That Time I Went to the Fortuneteller

  Actual factual pic of Zoltar in the hallway on the way to the restrooms at Cline's Corner 

  My favorite saying, my favorite “motto” is “Expectation is the greatest source of suffering.”  It’s a saying that’s attributed to Buddha so I say Buddha said it, but I can’t be sure.  Anyway, it’s my favorite saying.

  It’s not that I’ve perfected not having expectations, I haven’t.  I see the saying as a reminder, something to strive for.  I’ve actually done pretty well on cutting back on my expectations.

  Think about it:  “Expectation is the greatest source of suffering.”

  You expect things of yourself.  Lovers, spouses expect things of each other.  Parents have expectations of their children and vice versa.  You expect things from your friends and vice versa.  Believers of religion expect others in their group, even outside their group to believe as they do.  The same can be said of politics.  Bosses have expectations of their employees.  Workers expect things from their bosses.  People have expectations of their governments.  Countries have expectations of other countries.  And when all these expectations aren’t met there’s the whole gamut of negative human emotions and stuff:  Frustration, disappointment, arguments, anger, estrangement, fighting, yelling, divorce, jealousy, envy, rioting and war.

  So I’ve really tried to not see the future…because if I knew my future I would have expectations about when my prediction would come true.

  I got to thinking about this the other day when The Lady of the House and I stopped at the travel center on I-40 at Cline’s Corner. 

  There in the hallway on the way to the restrooms was a machine…half a mannequin enclosed in glass, he wore a turban and his name was Zoltar.  I can’t remember if Zoltar predicted the future or what but he wanted a buck to do what he did, whatever that was.

  Zoltar figures prominently in the movie “Big” with Tom Hanks.  I’ve never seen “Big” from beginning to end, only bits and pieces of it.  But I gather the Zoltar in the movie is responsible for Tom Hanks’ transformation into an adult from a kid then back again.

  So when I posted a pic of Zoltar on the social media one commentator said, “Be careful what you ask Zoltar.”

  And then I remembered the time I went to see the fortuneteller in far south Florida…a woman, not a machine.

  I had always been hesitant to go to gypsy fortunetellers because I had read one time that the whole thing was a ruse on us “gadjos.” Gadjo is what gypsy folks call people who aren’t of their “tribe” (my term) or “non-Gypsies.”

  As I mentioned I didn’t want to know a prediction of my life, I would take life as it came.

 I had just had another one of my life trainwrecks.  By the end of the 1980’s I had had two or three and I had grown tired of them, pulling myself out of the wreckage and rebuilding.

  I had gone to therapy, I had gone to 12-step groups, I had read The Good Book, I had read the “Tao Te Ching,” “The Art of War” by Sun Tzu and stuff by lots of writers:  Ernest Hemingway, Thomas Wolfe, Raymond Carver, Alberto Moravia and others looking for answers.

  I was ready to go see a gypsy fortuneteller.

  I was looking for some guidance.

  There was only one in the south Florida town where I lived.  She had a big ol’ sign outside her place saying she only charged ten bucks for a palm reading.  It was my kind of price.

  I pulled up in front of the gypsy’s place one sultry south Florida summer evening and got out.

  I walked up to the door and rang the doorbell.

  Moments later a darkly complected, raven haired woman answered the door.

  “Yes, come in,” said the woman, opening a door that revealed a dimly lit sitting area full of plush red-velvet chairs and a sofa.  I got the impression she’d been cooking, there was a spicy aroma in the house.  “Please sit down.”

  I sat then she sat down across from me.

  “How can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for a little guidance on the merry path of life,” I said with a smile.

  “I can help you with that,” she said.  “I charge 10 dollars to read your palm.”

  “I’m good with that,” I said.

  And then we sat in silence and stared at each other.

  “Oh,” I said, “You want your money now.”

  She smiled.

  I reached for my wallet, pulled out a 10 dollar bill and handed it to her.

  “Right this way,” she said as she stood up.

  She led the way to a small room with two chairs on either side of a small table with a lacy cloth draped over it.

  We sat.

  She held out her hands over the table.

  “Are you right-handed or left-handed,” she asked.

  “Right-handed,” I said.

  “Then let me have your right hand.”.

  I held out my right hand, she took it and brought it down on the table.

  “Ah,” she said as she traced a line on my palm with her finger, “You have heavy Karmic debt from a past life.”

  “Hunh?” I said as I looked her in the eye.

  “You did something in a previous life that you have to pay back in Karmic debt,” she said.  “But I see you are just about through paying it off.”

  “What did I do?” I asked.

  “We will talk about that when I am done,” she said.  “Now let me see your left hand.”

  She took my left hand and brought it down on the table.

  “In the fall you will journey to the desert,” she said.

  I just stared at the gypsy.

  I had not told a soul about my plan to leave Florida and head out west.  No one knew that I had researched cities of the west and narrowed things down to Albuquerque or Las Cruces in New Mexico, Tucson in Arizona or San Francisco, California.  I had been kicking around moving to New Orleans but I had grown tired of living in the flat, humid region around the Gulf of Mexico.

  “What can you tell me about this journey,” I asked.

  “That is all I can see,” she said.  “You will be traveling to the desert and you will stay there for a very long time.”

  The gypsy released my hand and I sat there.

  “Now,” she said, “If you want to know what you did in a previous life that incurred your Karmic debt, come back tomorrow with something very personal like some underwear or socks in a baggie and 50 dollars.

  “Socks or underwear,” I chuckled.  “That’s weird stuff.”

  “No,” she said, “These are things that are deeply personal and have been close to you.  Your essence is left on these things.

  I smiled and nodded.  In my head I was saying, “No ma’am, I ain’t that stupid, sorry.”

  “I know you probably won’t, but that is another service I provide.”

  I smiled and sat there.

  “And you get in trouble in life because you assume the role of The Fool easily.  And you are too trusting,” she said.

  I stopped smiling and sat there.

  The gypsy stood.

  “We are done,” she said.

  I stood up.

  “Well,” I said.  “This has been interesting.

  The gypsy smiled and nodded.

  Soon I was standing at my car.  I looked around.

  The stars were starting to come out.  I looked at them for a little bit.

  I thought about my journey ahead.

E P I L O G U E

  As it turned out that October I decided to leave south Florida and head for Albuquerque.  Chamber of Commerce stuff I’d sent away for said the city had a moderate boom going on and there were jobs galore.  The literature went on to describe The Duke City as a place “where the city’s ethnic groups live and work together in harmony.”  That line appealed to my “can’t we all just get along”-ness.

  Albuquerque sounded like utopia.

  But that was back when I didn’t know that Chamber of Commerce literature many times is spun bullshit woven to cast an area in the best light possible.

  So I don’t know if I went to the metropolis on the High Chihuahuan Desert because the fortuneteller suggested it or if she could actually see the future.

  It’s a curiosity.

  I’ll never know.

  I have a saying for that too:  “Like much in life it means nothing.”