More articles by Brian JosepherWhat the Psychic Saw, part IIWhat the Psychic Saw, part II
There’s a tradition on Sundays in New York City: the street fair. As spring becomes summer, the street fair begins on lower Broadway. With each passing Sunday the fair advances uptown, twenty blocks or so at a time. By early October, the fair reaches the Upper West Side. On the first Sunday of October, the fair takes over the blocks of Broadway, from 86th street to 90th street. The material sold doesn’t change from week to week, month to month, year to year. Junk jewelry, ordinary earrings, corn on the cob, pseudo-artistic renderings of the Malibu or Cape Cod seashore, fried foods, lots and lots of socks. The pungent smell of fried foods lingers for days afterwards. It’s like living in a McDonalds for a week.
This past Sunday I raced out to the street fair. Normally, I stay inside, lock my windows, hope for torrential rain. This past Sunday I anticipated the fair. I admit, I hungered for the fair.
I was on the street at half past seven in the morning. I watched the city’s tow trucks drag the parked cars away. I watched the organizers of the fair make Broadway into a map, drawing the proportions of each stall in chalk on the street. I then watched the vendors build their makeshift stalls. Aluminum polls, white tent-like tops. The food vendors began their barbecue preparations.
I went looking for a specific vendor. Last year, for the first time, I noticed a psychic amongst the rabble (or rubble). I noticed how she set up her stall. She didn’t have much to set up. A table, a couple of chairs. She didn’t use tarot cards. She didn’t display a crystal ball. She wore a Burmese ruby on her finger. The color of pigeon’s blood. The fluorescence of the ring made it difficult to ignore. The ring had nothing to do with her psychic readings. She put out a sign on her table: “The Broadway Psychic’s Psychic Readings.”
Last year, I watched the psychic from a distance. She sat alone. Nobody approached her stall. Customers ate corn on the periphery of her stall. Customers looked at Salvation Army-like furniture. Customers bought socks. Nobody purchased a reading.
I approached. Cautiously, at first. Timid perhaps. When I reached her table, I saw the identifying mark. A mole on the psychic’s cheek. Bigger than a beauty mark. Various shades of black. The closer to the center, the darker the mole became.
I sat for a reading. I wrote about the experience in a column a year ago, entitled “What the Psychic Saw.” I wrote that the psychic asked for your hand. Not as a palm-reader might. Not with the expectation of seeing a timeline etched into skin. The psychic wasn’t interested in looking at your palm. The psychic was interested in a handshake. The psychic wanted to touch skin.
Last year, as I offered my hand, I felt a rather pronounced fear. What would she find in my future? What would she see? How accurate would she be? I was blinded by the fluorescence of the Burmese ruby on her finger. The color of pigeon’s blood.
We shook hands. She faded in and out. She seemed to disappear inwardly. One moment: crystal clear, occupying space. The next moment: a blind spot. Like staring at the sun. Retinas fried.
In her eyelids, she saw events. She saw, for instance, the Colorado Rockies winning the World Series. The Rockies then were on quite a run, winning 20 of 21 games. That run ended in the World Series. The Rockies were swept by the Boston Red Sox.
The psychic was inaccurate. Also, she let my appearance cloud her judgment. Last year, I wore my purple Colorado Rockies baseball cap.
That was not her only inaccuracy. She described another event seen in her eyelids: “A woman in pink. A nation watching. A cold, gray sky. She’s giving a speech. She’s talking about the future. She says there’s work to do. She says that her job, as she sees it, is to mend fences. She wants her presidency, she says, to be about healing.”
Last year, I interrupted her reading. “You’re talking about Hillary Clinton?” I said. “I don’t think she can win. I don’t think the Electoral College map works in her favor. Or any Democrat’s, for that matter.” I didn’t question then whether she could win the Democratic nomination. I took that for granted.
“You’re talking about an old map,” the psychic responded, her eyes still closed, her hand still gripping mine. “You’re talking about red and blue states. The new color is pink. Women want a female president.”
Apparently not, or at least that female for president. We all know how the last year played out. We also know, from the most recent polls, that women don’t want a female for vice president either. Or at least this female running for vice president.
Of course, polls change quickly.
When I found my vendor, this past Sunday, I did not hesitate as I previously had. I didn’t watch from a distance. I didn’t approach cautiously. I ran, in fact, to her table. I was greeted by her identifying mark. A mole on the psychic’s cheek. Bigger than a beauty mark. Various shades of black. The closer to the center, the darker the mole became.
She held out her hand. I was blinded by the fluorescence of the Burmese ruby on her finger. The color of pigeon’s blood.
We shook hands. In her eyelids, she saw events. She saw “a wedding. Vows under the chuppah. The stomping of the glass. The sun setting, lots of photographs, lots of wine, lots of toasts, including, as always, some inappropriate words chosen.”
I was amazed by her information. My father’s wedding took place two months ago. Under a chuppah. He stomped on the glass, not quite breaking it on his first attempt. There were lots of photographs as the sun set. There were lots of toasts, including my father’s new brother-in-law who inexplicably cursed during his toast.
The psychic’s eyelids stayed still, focused. She wasn’t finished with her vision. “You will fumble with the ring,” she said. “You will nearly drop it. You will then slip it on to your bride’s finger…”
My bellow interrupted her reading. “I’m getting married?” I said in shock, and horror. “I don’t think so. I will never say, ‘I do.’”
The psychic didn’t hear me. Her eyelids jumped. “There will be a national grieving,” she continued. “There will be a funeral carried by all the TV news stations, and sports and entertainment stations too. There will be a grieving widow with her tears turning her face of makeup into watercolor blotches. There will be a madam president.”
I reacted, “McCain’s going to win the election? My God. Palin’s going to be president?”
“Women want a female president,” she responded.
I didn’t know what to say. What do you say to a catastrophe (McCain winning the election) compounded by another catastrophe (Palin becoming president)?
Her eyelids jumped. “A packed car,” she continued. “Books and clothes and chairs and a lamp sticking out of the window. You will be moving.”
“To where?” I interrupted. I flashed to some possible destinations: Northern California, New Mexico, Portland, Oregon.
“Toronto,” she answered.
“Canada?” I responded in surprise. But then the surprise quickly faded. In the aftermath of a McCain/Palin victory, Canada becomes quite alluring.
“You like the cold,” the psychic added, as if adding reinforcement to her vision.
“I do,” I said.
I noticed our surroundings then. Vendors selling corn on the cob. Vendors selling junk jewelry. Vendors selling socks. The overriding smell of fried foods. I also noticed the line of customers behind me. When did that form?
I paid for my reading and walked away, hoping for inaccuracies. Although I do like the cold.
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