My Mother the Fortune Teller

Look at her. Pay close attention, because every day there’s more to see. She shuffles her cards, and is one of not many I know who can smoke a cigarette without using her hands. The rooms to the ceiling fill with smoke, and three of four part-time roommates that stay here are losing patience.

The woman shuffling the cards is M. She’s said before, when you grow up in a big city, you go through life planning to have lots of people around you. She’s never had a problem having people around. Letting others go is a different story.

“Okay, what about a car. How's that look?” Rich says, he’s one of the roommates who we don’t see a lot of, has problems dropping the thin silver spoon. You’ll see him bleeding from his nose and jumbling his words like his mouth can’t move as fast as his mind. He’s here for my mom's readings.

She "reads" tarot, which is like writing sports memoirs that people read in false hopes of living the dream, or maybe coming close to the experience of a crowd of ten thousand rooting for your success, and succeeding even with a crowd of ten thousand against you. Mom calls it a game, but people call gambling a game when they get carried away playing boys' night poker, and the roommates are much the same. Heavy arms that look to pull the rest of them down between their knees, brushing ash off their pants legs, taking drags, and lighting up when she gives a "good read."

Today, Stevie asks the cards if her documentary will show her mother she’s no longer a "one day" artist and more of a Laura Poitras; less of a hopeful gasping for recognition. Stevie's smart and doesn’t ask for much. She’s unconventionally pretty; sister beautiful. Her last film made her shoes look cheap and won some award. She called her mother shortly after and told her all the names she read off her notebook, which she brought to the awards specifically to jot down nominees.

“I beat Very Dead Beat Poet's Society, mom!”

The one that helped buy her another day followed the life of nude models who posed for grabby-eyed college classes (titled: March of The Skins). Sometimes Stevie will flush and, given that grandeur charms the roommates, mom can, and will, build every read and its scope to an open mouth smile, and the room laughs and laughs at the fortune in the deck.

I’ve watched this for so long that my eyes ache. You find yourself listening to your stomach over your mind after so long hoping what’s said is true. Once every group reading the cards will come my way and I’ll decline, and mom will level her eyes with mine and, while nodding, she’ll take out her cigarette and ash it, then, pointing at me, say:

“You nervous?” She'd said, and the roommates will "ooh" me on.

“Mom, go ahead. I’m not reading them.”

I can’t do it any more, I really can’t. Last time I tried, only bad news came up, and I can’t tell people their kids won’t be visiting for Christmas. So she’ll read mine, which I’m too tired to refuse, and the roommates will ask questions for me like: “Will the kid ever get laid again?” That’s Donnie. I’ve not mentioned him. He’s a burly electrician from Rhode Island, always gives me knowing looks like being my age isn’t 40 years too late.

The question's been asked before. It’s said jokingly because I swiped my V card a while ago to a violin player named Christy, a girl who was part of a crowd I fell into before realizing I couldn’t play an instrument. Christy used to tell me I had luck. I’ve had enough of it splayed on the table before the roommates to last me for a lifetime.

Herm's last to go. He’s this nice old guy who used to be a children's book illustrator before losing everything to drink. He sometimes puts sharpie to a napkin and draws me doodles that are supposed to be something other than sad, but man, it’s hard to believe he illustrated books for kids and not Marlon Brando’s dreams.

Mom asks him for a topic and he goes, “Oh I’ve run out of good ones, okay, here’s this…when might I see a musician like Charles play again?” Herm claims to have met Ray Charles in person, and said the man looked at you with more love than any man that could see. He’s a jazz and blues guy.

“Hell, I can answer that,” says Donnie.

“We know you can, Don. Alright, Herm, that’s your question?” says mom.

He says that it is. She takes a moment to ash her cigarette and rolls her wrist. She pulls up half the deck and lets it drop, card after card, into the other hand, shuffles them for a while, then splits the deck and looks at the suites.

“Says your man plays for his pops and granny for a long time before he gets big… and,” Herm has his mouth open and you can see his few teeth, his heads angled up and diagonal to mom as she reads, “Your new Ray plays great—good as Ray even—says when he tours this way, you’ll hear him a mile away.”

“What’s he play?” he asks.

“Says your man plays drums.”

“Drums…drums,” Herm looks like he’s getting used to the words in his mouth then gives a chuckle, “yeah, yeah drums. Like that.”

He rubs his scalp and stands up. Herm's a big guy, standing up.

“Well, I guess I better get ready.”

Before leaving with the rest, each goes separate ways to a job or something other. Herm hands me a napkin and gives me a pat on the hand. The picture is of the globe, and clasping onto it is a caricature of the Statue of Liberty without any legs, lost in some ink gravity. But that’s Herm for you.

But I could say that for all the part-time roommates who make their rounds talking up fate around here. That’s Donnie with the sneer and the smell. Or that’s Rich who pretends he has grips when he doesn’t. Stevie is a starving artist who just believes. But every one of them is rich. Each of them is burdened with fate in some way or another. It might be that, when one lays life out in front like this, one stands to be rich more than any other time to come.