He wants to give me a shot at operating the mysterious box, and in order to do so a nearby shrub has to make a donation. Max carefully records my numbers on a form he has brought with him, and then we proceed to the main event. He peers with light blue eyes through his round glasses at his radionics machine, the battery-powered device I'm currently hooked up to that is supposedly scanning my aura like so many bags at the airport. His snowy white hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail.
Max is dressed in all black: black polo shirt, black fleece vest, black slacks, black wristwatch. Our wacky box does not even register as interesting. Just blocks away on Haight Street you can buy weed from a dispensary, ogle multiple people whose leashed cats ride on their shoulders like parrots, or buy Victorian-inspired fetish gear. In true San Francisco fashion, no one around us-not the gym-rat hipster couple, not the French family-seems to care this is happening. The copper rod is getting warm in my hand. When he hits on something, he writes down a score of 461 for my "general vitality" and then he checks my "aura coordination." It's 405.
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