Never Learned to Swim

I had become possessed, although I wasn't sure by who yet. There were clear signs. My stomach gurgled like a witch's brew. My arms involuntarily spasmed when I tried to get anything from the top shelf of my apartment kitchen. My floor was littered with spices and tupperware. My arms involuntarily spasmed when I tried to pick them up. There were times when I had no control of my movements. I began walking towards the river that ran through the city at precisely 11:15 pm every night. My chest urged its way into the murky water, my legs were compelled to walk into the dark currents. I was able to resist for now.

I brought up the possession with my girlfriend and she immediately broke up with me. At this point, I just wanted to find out who it was. Maybe I could reason with them before this had all gone too far.

Swimming in the river with all my clothes on, as the possessed spirit seemed intent on doing, sounded terrible. As I saw it, I had three options for inquiry - a tarot card reader, my old rabbi, or a therapist. I started out with the tarot card reader.

***

There was an abandoned train track that ran through an industrial stretch of the city. The neighborhood was full of bulky, lowrise warehouses squished together along wide truck routes. It was about a twenty minute bike ride away from my apartment. I had become very familiar with these tracks.

For the last few months, I had been going to a warehouse that manufactured boutique canned soda and sabotaging their production line. That was my day job for Coca-Cola. I had originally applied for a supply chain management role. Logistics was my passion. I went through four rounds of interviews, each with a gradually aging version of the same white man in a white shirt and tan khakis. They all had dark squinty eyes, just the smallest hint of white, and great bushy eyebrows.

After accepting the offer, they revealed I would be involved with the disablement of other supply chains, not the management of anything on Coca-Cola's production line. I would be going nowhere near Sprite. I was much too young for that.

I had no choice. I was already in debt from paying my security deposit. So I biked to this factory every morning.

Porkypop was run by three sisters. They had been raised in the midwest and came here originally to start a screaming punk band. Instead, they found their calling manufacturing herbal infused sparkling lemonades. Each morning, I woke up with a terrible guilt burrowing into my chest like a blind mole. I bought their only released album under different Bandcamp accounts to make up for the fact that I was releasing rats into their taste lab and diverting their carefully sourced ingredients to the wrong address.

The train track that ran alongside their factory, that cut through most of this dilapidated industrial part of the city, had a white tent pop up alongside it. A little cone structure with sticks poking through a small opening in the top. Its front flap was perpetually zipped up and I had yet to see anyone go in or out of it. This was two weeks into my possession. It had been a while since I'd been able to cook with salt or garlic powder, but I still hadn't been able to work up the courage to get my cards read.

The next day after the tent popped up, a short stake with a sign attached to its top was planted nearby.

Eco Tarot Card Readings.

I thought, if not now, not here - near the site of my greatest sins - then when? Then where? Maybe the Eco prefix implied a discount. I had just finished up rewiring Porkypop's electrical circuitry and was mopily walking along the tracks. A light drizzle patiently fell on the industrial earth. The air was cold and still, like when the AC gets turned off after blasting on high for an hour.

I didn't know how to knock on fabric so I tapped on the sign and announced my arrival. "Hello, is anyone here?"

A soft voice, barely above a whisper, welcomed me in. I unzipped the front flap and carefully maneuvered my body inside. The tent's floor was lined with a dusky blue rug, little cubist camels stitched every few inches in a circle around it. A cedar scented Yankee candle had been placed directly in the center, flickering sharply angled shadows onto the inside of the tent. On the side closest to the entrance was a little red cushion, diligently waiting to be sat on.

On the other side of the candle was a thin bald man sitting on an identical cushion, his legs folded neatly in front of him. His skin hugged his bones tight, like they were preventing their escape. Thin blue veins popped out of his head in the warm light. His pale grey eyes rested dully. He motioned for me to sit down. He inhaled a big whiff of the pine car smell. I tried to breathe less. The candle was already giving me a headache.

"Thank you for coming in today."

"Thank you...thank you for having this tent."

He took another big whiff of the fake Pacific forest smell. His chest expanded under his soft linen shirt.
"My name is Sebastian. I like to do tarot card readings to help people sort out their climate anxiety. Or anything else about their relationship with Nature. Do you want your cards read?"

"Yes, I would like that very much."

"Is there anything on your mind?"

I tried to think of a way to conform my problem to his specialty. Sure there were other tarot card readers in the city. But this was the tent I was in now. This would have to be the one.

"I am afraid of the river."

"My child. We know that it may flood in the coming years. We must balance this uncertainty with our power to change. The river's power to change."

"What is the responsibility of the individual in a situation like this? Is it really on me?"

"Let us read what the cards have to say."

My headache was getting worse. I thought about the three sisters. I resolved to buy a six-pack of Porkypop on my way home.

Sebastian performed another deep, mournful inhale of the candle's fumes. He shuffled a deck of Bicycle playing cards and began revealing them one by one.

"This three of hearts means the river is crying. The pollution upstate of here. The chemical plants. The plastic manufacturing facilities. Our human waste. They have all damaged its water."

He turned another card.

"This four of spades reveals something about you. Your proximity to the river is meaningful in some way. You live a few blocks away from its shoreline?"

I nodded. I was hoping for cards with gothic skulls or snarling, bloody horses.

"Aren't tarot cards supposed to be a different type of card? Like a special deck?"

"Different how?"

I stared into his dimming eyes. He continued.

"This Jack of hearts is important. It means you are possessed."

"Possessed?"

"Yes."

"Does it mean anything else?"

"No."

I paused. The candle was burning out. It felt like he was waiting for me to say something.

"Will the river flood?"

"For you, it will."

He met my gaze, stayed fixed on it.

"Are there any more cards?"

"I only do three per person."

"I think I feel more anxious."

"You should."

He had not stopped staring at me.

"These readings are free. You may go now."

I did as I was told.

That night at precisely 11:15 pm, I walked to the river again, across the empty beach next to the pier. This time I took my shoes off and dipped my feet into the breaking waves. A layer of white foam wrapped around my ankles. I was running out of time.

***

My rabbi died three years ago. I should have tried looking him up earlier.

***

I didn't have a therapist. I didn't have much money left over for a therapist either. Most of my savings were going to guilty purchases of Porkypop six-packs. Everything was a mess.

I knew that eventually whoever or whatever possessed me would have their way. Soon I would be in the river at night, cold waves pushing me down to its depths. My dim hopes laid in the idea that perhaps this possession was not a possession at all, but a manifestation of the constant stress of low-rent corporate sabotage. Or a manifestation of any of the other anxieties I had developed since I moved to this city - trying to pay for rent, biking through car traffic, the feeling that the bar patrons across the street from my apartment were staring into my window while I changed, taking bets on which t-shirt I would wear today (I saw the smokers exchange cash). Everything was a mess.

I discovered that the college nearby had a program for their Masters students who were about to become professional therapists. Three cheap sessions with students who were not quite done with their education. If it went well, I would get a discount code for additional online therapy sessions I could use at my convenience.

I walked into a grey, non-descript six story building sandwiched between shorter apartments - an annex of the city campus a few blocks away. In the lobby, there was an empty reception desk with a tiny square speaker on it. A low-pitched voice told me to walk past the desk to the elevators and proceed to floor four, room sixteen.

The fourth floor was one long carpeted hallway extending in either direction from the elevator. Every few feet along the walls was a closed wooden door stained a dark color. A white noise machine placed outside each of them, with a thin wire snaking underneath a gap in the door. Room sixteen was at the end of the hallway. I knocked twice. The door unlocked with a click and pushed itself open.

Inside, the room was empty besides a dull pile carpet and two plastic bucket chairs. Four skinny windows looked out to another building wall, letting in the leftover afternoon light. A woman with bright grey curls sat in one of the chairs with her legs crossed. Fragile, veiny ankles poked out of the bottoms of her black shoulder padded suit. I guessed that she was in her sixties. I sat in the other chair.

"You said in your intake form that you were experiencing anxiety?" Her voice was a high, thin warble.

"I think I am possessed."

"Hmmm yes. Well is it okay if I record this?" She lifted her phone up.

"I'd prefer if you didn't."

"This is technically part of my final exam. I can't do the session without it."

"Okay."

She put her phone down on the carpet, face up.

"So you were saying?"

"I think I am possessed. Or I am anxious. I am definitely anxious about being possessed. Either way, I fear I will go swimming in the river one of these nights."

"Is that an expression?"

"No."

"Okay."

The sun moved behind the building the windows were facing. The room became darker. My therapist inhaled slowly.

"I think you are possessed too."

"You can tell just like that?"

"It's probably my daughter."

"Your daughter?"

"She liked to swim."

A notification popped up on her phone screen. She brought her phone up to about an inch away from her eyes to read it.

"I'm sorry, I need to go. I'll tell my professor we completed this session and lost the recording. Just so I can still get credits. Is that okay?"

***

That night, at precisely 11 pm, I stripped naked and sat on a relatively smooth piece of driftwood in the middle of the tiny beach. My clothes were stacked neatly in a pile beside me. My bare feet were tucked into some trashy sand. The river was calm, small ripples pushing at the pylons attached to the pier. The waves caressed the beach. No one else was here. I watched a city ferry cut through the center of the river on its way to another stop.

If my possession continued, at least my clothes would not get soaked.

The seconds ticked by with each wave. The sky had been pitched in an inky blue. The edge of the downtown skyline twinkled. I had brought a six pack of the first soda released by Porkypop, their signature sparkling lemonade. I drank them while sitting on this dead log, the wind rustling through my pubic hair.

At precisely 11:15 pm, I became possessed again and put all my clothes back on.

The water was cold and brackish. The swimming was easy. A few hundred feet in, my possessed body looked back from the middle of the river towards the dwindling beach.

A few teenagers had arrived, messes of long hair and loose fitting clothing bobbing around on the sand, setting up a bonfire. One of them cracked open a leftover soda.

I turned away from shore and kept swimming. Black water leaked into my possessed lungs. For some reason, it tasted sweet.