Crystal Healing

When I arrived at the crystal store, a man with a toolbox was kneeling in front of the door, trying to fix the buzzer. A woman with graying hair, glasses, and a pendulum necklace was yelling at him. “If they just hear a doorbell noise, how are they supposed to know that we've buzzed them in? And that’s another thing. This thing sticks. Every time.” She stepped into the store and called the owner from an analog phone with a label that said “PASSWORD: ROCKS.” I followed her in.

“Dennis? I've got the locksmith here. He is a locksmith, right?”

Inside, the store looked like Ali Baba’s cave. Every surface except for the carpeted floor was covered with trays of crystals, gemstones, and meteorites, sparkling and glittering in the light. Signs with warnings like “STEALING CRYSTALS IS BAD KARMA” and “SMILE YOU’RE ON CAMERA” were stuck to the shelves. It was understandable: I had the urge to come back with a large pillowcase and stuff everything inside.

I sat down on the floor and began picking up marble-sized stones. It felt like being eight years old and getting one of those gemstone, rock, and mineral sets for my birthday. Back then, I spent hours taking out the stones and turning them over in my hands: jagged amethyst, citrine like a slice of orange, gleaming obsidian, striped tiger’s eye, pale pink rose quartz, and glittering pyrite.

Later, as a teenager, I would see a flyer in a health food store and find it absurd that anyone would spend upwards of a hundred dollars at a time to be “healed” by crystals. After all, they could easily look online, and find thousands of articles telling them that it was a scam. But I think my eight-year old self might have understood. Something about the otherworldly look and feel of gemstones made it seem possible that they could hold magic.

I looked around at the seemingly ordinary people in the store, and wondered if they believed in it all. They were a mixture of average, unremarkable New Yorkers, people who you would pass on the street without a second thought. Maybe they just thought crystals were pretty. Maybe they were jewelry designers or store buyers.

I edged closer to a couple sitting close together on the floor, filling a tray with the inexpensive crystals on the bottom shelves. “There’s so much energy here,” the woman was saying. “That’s why I was panting on the stairs.” Definitely believers. They moved to the next aisle, and I stood up to let them pass, apologizing for blocking their way. “You’re fine,” the man said, “There was a reason why you were down there. And now there’s a reason why you are up here.”

There wasn't, really. I had already found the two crystals that I wanted, a rough-cut citrine the size of my palm and a small, slightly damaged green and purple wand. I paid and left. The locksmith was still out in the hall, fiddling with the buzzer on the door.

“Do you believe in this stuff?” I asked.

He looked at me, raised one eyebrow, smirked, and shook his head.

“Do you?”