Page 36 of One Night in Glasgow
It wasn’t the scale that was intimidating. I’d done London, I could handle crowds. It was the relentless, chaotic energy. It felt less like a city and more like a single, massive, caffeinated organism that had just been told its rent was due.
I hailed a taxi, giving the driver the Brooklyn address Mr. Douglas had provided. As we rattled over the bridge, a definite twinge of confusion hit me. This wasn’t the New York from the films. Where were the sleek high-rises, the swanky shops, the general aura of unattainable glamor? This was… brick. And lots of it.
We pulled up in front of a modest brownstone, and I double-checked the address on my phone. This couldn’t be right. “This is it,” the driver announced, already unloading my bags.
I stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the building. A far cry from the MacLeod ancestral pile. Definitely no turrets. Was this some kind of minimalist punishment from my mystery relative?
Before I could spiral further, the front door swung open with a flourish. Out came a man who looked like he’d not only just stepped out of Woodstock but had been its mayor, chief spiritual advisor, and lead tie-dye consultant. His hair cascaded past his shoulders in a riot of graying dreadlocks, adorned with what looked suspiciously like tiny silver bells.
“The seeker has arrived!” he exclaimed, his face splitting into a grin so wide I worried his jaw might unhinge. His eyes, magnified by round spectacles, twinkled with an alarming fervor. “The energies foretold your arrival! I am Ziggy, your humble guide to this vibrational vortex of Brooklyn! You must be Beth!”
Seeker of a stiff drink and a decent mattress, more like, I thought. I wondered if being called “the seeker” was a lateral move from “tabloid train wreck” or a step down. “Hi, Ziggy. Nice to meet you.”
He ushered me inside with a dramatic sweep of his arm, nearly clocking me with a beaded curtain. “Welcome to the Temple of Tranquility! This, my friend, is the main cosmic convergence zone—or, as the unenlightened call it, the living room!” He gestured enthusiastically to a large, unassuming panel on the wall. “Which, through the ancient magic of hinges, also becomes your dream portal: the bedroom! Behold, ‘The Transformer’! By night, with a respectful tug, it becomes your personal dream capsule!”
Interdimensional if you count waking up with your face pressed against a dusty wall panel, I mused.
“Kitchenette, or as I call it, the Alchemical Cauldron, is over here!” He pointed to a corner that looked like a 1950s dollhouse kitchen had a passionate but regrettable affair with a thrift store. “The coffeemaker, affectionately nicknamed ‘Brewcifer,’ is an antique. He’s temperamental and prefers you to hum a C-sharp before brewing. And never ever use tap water. He considers it a personal insult.”
Right. A diva of a coffeemaker. Perfect.
“And check out this view!” He pointed to the window, which faced a majestic expanse of authentic Brooklyn brick.
“Spectacular,” I said, my voice flat.
Ziggy was oblivious. “I’ve got patchouli incense burning to cleanse the aura of your journey, but feel free to supplement with the sage bundles. Oh, and I noticed from your energy signature that your heart chakra is a tad… bruised, darling.” He peered at me intently. “I’ve left a piece of charged rose quartz on your pillow. Sleep with it tucked in your bra. It’ll do wonders. Non-negotiable.”
For a horrifying second, I thought he was going to start a full diagnostic on my other chakras.
He handed me a set of keys attached to a keychain featuring a surprisingly detailed pewter unicorn. “Well, I’ll leave you to acclimate! If you need anything, a spiritual consultation, a guide to the best vegan falafel, or someone to interpret your aura, just knock on my door downstairs. Oh, and if you hear chanting on Tuesday nights, that’s just my interpretive dance and kombucha-brewing circle. Feel free tojoin, but it’s BYOK—bring your own kombucha. Peace out, cosmic sister!”
And with that, he was gone, the faint jingle of his hair bells receding down the narrow hallway, leaving me alone in what could only be described as a New Age gift shop that had exploded inside a matchbox.
I sank onto the worn, brightly patterned sofa, my head spinning more than it had on the flight. My gaze swept over the tiny space. A riot of tapestries, dream catchers, and posters written in a font I could only describe as ‘Psychedelic Serenity.’ A far cry from my spacious flat back home. Or even Sean’s plush hotel suite.Oh God, Sean.I shoved the thought away before it could properly form.
My stomach growled, a rude interruption to my existential crisis. Coffee. I needed coffee and food, in that order. I’d feel marginally more human once I had some caffeine in my system.
I approached the kitchenette, eyeing the vintage appliances with deep suspicion. The coffeemaker, Ziggy’s beloved ‘Brewcifer,’ looked like it belonged in a museum, all chrome and odd, intimidating levers. I searched for an “on” button. There wasn’t one. After several minutes of frustrated poking and a whispered threat to its mechanical soul, I managed to get the machine to make an alarming gurgling noise, like it was clearing its throat after a long slumber. Progress, I supposed.
While I waited for what I prayed would be coffee, I wrestled with the Murphy bed. The instructions were a series of faded cryptic diagrams. After a near-disaster involving a trapped finger and some decidedly un-ladylike cursing, I gave up. That was an adventure for a version of me that hadn’t just crossed the Atlantic.
The bathroom was equally compact. “Kinna has to seethis,” I muttered, grabbing my phone. I video-called her, and her smiling face appeared on the screen.
“Beth! You made it!”
“Barely,” I grinned. “And you will not believe this place. Let’s just say it’s less ‘Manhattan penthouse’ and more ‘spiritual guru’s broom cupboard.’”
I flipped the camera, giving her the grand tour. “And for the pièce de résistance,” I said dramatically, panning to the majestic brick wall outside my window, “an unparalleled view of our neighbors’ mortar choice.”
Kinna’s laughter echoed through the phone. “Well, it’s… cozy?”
“That’s one word for it. It’s like a hippy exploded in here, and?—”
A high-pitched, demonic whistle cut me off. “Shit, Brewcifer is summoning me! Kinna, I gotta go. Talk later!” I ended the call and rushed to the kitchen, where the coffeemaker was now emitting clouds of angry steam. Finding no off switch, I did the only logical thing: I yanked the plug from the wall. The whistling died, leaving behind a burnt smell and a sludge in the pot that looked like pure tar.
I stared at the ruined coffee, feeling utterly defeated. As I slumped against the counter, my eyes landed on a flyer stuck to the fridge with a peace sign magnet. “Joe’s Diner. Best Coffee in Brooklyn!”
Right. Time for Plan B. I grabbed my purse, desperate to escape.
