A few months ago, I hired Wendi, a certified Reiki healer, to come to my home twice a week and heal my lower lumbar pain. Over time, I had come to look forward to our biweekly sessions. The treatments were wondrous, and everything about Wendi was so undeniably zen.
Take her head of questionably hygienic hair. She wore rainbow dyed dreadlocks and had teensy tye dye puca shells embedded into each lock’s crusty tip. When she placed her healing hands on my neck, the puca edges grazed my ears and aromas of hemp and lavender assaulted my olfactory glands. Heck, it was like getting massaged by a mellow, sensual Medusa.
I loved Wendi’s style, too. I didn’t know a woman could own so many off-white linen unitards. She used to say, “Camel toes are good for the root chakra,” and heck, my unspiritual ass believed her. I even borrowed one of Wendi’s unitards for a meditation retreat after party, and I ended up sleeping with the head yogi, Brock. I think he ate out the majority of the attendees, but still, I attribute our night’s flexible lovemaking to that pelvis-hugging (possibly unsanitary) unitard. Thank you Wendi.
Don’t get me started on the timbre of Wendi’s voice. That woman could’ve done romantic novels on tape or hosted a successful sleeping aid podcast. Part of me kept hiring her just so I could hear her seraphim whispers say stuff like, “How’s the pressure in your heart center? ,” and, “Do you feel your chi flowing?” or, “I’m sensing an emotional blockage in your crown chakra…” I mean, half the time, I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. But I didn’t care. I’d believe anything said in her mellifluous, cherub tone.
Every session with Wendi made me so happy. I couldn’t fathom doubting the power of her healing hands. Plus, she was so professional. Every time she came to my apartment, she pinned a poster of the anatomy up on my wall, placed her framed San Fernando Valley Reiki certificate on my mantel, and hung a homemade wind chime in the corner of my living room. She’d lay me down on the floor atop her “spiritual” patchwork quilt, light seven miniature beach scented yankee candles, and play a tape of oddly soothing sperm whale sounds. I should mention that during every session, I was fully nude. She told me that Reiki is most effective when fully naked, and I mean, she had a certificate from L.A., so I trusted her.
Wendi was just so cool, and tranquil, and plus, every session made my back feel just dandy. And it wasn’t just my back. I had hot, flowing, chi energy flowing through my entire being. I couldn’t get enough of Wendi, I mean, Reiki. When our sessions were over, I’d get depressed.
After one session, I asked her if she wanted to get a drink. I assumed she’d say no. She probably didn’t drink alcohol. I’d only ever seen her drink green juice and flower based smoothies. But, she surprisingly complied, and in her classic, sing song siren voice breathed, “I’d be honored to imbibe with you.”
She suggested we go to McNally’s Tavern down the street. I was surprised she suggested such a decrepit dive bar, as they don’t serve non sulfite liquors there, but I obliged, as to me, Wendi was practically a celebrity.
The bartender, a toothless man in his 50s with a tatoo of a bare breast on his forearm, raspily yelled as she entered, “Usual, Wendi, ya skank?” She nodded peacefully, “ Yeah Bob, ya hideous bitch.” Who knew enlightened reiki healers could be so…unceremonious?
Toothless Bob poured two drafts of Budweiser and three fireball shots, all for Wendi. As I nervously sipped on a Bud Light, Bob handed Wendi a lit Newport cigarette. She smoked it, ashed it, and then promptly spilled liquor all over her chest. I was in shock. This was unbridled, unfettered Wendi. This was my chance. Now that she was a little tipsy, I could get to know this enigmatic goddess.
Who was she? Was Bob her lover? How did she become so peaceful and lovely? How did she come to discover her healing hands? I was ready to question her. But before I could, she dragged me to the bathroom. “Come in here, my fave lil’ client,” she slurred. Oh my God. Were Wendi and I going to… make love?
She plopped down on the toilet, unbuttoned the crotch of her unitard, and fished a bag of cocaine out of her vagina. She stared up at me with bleary eyes and a drooling grin, “You want some?” Starstruck, I replied, “I’m all right thank you.” I paused, then said, “Wendi, I’ve always loved our sessions.” She cackled and laid a line of coke on the urine doused toilet seat. “ You’re such a wonderful healer…” She snorted a bump, her rainbow dreadlocks wading in the toilet water. “ Your hands are so powerful…” Licking white dust off her lips, she struggled to show me her palms. “These hands? You like these babies? For $400 a pop these hands’ll do whatever you need.”
I didn’t know what she meant. Was she talking about the price of our sessions? I always found her rate rather reasonable. She looked at me like I was stupid. Then, she yelled, “God, you’re stupid. Hate to break it to you honey, but Reiki isn’t REAL. I’m not a healer. I don’t know what the FUCK I’m doing. It’s all complete bull — — ,” Then, Wendi projectile vomited everywhere.
I left the bar wondering if Wendi meant everything she said. Was Reiki really a load of bologna? Was she really just a drug addicted swindler who was coincidentally able to set fire to my chakras? She couldn’t be a fraud. She just couldn’t. She was probably just playing a prank on me.
I decided to hire her for another session and find out. She came by the following week, and I didn’t mention anything about McNally’s Tavern. Neither did Wendi. Perhaps she didn’t remember? Out came the poster, wind chime, certificate, quilt, yankee candles, and sperm whale sound tape. I stripped. She placed her healing hands on me. And without fail, I descended into physical, emotional, and spiritual bliss.
Oh heck, I can’t give up these sessions! I don’t care if Reiki is total bullshit. I’m in love with Wendi, I mean, Reiki. Dammit. I always do that. All I know is, real or not, I. NEED. WENDI’S. HEALING. HANDS.