The first time I drove into Santa Fe was last week. I noticed work crews of prisoners in orange jumpsuits picking up trash by the city roadside, in a heavy traffic area. A city bus pulled away from the corner, revealing more orange-clad workers, trash bags in hand, bending over.  And then all of a sudden, it was like slow motion. I watched one of the guys stumble and try to catch himself, but he just kept falling. I actually had time to think, “Oh my god, I think that guy’s gonna fall in the street!”

And then that is exactly what happened. I watched the guy fall - right into the busy six-lane divided highway - right in front of my car. Only thankfully he was up the street nearly a block, so by the time I approached, he’d already scrambled back up to the sidewalk.

It reminds me of the time I was riding my bike in Chicago under the Fullerton street exit off of I-95 . It was about 10PM. I was on a neighborhood street that sort of branched off from the on-ramp. I had to ride past the on-ramp entrance to continue down the street. And for some unknown reason, just as I rode across the on-ramp, I busted HARD and fast on my bike, a rarity for me.

The side of my face was all of a sudden lying flat on the smooth, oily pavement of the busy Interstate on-ramp and the wind was knocked out of me.  I actually had enough time to think to myself, “Holy Shit! I’m lucky that there are no cars coming at this moment!” before scrambling up and picking up my bicycle and getting the hell out of that busy thoroughfare.  

I worked in The Burque for one week last November. When I was here that last time, I splurged and purchased a fine silver and turquoise Pakistani necklace from a Swedish woman with an intense handshake who runs a new-age type crystal shoppe/bookstore. I wore the necklace to my next destination, Chicago, whereupon, the very next day, one of the platelet hinges snapped. Admittedly, this happened while I was dancing super-hard with a bunch of friends in front of a juke box at one of my favorite Chicago beer joints, Estelle’s. Needless to say, I was a bit disappointed, but also, kind of impressed with myself that I was able to break a hundred dollar necklace simply by some crazy booty-shakin’.

Yesterday, I was in Inga’s store again, this time purchasing a hard-to-find book. I re-introduce myself and mention that I purchased a necklace last fall - and that it broke two days later. Inga pauses, looks at me over the top of her bifocals with a gaze equally as intense as her soul-stroking handshake and says very evenly, “You know, dear, zat vhen someting like dis happens, it is because zat necklace has protected you from some-sing.”

“What?” I ask. I don’t really know what I was expecting her to do about the busted merchandise, but I truly wasn’t expecting her to tell me that the necklace saved me from some sort of attack - psychic or otherwise.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s true. Once, I was coming home across a darkened parking lot, and my necklace broke.” She shuddered. “I know it protected me from some-sing!” She smiles. “I can recommend someone to fix it . . . ”

For the record - I do have a tendency to believe these sorts of things, but that belief system certainly has limitations. The only thing that I can’t shake about her explanation is that . . . . OK, let’s pretend that she’s correct and that it did “save me” from some-sing. Why did it break whilst I was dancing, surrounded by friends? I have to hand the prize of proprietary excuses to my local crystal shoppe owner, Inga. I’ll be back to her store; it’s a good store. I just won’t buy any more jewelry there.