My penchant for crowds and public events has already been well-documented[1] so when my wife and daughters asked me to accompany them to “The Psychic Fair” at The Backyard Brewery on Sunday, I was chomping at the proverbial bit.
Despite balmy temperatures and “The Psychic Fair” coinciding with a Red Sox Sunday matinee[2], I couldn’t be more excited to check it out. When we pulled into the parking lot of The Backyard Brewery at 1 p.m., it was packed with cars.
“Nice,” I shouted from the back seat of my stepdaughter’s car. “It looks like we’re going to have a crowd. I can’t wait!”
I then sprinted from the car to the entrance and, trying to burn off the exuberance, I cranked out a set of push-ups by the door while waiting for the girls to catch up.
When we entered the lobby of The Backyard Brewery, a sign guided us upstairs to “The Psychic Fair.” In a small lobby area before entering the event room, we were greeted by Chrissy Masterson[3], a Psychic Medium Healer and Holy Fire Reiki Master from Auburn, and the organizer of the event.
Ms. Masterson was sitting behind a table and booking psychic readings—and much like each person I talked to at the fair—she was kind-hearted and affable and particularly accommodating to ambivalent guests like me[4]. I gave my wife my Venmo card so she could book readings for herself and the girls then ventured into the fair.
It was a spacious room with two levels. On the first level, local mystics and entrepreneurs had set up tables where they sold their merchandise—an abundance of jewelry and crystals and stones and bath salts and essential oils, along with sundry holistic products[5].
On the second level, accessed by a few steps, there were multiple psychic readings in-progress.
The first thing that caught my eye was three people standing in the far-right corner of the room, where one woman stood in a crucifixion pose while a middle-aged woman and a thin man with a thick graying Jerry Garcia-beard were scanning their hands over her like TFA agents at an airport.
My wife grabbed my elbow as I stood confused. “They’re doing Reiki,” Liz said.
“I know,” I said, faking like I understood.
“Right,” Liz said, rolling her eyes.
I was then greeted by psychic Julie Rose of Garden Forever Tarot, who had a table set up with impressive jewelry that I noticed my wife eyeing like a sniper armed with my Venmo card.
Ms. Rose seemed to understand[6] that I was a fish out of water at the fair, though she said nothing about it. I explained to her that I was a journalist there to write about “The Psychic Fair,” and she smiled at me with sympathy and compassion.
Meanwhile, I knew the Red Sox game was starting in a few minutes, and there was a micro-brewery downstairs, so I tried to do my due diligence and spoke with Allie Birch from Lebanon, who was selling essential oils and other holistic products. Ms. Birch mentioned that she and her partner also focused on Microgreens.
“That’s fantastic,” I said. Again, confused, I faked like I knew what she was talking about and later had to look up Microgreens[7].
I’m still not sure I understand them.
Before leaving for the bar and baseball, I met Paula Allen, a certified Spiritual Healer. Ms. Allen could not have been kinder to me, explaining how her practice releases “unhealed emotions from the body” and that “unhealed emotions influence the way [we] think, feel and believe [things about ourselves.]”
I jotted this down in my notebook.
Ms. Allen then placed her hand on my chest. “You’re confused,” she said.
“That sounds about right,” I said.
So I headed to the bar of The Backyard Brewery to meet my stepdaughter’s boyfriend for beers, and we ordered Lazy Daze IPAs from our waiter Dave, who was training a young woman.
When I finished my beer—with the Red Sox playing in the second inning on the television in front of me—Dave sensed that I needed another beer without having to ask[8]. Psychic-stuff abounded.
My wife returned from her reading 10 minutes later, solemn. “I need to fix my root chakra,” she told me. “And there’s a dead man named James looking over me[9].”
I nodded. “Do you want to order The Notorious P.I.G. Tacos?” I asked. “You know how long I’ve been waiting for a taco.”
“She said you would order that,” Liz said.
I smiled. “Worth every penny.”
__________
[1] I’m also a connoisseur of the American taco and willing to endure any kind of public mayhem to get my greasy mitts on one.
[2] What type of man wants to sit in the comfort of their own home on a Sunday afternoon lulled by the dulcet rhythms of baseball when there’s a Psychic Fair to attend?
[3] My older daughter claims that Ms. Masterson gave her a spot-on and incisive psychic reading a year ago, much of which has come to fruition.
[4] But I didn’t want kindness. I wanted crowds! Large, suffocating crowds of people eating tacos!
[5] It very much resembled my wife’s bathroom cabinet.
[6] “Seemed” might be a disparaging word when referring to psychics. She probably “knew.”
[7] According to Wikipedia: “Microgreens are vegetable greens harvested just after the cotyledon leaves have developed with one set of true leaves. They are used as a nutrition supplement, a visual enhancement, and a flavor and texture enhancement. Microgreens are used to add sweetness and spiciness to foods.”
[8] The psychic thing was apparently contagious.
[9] My grandfather’s name was James, but if he’s looking over her, God help us.
