Two writer friends and I went to a psychic for a palm and tarot card reading. It was in a home, a small house with neon sign that advertised “Palm Reader.”
When we walked inside, we found ourselves in a screened-in porch decorated in Jesus tchotchkes.
Is Jesus on board with their business? Seems like something that might be opposed in the Bible. Maybe not.
A sign next to the doorbell instructed us to ring.
“But if they’re psychics, shouldn’t they know we’re here?”
We were each given a different psychic.
We were then sequestered into separate rooms, although one room led to both others. I was in the living room which connected doorlessly to the dining room, where Jen sat at the table. Suzanne was led onto the front porch, among the Jesus tchotchkes.
They started off asking us each to make two wishes: one to keep and one to share. Then, we held out our palms. They read our life lines, each was long.
Jen will live to 81,
me to 88 or 89,
Suzanne to the ripe old age of 93.
I was told that I have a smile on the outside, but not always on the inside. That what I want most of all is peace of mind.
And then the tarot cards came out and I learned that I will move, somewhere near water and that the move will be good for me. I worry about my children, one more than the other. I am concerned about their safety, but it is alright: they will be safe.
I was born under great luck, but the luck hasn’t come yet. But it will: in the 5-7 years. I will be successful in business. I won’t have to worry about money.
At the end, my psychic asked if I was satisfied with my reading, then rose to take a phone call. In the background, “The Flying Nun” had played on the television in the corner of the living room the entire time. No one had bothered to turn it off.
“Tell your friends about us,” my psychic suggested in parting. And then, we exited this surreal little house and entered the futures they had predicted for us, to see what will come true.