is in meets at his house tomorrow night. He will give you the details. Come ready to explore yourself in a new way.”

Gabe rang the bronze Acrosanti bell hanging by the front entrance of Joseph Tipton’s cedar shingled ranch house and stepped back to appreciate the mottled afternoon shadows cast by a Torrey pine on the wide stone steps. Tip lived in Pinos Riscos, a few miles south of Seaside and Gabe felt welcome dropping in.

Tipton swung his door open with a book in one hand. His tall figure was slightly stooped and his eyes twinkled behind his wire-framed glasses. “Good to see you, Gabe. Come on in. I was reading on the patio and watching the light change. Would you like a beer?”

“Sounds good. I have a new client coming to Group I tomorrow night that I want to discuss.”

Tip led Gabe through the open kitchen and collected two Coronas and a bag of pretzels on their way to the flagstone terrace overlooking the canyon at the back of the house. They clinked bottles and settled down to talk. Low afternoon sun lit the red rocks across the canyon. A dove cooed.

“You sound like you have doubts about this guy.”

“Bobby Wyring. Vince Conklin is his godfather and he’s pushing me to work with him. This will be his first Journey and I’d like a clearer sense of where he needs to go. Before I met Vince yesterday morning the image of a shadow within a shadow appeared in my mind. I felt cold.

“A warning?”

“Yeah. But I don’t know what it means.

“What did you notice when you met with him?”

“He’s thirty-five. Handsome and entitled. He says he feels like he doesn’t belong and blames that on being adopted. He gambles too much and his mother bails him out. His marriage is a wreck; he’s seeing other women. He’s making mistakes on the job. I can’t tell if he really wants to change or if he’s coming to appease Vince.”

“No sign of mania or mood disorder?”

“He’s lonely, but I don’t think he’s depressed. He drinks, but no other signs of substance abuse.”

“What does he hook in you, Gabe? How do you feel when you sit with him?”

“He went into the family business to please his father. That echoes my own story. He reminds me of how I used to be before my accident, before I started my work with you. Bobby’s banging around, playing a role in a script he didn’t write. I won’t let my issues distort the interpersonal field. This is his life.”

“It sounds like he’s using anything possible to avoid necessary decisions. He’ll resist admitting his deeper issues. He’s going to test you.”

“Do you think I’m wasting my time? He may be one of those people who wants to bump along the surface of life.”

“You can’t help everyone, but if you don’t give him a chance and really engage him, he will never change,” Tip said. “Either you commit fully or you give him a nice experience in Journeyspace and send him on his way.”

“I think I’ll start him on a low dose of MDMA and see how he does.”

“How do you think he’ll mix with the other Group members?”

“I think he’ll gravitate to Rudy and Jason. They’re close to his age. Jackson is pretty wrapped up in Catherine’s MS. If the new woman, Samantha Gresham, comes, he’s likely to evade his problems by flirting with her.”

“Let me know how it goes,” Tip said.