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looked at the “shaman” and pondered what thought process it took for him to craft this odd little image. I wondered what his distraught Jewish mother must think. “My son, the SHA man,” I could hear her crying, with a roll of her eyes. Did he scour the Internet looking for “shaman props” to incorporate into his shtick? How many New Age workshops did he sit through in order to develop this ridiculous persona?
    People are always saying I’m judgmental. Screw ‘em. It’s not judgmental; it’s called observation . I suggest you learn it. If more people would take the time to observe other people and not just accept what they see on the surface as fact, they wouldn’t have so many damn problems. I’m not saying
they’d be happier; I’m saying their lives wouldn’t be so complicated. As a cop, I can’t help it. It’s in my blood to probe beneath the surface. Once you learn the basics of reading body language, posturing, intonations and all the other subtle diagnostic tools good cops use to discern what’s in front of them, you gotta go to the next level, and that next level is unexplainable. It’s a knowing that grips you and leads you toward the truth.
    With me, what you see is what you get. No illusions here. But I’m an odd bird in a flock of fakers. I looked around the crowd in Sedona as our “shaman” floated another cloud of sweetgrass across the air. God, what a motley bunch. Those who weren’t standing in bare feet were wearing flip-flops. Who in the hell wears flip-flops to a damn “spiritual blessing”? I even spotted one guy wearing a tenement T-shirt. You know? Those sleeveless numbers that are ribbed and so thin you can see the outline of the guy’s nipples if a cold wind blows? I thought this guy was waiting around to load up the folding chairs before we left for the “honoring of the elements” down by the water feature, but apparently he was a cousin of Lisa’s. America, say hello to your future: It’s wearing a damn tenement tee and flip-flops.
    We’re standing around this stagnant fountain that supposedly symbolizes “emotional freedom” as Mike and his future bride are repeating their “intentions” to each other and I can’t take my eyes off this guy in the tenement tee. Lisa’s cousin. I’m starting to wonder if maybe I busted him for doobie years ago. I’ve got a good memory for faces, and I can remember most of the boneheads I’ve taken down over the last two decades. But I can’t figure this one out. Then he looks over at me and nods his head like he’s acknowledging me. Now I’m really confused and I can’t focus that much,
especially after Mike and Lisa jump on their road bikes to cruise down the hill to the eco-friendly reception where all the food is green…even the cake. (I’m serious. I can’t make up this shit.) I start to move toward the crowd and this wingnut in the tenement tee makes a beeline for me.
    “Hey, Jane,” he says in a hushed voice, his orange flip-flops collecting another layer of dirt and gravel with each step.
    He’s looking more familiar at this point, but I still can’t place him. I nod to him but keep up the wall around me.
    “I guess we’re gonna be related by marriage now,” he says with a smile, “me the cousin of the bride, you the sister of the groom.”
    God help me , I’m thinking.
    “This’ll be a different kind of wedding for you and me, huh?” he says.
    I bite. “Different in what way?”
    “Well, for one, we’ll remember it, and for another, we won’t make asses of ourselves.”
    And that is when I knew where I’ve seen this guy. He sits across from me on the plaid couch with the bad springs in the basement of the Methodist church where they hold the weekly AA meeting.
    For those of you who didn’t get the memo, I’m sober. (I’m also back working in Denver Homicide after some “negotiations” with Sergeant Weyler. Now I’m Sergeant Detective Jane Perry, for what it’s worth.)
    I’m still getting