The Wizard of Asheville
1.
When you meet the wizard of Asheville, he will wear nothing but a kilt and wolf tail. Don’t question it. The wolf tail will swing between his legs when he walks. Notice this—his walk, that confident, boyish gait. But don’t stare.
2.
The wizard is called a wizard for many reasons. First: the hat, makeshift from a prior cowboy cap. His beard, a leprechaun red. He will tell you: “Ask any homeless person where I am, and they will always know.” Laugh and lie that you believe him.
3.
The wizard will also wear: a second skin of tattoos, thick and keloid; a leather cord around his neck, a moon-shaped pendant; thick black boots.
4.
You are there to research the drug underbelly of Asheville. Though, to you, it will seem like the belly is under nothing: the drug life is open and fatty and flaunted. You will attend meetings at drug clinics, study needle sharing, approach strangers with questions. Do not be shy about this. Go in pairs. Learn to distinguish the demographics: heroin vs. meth vs. cocaine.
5.
Try the wizard’s theory. Approach a homeless woman with gray hair and meth mouth, the one in red flannel and shorts. Ask—without laughing, this much is important—“Have you seen the wizard of Asheville?” Expect the woman to scowl, accuse you of wasting her time. Thank her when she says, “Why of course—he’s in Pritchard Park.”
6.
Bring your notebook, your Nikon. Hydrate, stay calm. These strangers in the street are harmless, are kind. They want to play chess and tell you stories. They adopt stray dogs and write poetry. They will let you take their picture.
7.
He will smile, coy, and share the other reason he is called the wizard: “I’m the Weed Wizard.” He will say this while holding a glass ball to the sun, catching the light for his cigarette. He will tell you how he runs through the streets of Asheville at night, howling when he has the “magic.” The street people know this as their signal. They know where to gather.
8.
The straight facts: his name is Emris Ouroboros. He is twenty-three years young. He is from Oregon and has found himself in the Portland of the south. He is a hitchhiker, a trip taker, a light artist, a magician, a cult leader of the homeless, a lady’s man, a talker.
9.
Eventually, when the deadline is near, ask him about the skin art, pink as the raw tissue beneath a fingernail. He will tell the story of each one: the crescent on his chest, the bear paw, the Celtic braid. He will tell you how he etched himself, magnifying glass to his skin—his brain far from his body, this body burned and beautiful with drawings. He will flex in the sun. And when he moves, the shapes will move. Notice this, admire. See how they take on a light and life of their own.
