Yesterday at two in the morning, Alice and I drove in her mom's minivan downtown to the West Village to walk around and get our minds off our problems. We scoured Bleecker and the neighboring streets for a while, searching for an all-night coffee shop; every business was closed, however, except for some shady hole in the wall bars and sex shops. There are certain types of people you only see in the middle of the night on a street in Manhattan; they stand on the sidewalk smoking, talking amongst themselves, commenting on the physique of passing young females. They usually look scruffy, unsavory, and they're
probably high and drunk. We slipped by these
people quietly. A lone balloon vendor sat on the sidewalk outside of an indoor parking garage entrance, calling out in a hoarse whisper, "Anybody want a balloon?" At two
in the fucking morning. It would've been funnier if only for the fact
that this man was obviously making his living off selling these balloons.
I noticed an illuminated sign displayed on the door of a converted brownstone nearby that read "Psychic: Palm Readings, Tarot Cards", and such. Noticing the sign said "Open" on the door, I convinced Alice to check the place out with me.
"Are you serious?" Alice called to me from the sidewalk.
"I think she's serious," said some guy who was sitting nearby in a parked car. He thought he was pretty fucking funny.
So Alice followed me downstairs, and we were ushered in by a woman who must've been the psychic's adult daughter. She was carrying a basket of laundry in as she entered behind us, and asked if we wanted a reading. She had me sit on a stool at a small table in the entrance of the home. The air was stuffy from cigarette smoke, and around the corner in a room concealed by a suspended bedsheet a TV set blared, an eerie bluish color emitting the sounds of garbled human voices. A small cat, not more than a year old, wandered into the...psychic vestibule...whatever you could say it was. She let me pick her up and was purring, and when I placed her on my lap she settled herself comfortably. In walked the psychic; she was middle-aged, fairly attractive, made up with heavy concealer and eyeliner, dyed auburn hair, and had a faint accent reminiscent of some eastern European country mixed with the Brooklyn dialect.
She sat down and asked what I wanted, and listed the prices for me. I chose the cheapest, a palm reading, and she began. She examined my right hand. "You're going to have a long and healthy life." She scanned my palm even more, examining every crease and line. I don't know how she saw anything in that dim lighting. She started talking about how I have trouble in my love life, how I feel betrayed, how I'm having a hard time understanding and getting through this period. She guessed that I involved myself with something creative or artistic, particularly that involved the hands. That was pretty obvious though, considering I was wearing all black, I have long blackish hair, I usually wear black eyeliner, and my hands are very calloused and unmanicured and double-jointed. But at the time, it was very impressive. She kept mentioning all these things that applied to my life. Certain things could be construed as generalities with my age, gender, ethnicity, and socio-economic status. Other things applied indefinitely to my life, however,
and as she said everything she spoke matter-of-factly. Whenever I reacted to something she said, she just gave a nod,
as if to indicate, "It says it all on your palm." I tend to be very gullible so I am still having
a hard time sorting this whole experience out in my head. Alice was standing behind me
mystified by everything the woman was saying. When the session ended I tried getting up, and
the cat began biting and clawing at my hand. I guess she was pissed that her resting spot was
being disturbed. I thanked the psychic and nervously shoved my way
out of the house.
So I'm completely nervous and freaked out, doing that stupid thing where I twist a strand of my hair over and over between my fingers. Alice wanted to go into a nearby McDonald's, so we went. She ordered an iced coffee, and I just sat there. I had basically lost my appetite. The restaurant had two groups of young gay black males sitting and chatting amongst themselves, all primped and wearing nice clothes, even sunglasses, despite it now being three in the morning. One tall slim guy was dressed as a girl, and the only way I could tell he wasn't a girl was because of his voice when he spoke. Otherwise his face looked effeminate enough, and his wig realistic enough, to pass as a teenage girl. The groups were sitting on separate sides of the restaurant, and I'm not sure if they knew each other or not, but they didn't seem warm toward one another. One of them came over to the table where Alice and I were sitting and asked if he could plug his cell phone charger into the outlet behind our table. He was a nice guy.
So Alice and I tried analyzing the psychic reading, the problems we'd each been experiencing in our lives, whatever. I don't think we really solved any problems, but it was good to vent. We were interrupted a few times by some interesting people, but the most memorable interruption was by a tall, gangly, pale white guy with light and feathery blonde hair and a moronic expression on his face. I saw him eyeing us from across the room, and before I knew it he was rushing toward us. He stopped, almost falling into our table and having to catch himself on Alice's seat, and said quickly, "So what are you about to do?"
What? What the fuck is this guy talking about? He wasn't very smooth at all. One of us asked him what he was doing, and he stood up
straight and scratched the back of his head. He looked over to the counter and said in an
exasperated tone, "I'm just trying to get some nuggets."
I informed him that we couldn't help him, and he explained then that
his friend was getting the "nuggets".
He was about to walk away when I asked him where he went to school. He already looked pretty hurt, because Alice and I were pretty obviously laughing at him. Well, I actually asked if he went to school in this area. He said no, and asked if I did. It was strange though, because he didn't say, "No, I went/go to Indiana University," or something like that. He simply answered no, which made me question if he had gone to college at all. That, and his stupidity and lack of social skills. The poor guy. He asked if I went to school around here.
"No," I said, "we go to school uptown."
"Oh, at NYU?" was his reply.
UPTOWN. IN THE NORTHERN DIRECTION. NYU was east of where we were, a block or two south. NYU is by no means uptown. Even if you were to go to Battery Park and somebody asked you where you went to school, you wouldn't say "uptown" to refer to NYU. I mean, it is uptown, and actually some people may say uptown, but to me uptown is above 50th street. Maybe if you were very far south, above 34th would be considered uptown. Anyway, finally this guy left when his friend had obtained their precious chicken nuggets. He looked really dejected, and it was funny. Usually I'd feel more sorry for people like this, but I don't have the patience for anyone anymore.
I'm going to have to travel around more parts of Manhattan in the middle of the night on a Wednesday and document what happens. It's like people crawl out of the sewers at night and roam the streets or something. Very colorful characters. Next time I'll bring my camera.
probably high and drunk. We slipped by these
people quietly. A lone balloon vendor sat on the sidewalk outside of an indoor parking garage entrance, calling out in a hoarse whisper, "Anybody want a balloon?" At two
in the fucking morning. It would've been funnier if only for the fact
that this man was obviously making his living off selling these balloons.
I noticed an illuminated sign displayed on the door of a converted brownstone nearby that read "Psychic: Palm Readings, Tarot Cards", and such. Noticing the sign said "Open" on the door, I convinced Alice to check the place out with me.
"Are you serious?" Alice called to me from the sidewalk.
"I think she's serious," said some guy who was sitting nearby in a parked car. He thought he was pretty fucking funny.
So Alice followed me downstairs, and we were ushered in by a woman who must've been the psychic's adult daughter. She was carrying a basket of laundry in as she entered behind us, and asked if we wanted a reading. She had me sit on a stool at a small table in the entrance of the home. The air was stuffy from cigarette smoke, and around the corner in a room concealed by a suspended bedsheet a TV set blared, an eerie bluish color emitting the sounds of garbled human voices. A small cat, not more than a year old, wandered into the...psychic vestibule...whatever you could say it was. She let me pick her up and was purring, and when I placed her on my lap she settled herself comfortably. In walked the psychic; she was middle-aged, fairly attractive, made up with heavy concealer and eyeliner, dyed auburn hair, and had a faint accent reminiscent of some eastern European country mixed with the Brooklyn dialect.
She sat down and asked what I wanted, and listed the prices for me. I chose the cheapest, a palm reading, and she began. She examined my right hand. "You're going to have a long and healthy life." She scanned my palm even more, examining every crease and line. I don't know how she saw anything in that dim lighting. She started talking about how I have trouble in my love life, how I feel betrayed, how I'm having a hard time understanding and getting through this period. She guessed that I involved myself with something creative or artistic, particularly that involved the hands. That was pretty obvious though, considering I was wearing all black, I have long blackish hair, I usually wear black eyeliner, and my hands are very calloused and unmanicured and double-jointed. But at the time, it was very impressive. She kept mentioning all these things that applied to my life. Certain things could be construed as generalities with my age, gender, ethnicity, and socio-economic status. Other things applied indefinitely to my life, however,
and as she said everything she spoke matter-of-factly. Whenever I reacted to something she said, she just gave a nod,
as if to indicate, "It says it all on your palm." I tend to be very gullible so I am still having
a hard time sorting this whole experience out in my head. Alice was standing behind me
mystified by everything the woman was saying. When the session ended I tried getting up, and
the cat began biting and clawing at my hand. I guess she was pissed that her resting spot was
being disturbed. I thanked the psychic and nervously shoved my way
out of the house.
So I'm completely nervous and freaked out, doing that stupid thing where I twist a strand of my hair over and over between my fingers. Alice wanted to go into a nearby McDonald's, so we went. She ordered an iced coffee, and I just sat there. I had basically lost my appetite. The restaurant had two groups of young gay black males sitting and chatting amongst themselves, all primped and wearing nice clothes, even sunglasses, despite it now being three in the morning. One tall slim guy was dressed as a girl, and the only way I could tell he wasn't a girl was because of his voice when he spoke. Otherwise his face looked effeminate enough, and his wig realistic enough, to pass as a teenage girl. The groups were sitting on separate sides of the restaurant, and I'm not sure if they knew each other or not, but they didn't seem warm toward one another. One of them came over to the table where Alice and I were sitting and asked if he could plug his cell phone charger into the outlet behind our table. He was a nice guy.
So Alice and I tried analyzing the psychic reading, the problems we'd each been experiencing in our lives, whatever. I don't think we really solved any problems, but it was good to vent. We were interrupted a few times by some interesting people, but the most memorable interruption was by a tall, gangly, pale white guy with light and feathery blonde hair and a moronic expression on his face. I saw him eyeing us from across the room, and before I knew it he was rushing toward us. He stopped, almost falling into our table and having to catch himself on Alice's seat, and said quickly, "So what are you about to do?"
What? What the fuck is this guy talking about? He wasn't very smooth at all. One of us asked him what he was doing, and he stood up
straight and scratched the back of his head. He looked over to the counter and said in an
exasperated tone, "I'm just trying to get some nuggets."
I informed him that we couldn't help him, and he explained then that
his friend was getting the "nuggets".
He was about to walk away when I asked him where he went to school. He already looked pretty hurt, because Alice and I were pretty obviously laughing at him. Well, I actually asked if he went to school in this area. He said no, and asked if I did. It was strange though, because he didn't say, "No, I went/go to Indiana University," or something like that. He simply answered no, which made me question if he had gone to college at all. That, and his stupidity and lack of social skills. The poor guy. He asked if I went to school around here.
"No," I said, "we go to school uptown."
"Oh, at NYU?" was his reply.
UPTOWN. IN THE NORTHERN DIRECTION. NYU was east of where we were, a block or two south. NYU is by no means uptown. Even if you were to go to Battery Park and somebody asked you where you went to school, you wouldn't say "uptown" to refer to NYU. I mean, it is uptown, and actually some people may say uptown, but to me uptown is above 50th street. Maybe if you were very far south, above 34th would be considered uptown. Anyway, finally this guy left when his friend had obtained their precious chicken nuggets. He looked really dejected, and it was funny. Usually I'd feel more sorry for people like this, but I don't have the patience for anyone anymore.
I'm going to have to travel around more parts of Manhattan in the middle of the night on a Wednesday and document what happens. It's like people crawl out of the sewers at night and roam the streets or something. Very colorful characters. Next time I'll bring my camera.
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