Today I met Mary. Her storefront is an unassuming one, tucked into the corner of a neglected building on a street lined with dusty cars and fast-moving traffic. Mary has eyes that focus on nothing in particular, so when she asks a question it seems as if she's gazing behind you at something on the wall. I ask how long she's been telling fortunes and she tells me
some 50 odd years. When she was 9, she supposedly read a friend's mind while on a walk and the shock of it all caused her friend to fall abruptly to the ground.
Satisfied by this story, I settle into a small plastic chair between the window and a table littered with faded photographs. Mary smiles. We talk about work. The weather. Then Mary, her voice the soothing sweet tone of a watchful mother, tells me
A) Always wear a condom [wise]
B) I'm going to have three children [what!?]
C) I will die at age 84.
I'm not sure what to believe regarding El Contradictory Point Numero Dos. Since elementary school I've carried around a sepia-toned card obtained one summer at a
Big-esque fortune telling machine (complete with offensive mechanical gypsy), and according to that dependable forecast I'm actually going to have
seven children with a man who looks like Charlie Chaplin. He has plucked eyebrows and wears eyeliner, bow ties, and derby hats. He also works at a drugstore. This revelatory token from my childhood summarizes its assertion in typewriter font:
You will meet him milking the faucets behind the marble counter as you order a banana flip. He is not so good in a crowd — but Oh! Boy! What a success in the rumble seat! He is only able to make dyspepsia breeding concoctions, so he will have to come home for a square meal. He will be goofy about you and your seven little milk shakes.
Dyspepsia breeding concoctions? God. I hope so.
