The Psychic (339th new thing).

I had one experience with a fortune-teller before Day Three Hundred Thirty-Nine.  While we were living in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne, my friend Stephanie had sent me an urgent text to meet her in the city center.  A Gyspy lady in a caravan was doing palm readings for five quid. Skint though I was, I rushed out of our flat and went in search of this woman who could predict my future. She was a complete sham, getting everything wrong, even down to my nationality. I left in disbelief, five pounds poorer.

However my past experience unfolded, this year seeing a psychic was high on my to-do list. I searched the internet for resources, and found decent reviews of a reader in Little Five Points. I called several times, but her voicemail was full. Shouldn’t she be able to see far enough ahead to clear that out? I left a message for another in the area, but she returned my call too late; she must not have seen it coming. So when a Living Social deal came up for a thirty minute psychic reading at half off, I bought it. Thus, on Day Three Hundred Thirty-Nine I left work early to make a brief pilgrimage to the exotic Inner Space in Sandy Springs to have my fortune laid out.

When I made the appointment for 7:30 on a Friday night, the person on the other end of the line gave me two options: Sherry or Stream. I chose Stream purely for her fantastical name. I expected a large black woman to come waltzing from the back of the shop to greet me, but instead a ginger hippie emerged. She led me into a room with two high backed sitting chairs and a table in between. Immediately she told me I had a lot of ancient Irish spirit. Even though I had sworn to myself not to reveal anything during this session, I told her that my family was English. I’m a social being and aware of the unconscious effects of sharing leading to liking. And I wanted my psychic to like me; I’d be more likely to get a positive reading!

As soon as we sat down Stream’s eyes began to dart into the corners of the room behind me. She said I had a lot of spirits surrounding me, and that they were very vocal. I imagined a medieval meeting of Lords pacing around a banquet table arguing in iambic pentameter. She paused to listen for a moment and then translated. They were screaming that I should write, be a writer. She had visions of the English countryside and told me my spirit guides wanted me to write my books (plural, she emphasized) in England, but that I should take a creative writing class first. Writing would sustain my creative urges. As hokey and new-agey as she sounded, I really wanted to believe her. I want to be a writer, I thought. It made sense. And although I had clearly slipped in my wall of defense, the idea of returning to England made me happy. It had been the longest stretch of time in my life that I had not been to the homeland of my parents. Absence romanticizes the place. And it helped that I had just re-read Pride and Prejudice and imagined myself in a cottage set deep in the moors.

I tried to wipe the cheeky grin off my face as she continued with her scribbles. She delved into some nonsense about my romantic life, and then mentioned a silver scrolled compact that she felt belonged to my maternal grandmother. Did I recognize anything of the sort? No, I shook my head. “Are you sure?” Stream probed. It was really important. I said I would ask my mom, which seemed to placate her.

Before I knew it our half hour was up. She passed me the thick paper torn from her notebook filled with lines and words. I traced a finger across it and could follow along with the reading, start to finish. Stream again spoke about my fantastic spiritual support system and looked pleadingly into my eyes to emphasize the point. It was strange attention, and I made a joke about her saying that to everyone. She was earnest in her declaration that I was unusual in my arguing tribe of guides. I wondered if they watched me all the time. Gross.

I pressed a ten dollar bill into her hand. I’ve always been awkward at tipping. Maybe it’s that stodgy English heritage. Embarrassed for no reason, I shuffled out of the room, out of the store, and into my car. I immediately called my parents to relate the fortune and ask about this mysterious compact. Neither of them had any idea of it either. Maybe her reading was wrong, even if I really like the idea of moving to England to write novels. That clearly hasn’t happened (yet), but I won’t discount the fantasy.

So…would I go to a psychic again? Totally. I like hearing about nice things that could happen in my future. The stuff that doesn’t align can almost be brushed off until you have a really bad day and suddenly remember those fortunes that seemingly make sense in your life at that time.

Mostly, I’d just like a second (and third) opinion.