​El Futuro de HPR

As we drive into the “El Pitial,” the other side of the tracks in Puerto Vallarta, I ask Marcos if he believes in the occult. He’s in his late 30s, about my age, his cab dash is bedazzled in this sparkly blue material. There’s a smallish piñata on his dashboard along with a crucifix. No, he flatly says. “Is there anyone in your family that does?” I ask. He tells me about his aunt that takes her quartz crystals to the Aztec pyramids — there’s a tone of skepticism in his voice.

Zach, former HPR editor, is in the back seat taking snaps of the taxi.

“What about you?” Marcos asks. I tell Marcos that when I was a boy I had bad asthma attacks. Both my mother and grandma spent the majority of my youth dousing me in herbal remedies. At one point, when I was 13, my grandmother said she knew a way to fix what to her was a deep sickness. She tells me she wants me to come to my house tomorrow. “When you come in I’m not going to talk to you. Just do what I tell you and don’t be scared.” Of course I was terrified.

The next day I walked to Grandma’s apartment in the Clark House Highrise in downtown Muscatine. When she opened the door it was dark inside. There was only the faint light of the tall colored saint candles. I took a few steps in and my sweet grandma closes the door behind me then turns around and spits a cloud of alcohol in my face. I think she could see the confusion and hurt in my face, so she steadies me and says, “No tengas miedo,” — don’t be afraid. She then picks up a cigar and instead of sucking on it, she blows into it, right in my face.

We never spoke about it again. It wasn’t until years after her death that I found out that what she was doing was a called a “limpia” — a type of cleansing that stems from a little known facet of Mexican culture known as Santeria, a Mexican form of white magic that is a mix of Christianity and the occult. I don’t know that I ever fully recovered from the shock of my tiny white-haired grandma spitting tequila in my face, so when Marcos asks I give a very measured ambiguous response. I respect it because of my grandma and I know that what she did, she did out of love.

In the past we’ve asked local psychics to read into HPR’s future for the new year, but since I was in Mexico, I wanted to try a Mexican card reader. Not knowing where to start we asked Marcos to take us to The Petial. We pull up to an Oxxo gas station; Marcos tells me we can call him and he’ll pick us up when we’re ready.

The last time I was in The Petial, we’d wandered into this small Santeria store called Tienda Naturalista “Xochipilli.” It’s a tiny space filled with small vials of multi-colored liquids. There’s the faint smell of essential oils in the room, as we squeeze through the aisles with stacks of the familiar saint candles from my grandmother’s house. We ask the short woman behind the counter if she knows of any card readers, and she points me to a counter with a few signs with phone numbers on them. “This one is just around the corner,” she says, as she points to a neon green sign drawn with thick black magic marker. “LECTURA DE BARAJAS Y TRABJOS ESPECIALES CITAS 2933323 CEL. 322 20 50197.” — Card Readings and Special Jobs ... I think we found the right place.

Linda was a short Mexican mom-type. She had streaks of grey in her short jet-black hair. The exterior of her home is covered in Christmas decorations. Her walls brandish photos of her DJ son with many young shirtless Mexican men. When I stepped into her office there was that familiar scent of herbs. Behind her was a large alter with candles and various small statues and charms. While I’m shuffling cards she asks me my name, age and astrological sign. She takes the cards and then says, “Don’t cross your arms at me, or your feet.”

I apologize, fumble and cut the cards again. She has me repeat after her in Spanish, “For my house, for my luck, for my health, for what I desire to know.”

“Think about what you want to know,” she says, “about your work or your life or love.”

I think about HPR, our office, HPR Staff, Diane, John, Chris, Jana, J and Jill… I think about our writers and our sales people.

“Are you visiting?” she asks. “I see you’re traveling, and that you’ll return soon. I see good energy, but with a few blocks. Are you Catholic?” she asks. “Yes,” I say.

“Then ask God to guide you to remove these blocks. A situation in your home is not right. I see a small block. How many people in your home?”

I explain that I live above the HPR, my newspaper, and that above me is my business partner, John, and that it’s all basically under the same roof.

“The reason I ask is because I see that your home is not 100 percent. You know, Raul,” she says as she stares through my eyes and onto the back of my head, “In a home where there is harmony there is happiness.”

“Yes,” I say.

“Where there is happiness there is tranquility. Where there is tranquility there is love.”

“Mmhm,” I mumble.

“Where there is love there is peace. Where there is peace there is God, and where there is God you need for nothing, and there is a small amount of each thing missing from your home. I see that suddenly there are disagreements and a small amount of, well, not fights, but disagreements, discussions and those arguments.”

Linda went on to tell me that I should be cautious of a woman in my office and that she’s totally jealous of you and has bad intentions for you.

“How many women do you have in your office?” she asks.

I tell her that the majority of the people I work with are women. She continues and on several more occasions tells me to be careful of other women being super jelly.

I think about about all the women I work with and our friendship. What could they possibly be jealous of? Office supplies?

Linda asks where my office is. She says she can do a cleansing for an extra charge, but when I explain that my office is in the middle of the frozen tundra she instead steers me to a smudge kit.

“You need to do a cleansing three times a week. It will help remove the blocks.”

There are several parts of the reading where Linda told me about my love life, and at the end of the reading she went to a shelf and pulled out a tall candle of bright red wax with two beefy naked dudes and the words gay love, “amor gay,” written across it. There was a small wax heart from where the wick pokes out. I could feel myself blushing.

After I pay Linda, we go to the living room where Zach is elbow deep in a margarita hanging with his new buddy Milton, Linda’s son.

“Como estas?” I ask him.

“Estoy muy bien,” he says. “I’ve been watching movies and drinking margaritas.”

I’m not sure I got a clear message of HPR’s future. There was talk of jealousy, and not to trust some of the folks around me. I guess maybe that’s the part that’s the most troubling. I set out to get a fun reading about HPR — I never intended to take the reading 100 percent seriously, but the thought of becoming paranoid of everyone around me sounds like a formula for a crappy year.

I think maybe the reason we have a fascination with our future is that fear of the unknown. It’s the not knowing and the uncertainty of what we need to do next. We find comfort in being told that everything is going to be alright. Part of me wants to believe that it is that simple: I get a diagnosis on my future, take the prescribed cleansing and, boom, great year. However, the skeptic in me says, there are no easy answers and that the only way to make a year great is hard work and the trust and support of those around you. I might have to find a second opinion.