I'm a seer. Well, actually, I'm a glorified scam artist, but I don't see any point in getting into specifics. I use "divination" to "help" clients cope or overcome life's speed bumps. I do it for the money, though. If you're successful enough, you can line your coffers pretty quickly in this lucrative field. The easiest way to make money is through others' suffering: war, medicine, drug dealing. I just joined the trade that took the least amount of effort.
Last Saturday, I woke up at 7 a.m. to get to the office by 7:30 a.m. I didn't have time to fully wake up, so I grabbed an un-toasted Pop-Tart and swung open my apartment door. I lazily made my way to the elevator, nearly tripping over my own feet and the carpet a couple of times. I hit the button and waited, tapping my foot impatiently and chewing my cheek. My mouth tasted acrid; the residual toaster pastry stuck between my teeth. I should've brushed my teeth.
When the elevator opened, I saw a young woman holding the hand of a child I assumed to be hers. My eyes flicked around several locations of her body and the body of the child, looking for signs of emotional turmoil– an occupational habit. I noticed her ring finger lacked jewelry, indicating possible relationship issues. Maybe she was divorced, maybe her husband had died, or perhaps the man just didn't have the balls to ask. Whatever the case, I could smell money.
Then, my eyes wandered to their clothes, worn and torn. My internal excitement immediately crashed. My eyes made their way up to their faces, thin and pale. They were poor. I guess they weren't possible clients. Broke bastard probably couldn't afford a ring. Whatever, it doesn't matter; I don't shit where I eat.
"How are you doing?" The mother asks.
"Fine," I responded. I was annoyed and wanted the conversation to end as quickly as possible, but she kept talking.
"That's good! We're just going for a walk," The mother said.
I wanted to respond, 'I don't care,' or 'Please stop talking to me,' but all I could muster was "I hope you guys have fun."
In a bad mood, I made my way to my car. As soon as I opened it and sat down, I turned off the radio. I hate music. I'd rather sit in silence than listen to another song about drugs or love. Like a robot, I mechanically piloted my car toward the shop. My finger was rhythmically scraping out a hole in the steering wheel. I felt joy whenever I pulled out a chunk of foam from the crack I made. The act was and still is soothing. For thirty minutes, the only sound filling my car was the scratching of my nails and my slow breaths. My routine and spirit had finally stabilized by the time I arrived at the store's entrance and had to deal with the receptionist.
"Hello, Wendy," I greeted enthusiastically.
"Hey, how are you?" Wendy asked.
"Never been better!" I chuckled charismatically. "I'm ready to help people have a better tomorrow."
"You don't seriously believe you're helping, do you?" Wendy mocked.
"In a way, I am," I responded thoughtfully. "Think about it. Our transaction is give and take. They throw me money, and I give them logical advice to get their lives up and running again. Of course, I am a bit deceptive with that mysticism bullshittery. It doesn't matter, though; they'd get the same guidance no matter who the counselor is or how it's conjured."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Wendy said with contempt.
I looked back but didn't respond. She could have the last word. I know I'm a conman, but I don't care. It's a dog-eat-dog world. I need to take care of myself before I start worrying about the weak-minded who fall for my tricks. I sleep perfectly fine at night, knowing I'm a parasite suckling on the insecurities of the unfortunate. Do I genuinely think I am helping them? Somewhat. Do I care that my service helps? Not at all.
Ignoring Wendy, I made a beeline for my self-made temple of eccentricity. I cracked open the out-of-place wooden door and peered inside. The walls were a matte black, muting the light leaking from the open doorway. Adorning the walls were various trinkets and occult knick-knacks I'd bought from eBay or Amazon. I'd gotten the paint from Home Depot and had to DIY the door with some scrap pallets. On the shelves were various tools I used to "divine" and more bizarre crap I'd bought off of third-party sites. In the center of the room was a rounded table I'd gotten from Ikea a few years back. On each side of the table were used couches I'd bought from Facebook Marketplace. Needless to say, nothing in the room was a genuine article, just an amalgamation of retail products and trash.
About an hour after I arrived at the office, my first victim knocked on the door. As the door cracked open, my eyes started scanning his person. First, I noticed the hand gripping the side of my handicraft was on the rougher side. He's not an office jockey. Next, my gaze fell on his wrist, ornamented by a nice watch, maybe Tag Heuer or Tudor— Not Rolex or Blancpain. He's exploitable.
Once the man stepped out from behind the door, I could finally study his whole figure. The gentleman was well-built, a man's man. He wore a polo shirt and khaki pants, a look that didn't quite suit him. It was pretty clear the man wasn't accustomed to wearing anything besides work garb. His face looked gaunt, betraying the rest of his body's excellent health. When his eyes scrutinized my body, he didn't seem pleased. I'm not sure why; I'm the epitome of vigor.
"Hi, how are you doing today?" I greeted him with my hand extended.
"I've been better," the man replied somberly, accepting my handshake.
"That's too bad. Hopefully, I can help you out a bit," I said, rifling through drawers and grabbing instruments of mysticism. "Before we move forward, can I get your name?"
"I completely forgot! Where are my manners? My name is Jack."
"Well, Jack, you can call me Seer, Prophet, or whatever you want," I quipped. "Do you want anything to drink? Water, soda, tea…" I trailed off.
"I'll have water, thanks."
I handed him a glass of water and guided him to one of the couches. I sat across from him and took a deep breath.
"Shall we begin?" I asked, staring into Jack's eyes.
"I'm ready when you are, Seer."
"I sense a stressful or emotional event has impacted you recently. Is this true?" I asked. Broad questions are key when trying to keep the facade of an all-knowing superhuman. The client always comes to their own conclusions; I just have to listen.
"That's right. My daughter…she's gotten pregnant. At sixteen years old!" The man shouted in anger, his voice thick with thinly veiled self-contempt. "Where did I go wrong?"
"You've done nothing wrong. Fate works in mysterious ways," I comforted the man. "What is it that your daughter wants?"
"Of course, she wants to keep it," Jack sighed. "Not only does she get pregnant, but now she wants us to raise the little bastard."
"I see. Would you like for me to divine which option would be best?" I tried to steer the conversation back toward my practiced spiritual mumbo jumbo lest the man continue ranting about his daughter's poor decisions.
"That would be perfect."
I smiled gently, surprised a man like him would believe in this nonsense. I grabbed a deck of tarot cards and pretended to channel energy. I'm not sure whether you're supposed to do both simultaneously, but Jack didn't either. I shuffled the pieces of cardboard and laid them face down on the table.
"Please pick six cards," I requested, my gaze pointed at the center of the table.
The man reached down and flipped over six cards: The Chariot, The Wheel of Fortune, The Moon, The Tower, The Lovers, and The Sun. My brain started running a million miles a second, thinking of ways to connect the cards to his life without stretching the cards' actual meaning too thin. If he had looked them up on Google later, it would have been a bad look if everything was too far off.
"Hmmm…The Chariot can mean many things, but the overarching meaning is perseverance and success. Though you are struggling now, if you continue to support your daughter and her decision, everything will work out."
"Alright," The man responded, but didn't seem too convinced.
"The Wheel of Fortune can signify a turning point in your life. Usually, this change is positive, meaning the baby may be a blessing in disguise."
Jack's face softened as he heard my words, slowly accepting my words as fact. His mind was beginning to welcome the child's birth with open arms.
"The Moon spells your self-doubt and fear of deception. I can assure you if you begin to follow your gut and rid yourself of unnecessary anger, you'll be able to come out of the situation stronger than before."
"Thank you," The man smiled, enchanted by my sly tongue.
"The Tower symbolizes a drastic shift in your life. I assume the card is referencing your daughter's pregnancy. The Tower represents resilience. If you weather the storm, you will have strengthened your mental state in the crucible of misfortune," I utter mysteriously like a charlatan.
"This is amazing!"
"I appreciate it, but you're the one who did all the work. I'm just interpreting the meanings and relaying them back to you."
"Don't sell yourself short!" The man rebuked. The wall between us crumbled, and he began to hear my words as gospel.
"I'll continue now. The Lovers reflect your feelings of sadness or isolation within your relationships. Perhaps you feel your opinion is unwanted or that your family is pushing you to the sidelines. You must resolve yourself to make the right decision, even if it's not one you initially agreed with."
"I understand," Jack responded, resting his chin on his palm.
"And finally, The Sun," I paused and smiled before continuing, "The Sun represents the coming of a period of prosperity and celebration. I believe this alludes to the birth of your grandchild, meaning this is a time for festivity, not alienation."
"So…what do you recommend I do?" Jack's words came out like a whisper.
"I recommend you go home and apologize to the ones you hurt. Then, prepare a nursery room for the baby," I answered softly.
Why did I so adamantly oppose the abortion of the kid? Because if Jack had forced his daughter to go through the operation, their relationship would've never recovered. If his connections crumbled after receiving my counseling, he might leave a bad review on Yelp or Google. It's a bad look.
I'm not for or against abortion. I hardly follow any specific philosophy or align with any political parties. If anything at all, I'm a capitalist. I'll support whichever side can best satisfy my desires: survival and entertainment. Hell, if there's ever a war, I'd chop my leg off before I got drafted. I'm not patriotic enough to fight for others' happiness. Anyway, I'm getting a bit off-topic. I'm trying to say that I need good publicity to reach new clientele, and if Jack is pleased with my performance, I may get a repeat customer.
"Thank you so much," Jack mumbled in a shaking voice.
"Please, I hardly did anything. You don't need to thank me."
"No, I do. I almost made a horrible mistake."
"Everything will work out. Actions and words may be irreversible, but words are definitely easier to rectify."
"If I follow your advice, will everything go back to normal?"
"No, no, no, things will change, but that doesn't mean it has to be a negative change. You'll be a grandpa. You'll be rebuilding your family from zero. Bond with the kid and make his life fun. Do your best to rebuild your relationship with your daughter. Mold a family that makes your old life look pathetic."
"I'll do my best."
"That's more than I've ever done," I whispered under my breath.
"What was that?" Jack asked.
"Nothing important," I laughed.
"I think it's time I head home," Jack said before turning toward the door.
"You do that," I paused before shouting after him, "Don't forget to pay the lady at the front desk."
The only response I got was a chuckle and a grunt of affirmation.
The rest of the day was uneventful. That's not to say Jack was my last visitor; it's just that his problems were the only ones that entertained me. The rest of the guests were overly emotional vibe-killers. The angry ones blamed me, and the sad ones wasted my time and resources. Jack was civilized, but they weren't.
When my last patient left, I let out a deep sigh and flung my head back over the top of the couch. I was hungry and tired. I pushed myself up, groaning, acting like getting up was a chore. I walked out the door, bid Wendy farewell, and made my way back to the car. When I plopped down, I turned off the radio and sat silently for a few minutes. I needed quiet.
After a brief break, I turned my car out of the parking lot and drove to the nearest McDonald's. I liked sitting in the drive-through line, listening to the family parked ahead of me complain about how long they'd been waiting. I enjoyed the anticipation of sinking my teeth into some Chicken McNuggets. I waited until it was my turn to order at the microphone.
"Hi! Welcome to McDonald's. May I take your order?" The drive-through attendant asked.
"Hello, can I get two ten-piece McNuggets with a large fry? I'll also have an M&M McFlurry to make it a meal.
"Okay! Do you want any sauce with that?"
"Yeah, I'll do sweet and sour, please."
"Alright, your total's gonna be eleven seventy-nine at the first window."
"Thanks."
Waiting to pay, I caught glimpses of the woman operating the cash register four cars ahead of me. She looked pathetic, with unkempt hair and makeup running down her face. A thirty-something-year-old working at McDonald's. How sad. I'm sure there are better-paying jobs out there. Maybe the Chick-fil-A across the street. Shit, she'd even get Sundays off. Who am I to judge, though?
Once I paid at the first window and grabbed my food from the second, I pulled into one of the parking spots behind the restaurant. I'd rather the smell of junk food stick to my car's vinyl than my apartment's carpets. My apartment needs to be clean if I want to relax. I loved McDonald's notorious fried mystery meat and soggy, salty fries, but they stunk like roadkill. The combo may have also been unhealthy, but it was convenient. I scarfed down my meal and started to cruise home, stopping at every light known to man.
After parking, I strolled through the complex toward my room, people-watching. It's fun to eavesdrop on drama. Sometimes, I live vicariously through their lives, immersed as if it were an audiobook. My life is monotonous compared to theirs, but I'd much rather be the observer than the performer.
I entered the elevator, pressing the corresponding button for my floor. No one else joined me this time. The rising of the small room made me a bit light-headed, but nothing I couldn't handle. When the ding of the elevator sounded, I stepped out and walked forward to my abode.
I fumbled with my keys, sifting through several to find the right one. I slid the key into the slot and turned it with force. The lock mechanism was shoddy at best, so I always had to use some elbow grease to open it.
When I got the door closed, I started to undress, pulling off the strange robes I'd bought from Walmart two Halloweens ago. I removed the top hat from my head and continued taking off the clothes that the cape had previously hidden. The only thing left clinging to my body was a pair of boxer briefs. I threw everything in the hamper and sauntered to the bathroom.
I cracked open the door and turned on the dim, flickering light. I entered slowly and looked into the mirror. I was tall but lanky. My hair was a mess, pointing in different directions as if trying to hide the spots where my hair was falling out. You could count my ribs through my skin. If you watched the top left of my torso, you could see my heartbeat, my flesh pulsating every other second. My fingernails were unruly and speckled by poor nutritional habits. And my legs looked like Q-tips, only gaining definition at the thighs and feet.
I am pathetic.