Trina Kamp, babes, is Smilin’ Jack of the Spirit World: a regular ectoplasmic air ace. Flaps up and gunning it, Trina first took off from her mortal body at age three: and a lot of solo flight-time since. At age nine, while in some astral holding pattern, she locked wingtips with one Dr. Doran. Dr. D., understand, is a five-hundred-year-old British physician, who was then very short of earth-plane office space. The rental agreement went like this: when out doing her ethereal Immelmanns, Trina would sublet her body to Dr. D. —so that he could give group consultations all over America at $15 per consult. Soot cheap: on the other hand D.’s been practicing since 1480 or there- around and he’s still a GP. Something fish-fragrant about that: he should at least be a specialist by now. And, anyway, how will this session look on my Blue Cross quintuplicate?
The trance circle could remind me of an obstetrician’s waiting room: all women pretty much. And expectant. Intense/shy cosmic-consciousness women: the sort that stare piercingly at you —but are wall-eyed and somehow just miss. Who eat live yeast in a lotus squat. Trina’s husband, Steve, our supernatural air traffic controller, is sucking on icebox-materialized beer. Two gorgeous Kamp children, already glib in holistic cant, sit attendance near Trina’s feet. I’ve heard the pre-teen son give counsel: “You should meditate more. It raises your life force.” And the daughter, school notebook lapped, will sign you up for private sessions with the ghostly physician. Trina is attractive and, well, built like a haunted brick outhouse: very few women would leave a figure of that kind willingly. But I note this clenchedness around the mouth: as though Trina were saying fast-buck, fast-buck silently and often.
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