When I was younger, my even younger cousin and I went to see a Fortune Teller. We were curious about our futures, the way early-20-somethings are when they are about to finish college. In those days, anyway.
I should have known that any Seer who has to pay storefront rent, in a building facing a busy street, wasn’t into prognosticating because she wanted to help. But L and I were too entranced by the red velvet curtains and the large crystals and the incense wafting around the front room, to notice the cash box..
I don’t remember what the Fortune Teller looked like; it was pretty dark in there. But I do remember she read for L first, and then me, and spoke in a hushed whisper to both of us so that we couldn’t hear each other’s futures.
After we each paid our $15 and walked back to L’s car, we both confessed (although we were supposed to keep it a secret) we couldn’t have a future, because we were cursed. And we would need to each bring $50 each back for the Teller to lift our curse by lighting a special candle and singing a special Curse-Lifter song. And then, she could tell our futures.
Neither of us had $50 to spare, and if we did, we would have spent it on our selves, It was unanimous, we weren’t going back. We couldn’t afford to.
“What if I’m truly cursed?” L sighed.
” You’re not – well, not until you get dumped by Stan,” I said, helpfully. “And maybe that will be a good thing. You won’t have to give him $50 to keep seeing you.”
L didn’t think I was funny, so we rode, in silence, back to her house.
I don’t know about her and Stan, but the un-Fortunate loss of my $15 might have turned out all right for me, anyway. It helped me stay a dedicated skeptic about anything unexplainable – including UFOs, ghosts, TV psychics and even Dear Abby newspaper love-advice columns.
That is until some months ago, when a tragedy ripped me from my comfort zone and thrust me, high and mighty, into the Great Enigmatic of talking with ghosts. And, then, I wasn’t such a skeptic anymore.
