I got my palm read by a storefront psychic and now I have more questions.

Why does my palm still feel weird?!

A shitty storefront psychic is a powerful thing. We see their signs posted up on the sidewalk, with $5 deals, and glowing images of women in a culturally amorphous head-wraps and we know that we’re in a for a whirlwind of scamming. I have always been drawn to the scammers. I love a woman who is dedicated to the bit. And so long as I’m consensually entering the scam: I’m here to be bloodlet and sacrificed to the altar of delusion. Lay me down, decalcify my bones, and charge me $5000 for the honor of being splayed. Ask for my last name, Google me, and then artfully read back your findings! Squint at me until I look away, do a strange breath exercise, and then “leave it up to me” to figure out what that means! I’m here for the vibes, as long as they’re an artful lie.

I’m positive my love of spiritual scammers is a direct reaction to religious trauma. This time I’m in on the joke, I get to pick who spoon feeds me woo-woo fictions, and it doesn’t pollute my brainspace for decades and rack me with night terrors and debilitating guilt. Even if I wasn’t steeped in the language of the afterlife for 20 years, I think I’d reclaim the scammer as a reaction to capitalism. So much of industrialized society, especially American society, is a multi-level marketing scheme. There are hucksters everywhere selling promises and predictions for pennies and pounds. In most cases, it’s not a matter of if but who is going to pull one over on you.

So, in the face of slumlords, abusive bosses, and cryptofascist app founders (meta to type), what’s a small incense scam where I hand over $25 to communicate with the moon? Heap it on me, baby! Let’s telegraph a conversation with the lunar world! I’m ready to rawdog a star in the milky way until we give birth to an intergalactic meteor baby! Was that too sexually graphic? You could NEVER last on Mars, (it’s a fiery fuck fest up there between four beetles and a drone that ran away from Elon).

Anyways, despite my clear passion for the craft of psychic visions, I’ve technically only gone to three psychics, one of which was in the last week. My first psychic experience was part of a press event back in 2018 where a woman read my aura as “powerful and futuristic.”

My second psychic was in 2021 during a long weekend in Philly, a storm hit the town and my two friends and I sheltered inside for most of our trip. When the wind and rain settled, we were ready for spiritual intervention. The heavily perfumed psychic told me I was on the brink of heartbreaking change and creative breakthrough, and also asked if I was interested in adopting a dog (a huge misread on her part).

My third psychic was just a few days ago. This woman is located in the LES and I’ve seen her signs around the city for a decade. There have been countless afternoons where I’ve gobbled down pie at Petee’s, or speedwalked toward hand-pulled noodles when I’ve considered stopping in. But it was always a treat for later. This week was finally later.

When I entered the psychic shop, a thin curtain separated the decked out storefront from her actual living room. Through the curtain, I could see her husband making a stir-fry. The room smelled like incense, cigarettes, and onions, a deeply comforting combination that both humanized and confirmed the scam. The psychic (Anna) admitted she was in the middle of dinner prep but had time for a quick reading. She seated me on a red velvet chair and directed my attention toward a menu of prices: $5 for a SPECIAL DISCOUNT LIFE reading, $25 for one palm, $40 for two palms, and up to $500 for full tarot deck readings.

The $5 reading felt too cheap, I assumed she’d essentially read “keep going, smile,” from a popsicle stick and upcharge for me for clarifications. But I also didn’t have $500 to blow on a rushed tarot reading, so I settled on a single palm reading. My first two psychics didn’t read my palm, they served up other spiritual appetizers, so I’ve never experienced the logistics of a palm reading before.

In my head, Sade’s “Kiss of Life” would be playing while my hand luxuriated on a small silk pillow, and fog wafted around my lifelines. In reality, the psychic asked me to “keep my hand still but elevated” while she awkwardly traced parts of my palm with her nails. If I was less respectful of the scam, I would’ve insisted I rest my hand on the table, because the positioning of my wrist was catnip for carpal-tunnel. Instead, I smiled awkwardly while my hand tensed and she squinted at my dry winter skin.

“Have you been to California,” she asked, with no context.

I felt weird about the question, given the current fires, and its generally dangling nature, but I answered “yes, in 2019.”

“Something is there for you,” she elaborated.

“Okay, nice,” I said, unsure whether she wanted emotional reactions.

“It’s been hard since 2017, you’ve been blocked with a dark energy.”

Sure, I thought, pretty much all the creative industries I’m connected to: digital media, standup comedy, scriptwriting, they’ve all been affected since 2017. Not to mention, the general political slide of Trumpism and global far-right movements. She was spot-on with the general-enough-to-be-applicable statement about Post-2017 life.

“In May, you’ll get good news. Your dreams are coming true, but it’s complicated.”

I appreciated the confidence of honing in on May. THAT is what I love a scammer for: the big swings. The more specific the prediction, the more I’m locked in, because there’s a way to track the delusion-reality pipeline. Her addition of “it’s complicated” was also the perfect cover for a less-than-dreamy May.

“That’s really wonderful to hear,” I meant it, I am game for any positive predictions.

“Have you changed addresses recently?” She asked.

“Well, yes!” I didn’t want to give her more specifics, I wanted her to be psychic!

“Oh, you have?”

She was fishing for information to use, but I wanted to see what she could glean from my meat paw alone.

“Yes.”

Holding back this much verbally is a challenge for me, in a sense, my lack of dialogue was a personal form of mentalism.

“It’s different now,” she said.

“This is very true,” I admitted.

I was, in this moment, obsessed with the awkwardness of this exchange. My wrist was fully cramping, she was clearly waiting for me to share personal information she could edit, and yet we agreed: moving to a new address makes things DIFFERENT.

“Do you have any questions you want guidance on?”

“I guess I just want to know if I’m making any huge mistakes right now in my life path,” I didn’t expect myself to be so honest. But isn’t that what most people want from a psychic? To confirm or deny whether they’re royally fucking up or crushing it or some mysterious third option?

“You’re making big changes and there is a lot of growth. It’s hard and different, don’t compare yourself,” she finished.

Again, she wasn’t wrong at all here! Things are different, change is hard, and comparison is famously the thief of joy (and also endless hours of screen time).

“But, you have a very dark energy inside of you, an anxious energy. I would be interested in doing a full spirit cleansing. Would you like to learn more?”

Here it was: the upsell.

“I’m interested in learning what that entails?”

“You would purchase three candles from me, and some stones. You’d journal out the dark thoughts and light the candles and speak into the stones at home. Then, you’d call me, and I’d light my candles and speak a cleansing spell over you.”

The candles, I quickly found out, were $100 a pop. I didn’t ask the price point of the stones because I was doing a great job repressing my reactions to the high pricing. I wasn’t genuinely considering the candles, but I needed the information, in case the dark anxious spirit inside of me overtakes my body and needs a very expensive intervention.

She didn’t accept cards, just Venmo, and insisted I come back to get my bad vibes under control. Just as I was telling her I don’t live in NYC and couldn’t return for a follow-up, she received a call from her granddaughter, who was turning 17. I urged her to take it, but didn’t want to linger while she switched into her regular persona. Lingering, in my opinion, would be a violation of our agreement to believe in her magical powers for the low price of $25.

So I shook my stiff wrist, and walked back outside into the cold-ass wind, dark uncleansed energy in-tact.