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Psychic Babble
Originally Publishid in the Boston Phoenix
I was bored, that’s my excuse. And it seemed like such a harmless maneuver: "Palm Readings — $10." I was in my early 20s, finishing another week at a dead-end job and spending Friday night alone — there’s a lot worse I could have spent 10 bucks on. Besides, while I don’t claim to understand the economics of the psychic world, 10 dollars sounded like a pretty good deal for getting someone to plug into the nether regions and download my future. If I could see the future, I’d charge at least 50 bucks a pop…or, more likely, I’d go down to the track and read horse hooves.
But it wasn’t even the deal itself that struck me, since I don’t particularly believe in psychics. Or, to be more accurate, I believe that if it is possible to lock into an alternate universe, the people who have mastered this skill aren't whoring it out of a store front next to a kosher bakery at eleven o’clock on Friday night. But what did interest me was the chance to buy some comfort. Some good ol’ fashioned, baseless reassurance that everything was going to be OK. I was a recent college graduate and had just spent the better part of my afternoon emptying trash cans, ten bucks seemed a small price to pay for a little, “Wow, the way your ‘head line’ curves here tells me you will find great success pursuing your dreams.” Or maybe a little, “Mmmmmm, where your ‘heart line’ intersects your ‘life line.’ the groove runs deep. This means you will marry your soul mate. You are lucky.”
I did not plan on hearing I was cursed.
When I entered the shop, all bright-eyed and full of hope, the psychic was busy with another client — no doubt someone who would live to a happy and healthy age 90.
But she told me she had a relative on hand who would do my reading for half-price. 5 bucks. And she assured me this woman was blessed with the same family gift for seeing the future. And why not? I inherited my aunt’s flair for decorating. I signed in as she disappeared behind an intricate wall of draperies -- the kind of dark toned curtains everyone in the psychic business seems to use to convert one-room storefronts into mysterious labyrinths of divination. I’m pretty sure they sell them at Cost Plus.
When the woman returned, the reason for my discount became clear: her relative was a twelve-year-old girl -- not normally the go-to demographic for reassurance. The last time a twelve-year-old girl gave me psychic advice, it was an unpleasant experience involving origami. “What’s you’re favorite color? B – L – U – E. Oh, you’re a booger head.”
She was a cute girl, with olive skin and sensibly cut black hair, dressed in standard issue Gap Kids: jeans, sneakers and a white t-shirt. None of this helped with her psychic street cred. She did have a certain worldly expression, but it was more the kind of look you see on kids who spend summers working in their parents’ liquor store, endlessly ringing up six packs of Old English and cartons of Marlboros.
Her mother introduced us with the nonchalant air people often use when trying to convince you something is completely normal. And I am an absolute sucker for that trick. If everyone else seems cool with the situation, hey, I’m cool.
“This is my daughter,” she said, “She will be happy to do your reading.” Oh, yeah, sure. Before I even had a chance to reconsider – or think of the possible OSHA implications of a 12 year-old working past 7 p.m. – the mom went back to her client, leaving me alone with the child. I looked down at her and, for a moment, felt like I had just volunteered for some kind of psychic Big Brother program.
But the girl had obviously been down this road before. She knew the best thing to do was act quickly and decisively. “Please,” she said, motioning me toward the door, “take a seat outside, let us begin.”
Um….outside? We were on Fairfax, a few doors down from Canter’s, I thought about protesting, but then decided asking a 12 year-old girl if there was somewhere a little more private we could go was probably a bad idea.
So I resigned myself to a night of public humiliation and possibly some origami.
The kid led me to a set of rod iron patio furniture just outside the front door. We sat down and she took my hand. At this point, I believe a show let out from Largo. After a few minutes of unusually intense concentration for a twelve-year old -- and a some unpleasant stares from Amy Mann fans going to grab a late night Danish --she spoke.
"Do you have any enemies?"
What the hell? This kid was 12. I was expecting something more like “I see your future, I see your future run. Run future, run.”
I explained to the girl that I was an office assistant. I don't have enemies; I have people who feel sorry for me.
"Well, someone has put a curse on you,” she insisted.
This was not sounding like a pre-amble to, “You’re going to get a raise,” or “Boy look at that life line.”
“Do you have any idea who would want to put a curse on you?"
I assured her I didn't travel in those kinds of circles. Mostly, my friends just write on me when I'm passed out.
"You are single, yes?"
Now there's the kind of psychic deduction I like to see: I'm alone, getting my palm read by a 12 year-old on Friday night and she can tell I'm single.
"Until the curse is lifted,” she continued, “you will not find love."
I began to miss those little origami things. “And how might I get this curse removed?"
"I have to burn a candle for you. For this,” she actually said with a straight face, “there is only a fifty dollar charge."
What? I began to take back my hand. I couldn’t believe it. This kid was actually going for a one-thousand percent upsell. That’s just unprofessional, even for a 12 year-old. I mean, show a little restraint. Maybe push the 10 dollar tarot reading, or some 5 dollar crystals. But 50 bucks? There’s a reason McDonald’s never asks, “you want a 12 year tawny port with that?”
So, under extreme protest and a lot of talk about how curses don't care whether or not you believe in them, I paid little Donald Trump her 5 bucks, and headed home. Friday night TV may suck, I thought, but at least “Hanging with Mr. Coooper” never tells me I’m cursed.
A few days later, I went to New York for a completely undeserved week of debauchery. In lieu of baseless reassurance, I decided to go for a full frontal assault on my liver. When I returned home my answering machine was full of the usual fare: "Dude, pick up the phone, I know you’re home ... wake up.” But then, an oddly familiar voice came on, "Alan, it’s very important that you come down to see me as soon as possible. It’s about the curse."
A few things struck me as I entered the psychic shop for the second time: One, those drapes are definitely from Cost Plus; two, I really need an unlisted phone number; and three, I apparently do believe in psychics.
The girl me at the door, somehow managing to look dour in red, size 2 Chuck Taylors. "Thank god you're here. I was so worried. The curse was much worse than I thought, you were in great danger. I've been trying to reach you for five days. You were on a trip?" Again with the uncanny psychic ability. "I know you told me not to, but I couldn't sit by and let this happen. Your plane was going to crash. I stayed up all last night burning a candle for you."
"And I suppose you now want your fifty dollars?"
"I've been up for 24 hours burning the candle."
"And if I tell you I'm not going to pay."
"Well, the curse will come back."
Believe it or not this is where the story gets embarrassing. I gave her the fifty bucks.
Why? Well, a strong case could be made that I’m just an idiot. But I could also argue, that hey, who the hell wants to be cursed? I mean, listen, I may not understand the mechanics of soothe saying, but I also have no earthly idea how a friggen plane stays in the air. If you ask me, they are both equally suspect processes. What I don’t need is to sit on a plane and, with every bump and weird engine noise and delayed take-off, think, "oh shit, the curse."
But also, I think I paid out of hope.
At the time, my life wasn’t quite panning out as planed. I was struggling professionally, I was unfulfilled personally…nothing was quite working out for me. The psychic took my feelings of frustration and self-doubt and gave it a name. And then she burned a candle and made it go away.
So, yes it may seem, like I was grifted by a 12 year-old girl. But I was really given what I needed -- a little baseless reassurance. Granted, it cost more than I thought it would, but in the end I was told what I needed to hear, that everything would be OK.
And you know what, it has been. I don’t empty trash cans anymore. I’m in a great relationship. I’m no longer cursed. Could things be better? Sure. But they could be a hell of a lot worse. I don’t have to spend my life wondering “what if” as my dreams crash around me. I covered all my bases.
At the very least, I now know if I'm ever on a plane that's going down, it sure as hell isn't my fault.
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