The Bad Witch doesn’t sit in the lap of luxury often enough to realize this, but Magick is sort of like room-service. Especially breakfast.
Think about it.
My first thought was about how a simple call (or, a not-so-simple call if you are trying to memorize Bornless) can provide for one’s needs. In a way that nourishes you where you are: bed head, morning-breath, crusty-eyes, extra-large sweatshirt, and all.
It seemed so Magickal. One minute I was asleep dreaming of an epic battle with the photocopier in the English Department, the next, I had an angelic man at my door with libations of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice – blessings of bacon and coffee. He swept into my room, left my requested victuals, and swept out. Like the fairy-folk. But without the body paint. My first thought was, “Ooooh, Magick!”
Then I ate my eggs.
Eggs can make a girl think a little harder about things. Yes, indeed. Room service is a lot like Magick, but not in an “Ooooh,” “Ahhhhhh,” “Presto” sort-of-way. In a “yeah-that-totally-makes-sense” sort of way. The hotel was designed (with an expansive kitchen) to be a place of comfort; the staff was hired and trained to provide such comforts; each room is equipped with a booklet of instructions for acquiring said comforts. And I don’t mean the Gidion’s book in the night-stand, I mean “Guest Services Directory” as grimore.
Here’s what I was thinking:
On Friday, I placed my “this-is-what-I-want-for-breakfast” card on my door. It indicated what time I wanted it to arrive and everything. Come eight-thirty AM, however, no coffee. It was very disappointing.
So I called down to the concierge, she apologized and comp’ed my breakfast. It arrived rather quickly, and everything was cooked to perfection. No small task if you’ve ever tried making an egg for yours-truly. My milk was a little warmer than I would have liked, but it was only going in coffee anyway. I thought, shite, I forgot to ask for Tobasco. And what, exactly, am I supposed to do with two pads of butter?
I thought of calling room service to tell them how impressed I was with the fact that the yolk of my egg was silken and warm but the white of my egg was entirely cooked-through. TBW is fully capable of sending a dish back to the kitchen, but is also just as quick to compliment a good chef. I’m as liberal with praise as I am criticism. But I didn’t call this time.
On Saturday, I placed the same card on the door (the one they didn’t take from Friday). It had the same order on it. But this time, one egg was underdone, one overdone. One item was missing from the plate and in its stead was a bowl of grits. No butter. The only sweetener I was given was Splenda and my milk was cold. The bacon was perfect. I haven’t eaten the muffin yet. ‘Cause damn. That’s a lot of food.
My story told, here’s what breakfast taught me about Magick.
- Say thanks. Your eggs will be better for it in the morning.
- Tip well. This is not unrelated to giving thanks but while the chef thrives on praise, the server thrives on cash. The initiator is one entity, the intercessors are others. Give them both their due.
- If you want Tobasco, you have to ask for Tobasco. How is the kitchen staff supposed to know you want something that specific unless you ask. Not everyone wants a fiery digestive element. But if you like that sort of thing . . . Chances are they’ll have it. If they don’t, they’ll send you the next-best-thing. Just like Magick. Unlike a hotel kitchen staff that knows patrons will often put red condiments on their eggs, non-human forces don’t always grasp human desires and language – rather, we don’t always use the right language to express nebulous human desires. (Granted, sometimes they do understand and just like to fuck with us.) So sometimes we have to settle for the next-best-thing. Or an interpretation of next-best-thing. Now, if the-next-best thing is ketchup, that’s too bad. If their interpretation of the-next-best-thing is Draino, you’re screwed. Don’t put it on your eggs. Just because it came from an emissary of the divine does not mean it’s good for you. Use your head.
- Some days you will get butter. Some days you will get grits. Might wanna save the one ‘til t’other arrives.
- Even if you hit the snooze button because you stayed up too late watching that silly Kiera Knightly movie, your breakfast will come. Oh, yes. It will be on its way whether you are ready for it or not. You put the request out there – bacon is on its way.
- You have to open the door to let the bacon-bearer in.
- If you place an order and it doesn’t arrive, it’s OK to call the front desk. They want you happy. They will bring you food.
- Sometimes it’s better to save the muffin for later. (I don’t really know what it means Magickally – but, whatever, it’s early. I’m sure I’ll understand the metaphor at mid-morning snack-time.)
Maid service, on the other hand, is orbital and predictable. I typically find it an intrusion. (Unless I need towels, that is.) I usually leave the “do not disturb” sign out and catch the cleaning staff on their retrograde trip. I tip them when I check out.
Well, the sun is up. My belly’s full. I’m caffeinated, and check-out’s in two-point-five hours. Back to work.
Blessings of bacon, quarks, and 93!
 No, not really. He was somehow tubby and gangly at the same time. But he did have bacon.
 And of providing a place for getting certain kinds of work done. Travel for meetings and what-not. Yea, yea. I’ll get back to the book in a minute.
 There was also a Book of Mormon in the nightstand. Do they know something about the next White House resident that we don’t?
 Which freaked me out. I wondered, “Did they look at the one from yesterday and surmise that this was what I used?” Then I remembered writing it on the order-form. “Splenda.” Give a girl a break. I stayed up until two and it was only eight-fifteen.