A laundry expert shares exactly how to refresh your winter coat with a spray of vodka

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"Los recuerdos de los hombres son inciertos y el pasado que fue, difiere poco del pasado que no fue."

Los tiempos son extraños pero contienen la misma esencia, con este estandarte regresamos para una última temporada en El Averno Bar.

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THE SAGE

Everyone came from far and wide to hear the soothes of the Sage. Citizens lined up from the door of his stone hut, down the path through his herb garden, past the river, and the mushrooms, and the lichen, and out to highway 8. All day long, the Sage gave them advice.  

In the beginning, when he was a young Sage, he could hardly believe his luck— he’d managed to make a career out of telling people what he thought. His father, a tax lawyer, had advised against it.  

“You want to be a Sage?” he’d sputtered. “Smarten up! What are you gonna do?  Sit out in the woods all day and think about stuff?”  

But somehow the Sage actually became a Sage. Of course, for many years, he had to wander the earth, growing his beard and learning about the truth, beauty and ugliness abundant in life. He’d had some rough times, lonely times, dirty times. But not anymore. Now he was a real, professional Sage.  

And he looked the part, too! He lived in a hut made of stones with his wife—a formidable woman who made tinctures and salves and smoked a pipe. He was scrawny and stooped, elbows and knees and angles, and his beard was long and filthy. He wore rags and ate only curds and whey and porridge. If people didn’t know any better, they’d think he was profoundly unwell.   

But he wasn’t. He was a Sage.  

Unfortunately, this Sage’s heart wasn’t in it.   

Between appointments, he would bet on sports on his phone or watch videos of people having sex. In his water bottle the Sage laced vodka. One time he got drunk and let the dog chew his divining bones, said to have been carved from the femur of a dragon. After that day, the Sage would cast futures on the old bones of a Costco rotisserie chicken.   

What was more egregious, though, was the quality of advice the Sage now gave. Once he was wise. Now, he was full of shit.  

“I’m worried that my kids resent me,” said a woman one day. She had short, stubby fingers that reminded the Sage of hot dogs.   

God, he thought through the warm heaviness of his vodka, what I wouldn’t do for a hotdog right now.  

“Ahem?” said the woman with hotdog fingers. “I said, I think my kids resent me. And my husband sucks,” she added for good measure.  

The Sage blinked. “An old mitten bears many holes,” he offered. “But luckily a hand has fingers.”  

“What the hell does that even mean?”  

The Sage presented his querent with a sachet of tea and a bright blue pebble from the aquarium store.   

“Steep both for a few minutes, stir counterclockwise and drink. Save the teabag. Jog five miles with the stone under your tongue. Jog to the top of the tallest hill you can find. Bury the teabag and swallow the stone. Your children will love you once more.”  

The woman with hotdog fingers left, a perplexed frown across her face.   

The Sage went back to his betting and porn.  

“I’m full of shit,” he complained to his wife one night. “People ask my advice and I make up baloney. I’m a fraud.”  

The Sage’s wife didn’t think he was a fraud, but she did find his despair trivial, and irritating.   

“You’re just burnt out,” she said. “You need a break.”  

“A break!” The Sage cried. “What do you think this is? I’m not a man who works as a Sage. I AM a Sage! I’m THE Sage. This is my vocation!”  

The sage’s wife opened her mouth to argue. She wanted to tell her husband he was just a self-involved child. Then there was a knock on the door.  

When the Sage opened the door, there stood a young guy with a halo of kinky hair.  

“What?” asked the Sage.  

“It’s my dog,” said the young guy with kinky hair. “He’s lost. I love that dog. That dog gives me a reason to wake up in the morning. The other day, I came downstairs to feed him, and he was just gone.”  

“Just gone?”  

“Just gone.”  

The Sage chewed on this information.  

“I’ve been sitting on my porch for three days straight, waiting for him to come home,” said the young guy. “I want to look, but I just don’t know where to start.”   

He gestured around the deep dark forest.   

“He could be anywhere.”   

The young man rubbed a tear from his cheek.   

“Sage, if I don’t find him soon, I’m going to walk off into these trees and never come back.”  

The Sage was tired. He wanted to go to bed. He wanted to smack the young guy with the kinky hair in the face and tell him to go away, but then the Sage had the first stroke of wisdom he’d caught in a long while. He looked into the young man’s big, beautiful eyes, and he saw in there that he was telling the truth. He saw that if this guy didn’t find his dog, or at least start looking for him, he would actually do it. He’d walk out into the trees, and never come back.   

But it was hard to find a solution. And he was tired.  

Then the Sage caught his second stroke of wisdom. He looked over the guy’s shoulder and into the sky, where a comet was burning across the heavens.  

“See that?” He asked.  

The guy nodded.  

“Your dog’s chasing that comet. If you run after it, you’ll find him.”  

“Thank you. You won’t regret this!” Then the young guy turned on his heel and ran off into the woods, and the Sage went back to bed, and his betting, and his internet porn, and his terrible advice, and complaining to his wife, and his self-hatred and aimlessness.  

As days trickled into weeks, and weeks to months, the Sage’s dismissal of the young man began to eat him away like mold. After a while, the Sage just couldn’t take it anymore. Despair finally hit him one afternoon, when he looked around his hut, and everything seemed to be flat, like cardboard props on a stage play.  

“I’m horrible,” he cried, clutching his wife’s elbow. “That poor man! All he wanted was his missing dog, and I sent him after a shooting star!” He shook her, causing her to spill the serum of nettle she was working to distill. “My life is a lie!”  

“I’ve had it with you,” said the Sage’s wife. “You’re right! You are horrible! You’re full of shit and you’re a pain in my ass.”  

“Fine,” he hollered, flying into a rage. “I’m going out into the forest. I might just lay down and die!”  

“Sure you will,” grumbled his wife, turning back to her nettles. Then she felt bad and tried to turn and give the Sage a warm look, but he was already gone.  

He had wandered out into the night.