The air was hot and heavy as we stumbled through the French Quarter in the dark, gripping the cold, wet necks of our hand grenades. I darted out of the path of two cockroaches, howling in laughter and disgust. You could hear the music booming from Bourbon Street (a place to be avoided, with the exception of grabbing a high octane drink to-go) from several blocks away.
"Let's get our palms read!" My friend joked, after spotting a psychic shop across the street. "I don't know -- mine didn't go so well the last time we were here," I said--my voice heavy with sarcasm, "but fuck it, why not."
We swung open the door to the shop, only to be rejected within seconds. It was nearly closing time. So we sulked away towards Jackson Square, admiring the way the moon cast shadows across the statues and the palm trees. We found a bench and gazed upwards at the architecture. As my eyes slowly scanned downwards again, they fell upon a man sitting at a small card table with two open chairs. "Um, holy shit... there's our guy!" I exclaimed.
With the hand grenades fully coursing through our veins at this point, we immediately jumped up and scurried to the man. "Hi, sir, can we get our palms read?" my friend asked. "I read cards," he answered, and kindly welcomed us to take a seat in the two empty chairs.
I plopped down thinking I was in for some fun and games... I've never really trusted the notion of psychic abilities. I still don't know that I do, but I'll just say this: it was not as much an amusing experience as it was a rattling one... there were tears... there were full-body chills. I listened to this man expose deep-rooted pain-points in both my friend and me. How could that be?
How could someone you just met have even the slightest inkling about your struggles and hurt? How could they read you right down to the darkness in your soul? How could they say that a past love has recently reentered your life, and how could they tell you it was for a reason? I'm not quite sure what all of the insight I gained means or what to do with it, other than to reflect.
9/7
I wrote him a long letter the next day, on a nine-hour train ride to Memphis. I inquired as to why he asked me those questions... those questions about us. I asked him what it all meant (not even the questions, at face-value, but their intent) and what he'd hoped I'd even say. I am not sure what my curiosity is rooted in and I doubt I'll ever know the answers. Then I closed my notebook, tucked it away and decided to accept that, once and for all.
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