Post by Mike on Mar 24, 2007 14:09:02 GMT -5
Just a short walk east down Gaines from the Blue Moon, in a strip of
shops which used to be a row of houses, sandwiched between a
seedy-looking wig store (drug front?) and an out of business tattoo
parlor, one can find Tallahassee's premier magic and mystic emporium.
If you happen to be one of the few who don't drive right past on your
way to one of the better cared-for modern strip malls, you might
notice the dingy hand lettered "Occult Shoppe" sign through the
equally dingy window.
Those curious enough to come in will find that the dinginess ends at
the door, though. To your right the cash register sits atop a long,
clean, glass-topped counter extending about halfway to the back of the
store. Inside are all the little, shopliftable trinkets one would
expect: tarot decks, amulets, rings, and earrings, candles, and a few
of the more expensive, rare books. Atop the counter are jars with
hand-written labels naming their contents – what one could only
imagine to be the ingredients for some Weird Sisters' recipe: dried
herbs of all types, quartz crystals, raccoon penis bones, incense
powders, and gumballs ($.25 each). Behind the counter is usually an
employee, usually Ana, usually reading, sitting on a stool.
To your left, just in front of the window, is a big, overstuffed,
well-worn loveseat. There's a little coffee table on either side,
each with a sign asking customers to return books to the shelves once
they've finished looking at them. Next to the signs are piles of
dog-eared books. Along the eastern wall of the shop, extending all
the way to the back and continuing onto the back wall, are shelves
upon shelves of books. They're roughly organized by subject matter,
with more hand-lettered signs indicating where each new category begins.
In the middle of the shop are two scratched up but clean wooden
tables. On each of these are more signs asking patrons to refrain
from smoking, eating, and drinking in the shop, small displays of
paraphernalia and pamphlets, and a suggestion box with a picture of a
wolf clipped out of some National Geographic mod-podged to it with
"We're Wild About Your Ideas" written in big, cheerful letters around it.
At the far end of the shop, breaking up the bookshelves, is a somewhat
wide full-length mirror and a door labeled "employees only." Those
who come back into the office (and anyone who has more than one brain
cell) can tell the mirror is in fact a one-way window. The contents
of the office include an old rotary phone, a coffee pot, a safe, a
mini-fridge, a table and two chairs, and a back-door exiting the shop.
Despite the location and outside appearance, you'll usually find at
least one or two shoppers inside during normal business hours, more on
weekends. These can be aging hippies, would-be hipster Satanists,
curious high schoolers (especially girls looking for love spells),
college students either doing research or pretending to do research
(they're often just as curious as the high school kids, and more
desperate for love), goth kids, and absolutely normal looking folks.
shops which used to be a row of houses, sandwiched between a
seedy-looking wig store (drug front?) and an out of business tattoo
parlor, one can find Tallahassee's premier magic and mystic emporium.
If you happen to be one of the few who don't drive right past on your
way to one of the better cared-for modern strip malls, you might
notice the dingy hand lettered "Occult Shoppe" sign through the
equally dingy window.
Those curious enough to come in will find that the dinginess ends at
the door, though. To your right the cash register sits atop a long,
clean, glass-topped counter extending about halfway to the back of the
store. Inside are all the little, shopliftable trinkets one would
expect: tarot decks, amulets, rings, and earrings, candles, and a few
of the more expensive, rare books. Atop the counter are jars with
hand-written labels naming their contents – what one could only
imagine to be the ingredients for some Weird Sisters' recipe: dried
herbs of all types, quartz crystals, raccoon penis bones, incense
powders, and gumballs ($.25 each). Behind the counter is usually an
employee, usually Ana, usually reading, sitting on a stool.
To your left, just in front of the window, is a big, overstuffed,
well-worn loveseat. There's a little coffee table on either side,
each with a sign asking customers to return books to the shelves once
they've finished looking at them. Next to the signs are piles of
dog-eared books. Along the eastern wall of the shop, extending all
the way to the back and continuing onto the back wall, are shelves
upon shelves of books. They're roughly organized by subject matter,
with more hand-lettered signs indicating where each new category begins.
In the middle of the shop are two scratched up but clean wooden
tables. On each of these are more signs asking patrons to refrain
from smoking, eating, and drinking in the shop, small displays of
paraphernalia and pamphlets, and a suggestion box with a picture of a
wolf clipped out of some National Geographic mod-podged to it with
"We're Wild About Your Ideas" written in big, cheerful letters around it.
At the far end of the shop, breaking up the bookshelves, is a somewhat
wide full-length mirror and a door labeled "employees only." Those
who come back into the office (and anyone who has more than one brain
cell) can tell the mirror is in fact a one-way window. The contents
of the office include an old rotary phone, a coffee pot, a safe, a
mini-fridge, a table and two chairs, and a back-door exiting the shop.
Despite the location and outside appearance, you'll usually find at
least one or two shoppers inside during normal business hours, more on
weekends. These can be aging hippies, would-be hipster Satanists,
curious high schoolers (especially girls looking for love spells),
college students either doing research or pretending to do research
(they're often just as curious as the high school kids, and more
desperate for love), goth kids, and absolutely normal looking folks.