Talk to the Hand

I didn’t want to be there. 

We had been having a thoroughly pleasant, this-worldly Saturday afternoon of shopping when we passed a flimsy, weathered plastic sign that read “$5 Psychic” in black block letters. 

As soon as I saw the sign, I knew what was coming. Sure enough, Nan smiled up at me. “Can we go?’ she asked. And like any good Alabama-born, sweet-tea Presbyterian, I said no. 

What kind of sucker did she take me for? She told me about a friend who “went to a psychic who predicted everything.” 

I countered with a friend who, out of curiosity, walked into a psychic’s booth—and back out again without either a true prediction or his wallet. 

Did I invent this story for the purposes of the moment? Yes. Was it “true”? Of course! 

But she begged and prodded, and, despite my obvious misgivings, I yielded. If the meek shall inherit the earth, I guess I’ll be fine. 

So there I sat, on a sticky leather couch, handing over a $20 bill to a middle-aged woman double-fisting a cigarette and a can of Diet Coke. 

“Which da ya want?” she barked, nodding at a board that, in a past life, could have been the menu at a barbecue joint.

The options: Crystal Ball Prediction, $40; Tarot Cards, $30; Palm Reading, $10; Horoscope, $5. Horoscopes were easy enough to find on our own time. I said we’d take a palm reading each. 

The psychic frowned at our thrift and then glanced at Nan’s palms. Another long pull on the cigarette. “Okay, let’s see,” she said in a bored monotone. “Umm .  .  . ya surrounded by fake friends.” 

It was like sitting backstage with an exhausted, third-rate actress. I’d been expecting a scam, but Jessica’s lack of dramatic effort astounded me. It was clear that, unless we shelled out the cash for the big-ticket items, we were not going to get this woman’s best performance. Or, for that matter, any performance.  

The psychic droned on about the shallowness of Nan’s friends. “But stick with him,” she said, motioning to me. “He’s very wise.”

At last, I thought. Now we’re getting our money’s worth! 

She continued, turning to me. “Ya very attractive. Women love ya. And ya flirtatious, but only when ya single.”

I flushed slightly at this, but, thinking it out of place to thank her, merely nodded. She wasn’t done.

“Ya gonna be very successful in business. What are ya majoring in?” 

“Poetry,” I replied. 

“Oh.” She paused, as if stumped. After a moment’s thought, she said, “Well, ya gonna be a famous poet, then. But ya frustrated because ya parents are pressurin’ ya into .  .  . what are they pressurin’ ya into?”

“They’ve encouraged me to do whatever I want!” I said. 

“Oh.” Another pause. I could almost hear the gears whirring. “So maybe it’s more of a mental thing I’m gettin’ from ya. Or maybe ya frustrated because ya parents don’t have an opinion on ya future!” She leaned back in satisfaction, tapping her cigarette butt on the rim of an empty Diet Coke can. 

She went on to tell me about the two sons I would have and the piles of money. Finally, she turned back to my girlfriend, who had been sitting neglected during this string of compliments. “You’ll be happy, too,” she said.

“Okay, I gotta run.” 

She lit another cigarette and stood up. Nan stopped her, asking, “Doesn’t the palm reading come with a horoscope as well?”

“That’ll be an extra five bucks each,” said Jessica. When we declined, she said, “Okay I’ll give them to ya both for five.” If the fortune-telling business goes under, don’t be surprised to see this woman selling used cars.

We thanked her and said we’d be leaving. As we walked out, she relented and asked us our signs. Nan said, “Aries.” I hesitated. “Sagittarius?” 

 “Yeah, you two are good together,” the psychic assured us. “Sagittarius is compatible with .  .  . um .  .  . Aries, Virgo, and Scorpio. At least I think so. You can look it up online!” 

With that, she swept up our crumpled cash and disappeared through a black curtain, leaving only a wisp of smoke and the scent of Marlboro Reds.