Cincinnati, Ohio was just slightly above Mobile, Alabama on the list of profitable arts and craft fair locations for a dealer. Even Cleveland had moved up in the ranks. Yet there I sat, pissed off yet reluctantly resolved to make the best of the situation.
It was always good to have at least one 'psychic' present at these trailer trash shopping mall events. And that was I, Madam Zira – seer and fortuneteller for the lonely, the desperate, the ignorant thrillseeker with too much money and the boredom to waste it on what they knew was simple bullshit.
But it was that excess money and bullshit that kept me from starving. In essence, it was how I supported myself. The curiosity seekers and poor white trash who attended these events in the hope of finding that one piece of Elvis memorabilia that eluded their collection did not need to know I was really just Edie Rosenberg, well-preserved 60 year old widow struggling to make ends meet.
Oh, once I lived the 'good life'. My late husband Harry Rosenberg was a successful Manhattan tailor. We'd had a good 15 years together until he died of cancer. It took him quickly, for which I was thankful. I loved him and did not want to see him suffer. But now that Harry was gone, I was on my own. Thankfully, he'd left me the Winnebago we'd taken on our yearly trips to the Catskills and enough money from his well-managed mutual funds and life insurance to allow me some security. For a few years anyway. But life in a middle-class Brownstone in the Bronx without him and with no family of my own, I found myself longing to indulge in that mid-life crisis a proper married woman not dare pursue. So, like all of my other ladyfriends attempting to keep their husbands attentive (a futile gesture), I had the obligatory face life and boob job. Yet, with Harry gone, and his estranged son Isaac from his first marriage off on his own since age 16 trapped in a no doubt troubled life in which I obviously was not welcome, why not take to the road?
The money Harry had left me was more or less gone – what choice did I have? Isaac had never accepted me when Harry and I married. And at 16, how else would a rebellious teenager react, considering it had not been more than 5 years since his own mother had been killed in a car accident. Harry and I had not heard from him since he'd walked out the door that unforgettable June afternoon. And I certainly did not hear from him when his father died and did not see him in attendance at the funeral. There was nothing I could do for him now; the damage had been done. Harry had always been lenient with his only son. I, on the other hand, had been placed in the position of severe disciplinarian; and I know far too many times I had gone way too far in my 'discipline' of a young boy I truly wanted to love and care for. But that was ancient history. Now it was my turn. I decided to sell the Brownstone apartment and hit the road.
I'd always been a bit psychic. I think it came from my grandfather. I'd never met him, though had always been told we were two of a kind. But I never fancied myself as some sort of great seer or possessing some special insight into the future. I was just doing this to make a few extra bucks, see the country, and meet people. And the garish, stereotypical garb required for a true over-the-top fortuneteller appealed to me as well. I loved the spangled purple cape and black velvet robes, long black hair and crimson red fingernails I'd adopted as Madam Zira's 'look'. It was akin to being an actress, and this was my costume. Further adorned by several amulet necklaces, rings on almost every finger and long dangling earrings, I'd long gotten over the embarrassment of sitting at a fold-up table in a cheap plastic lawn chair in the middle of a crowded, noisy shopping mall hoping some small town rube would be willing to pass over $20 to have me lie to them about their future. Yet, at day's end, I usually had enough to indulge in a decent steak and bottle of wine at the town's local steakhouse. Then it was back to the 'Winnie' for a quick shower and a few pages of the latest Anne Rice novel before falling into an exhausted sleep. Afterall, these mall fairs were usually a two-day event. Tomorrow was another day and hopefully another $100 to pay for gas to fuel the gussling Winnie, and enough to pay for rental space at the next shopping mall arts fair or psychic festival. It was the last thing I had envisioned my 'retirement years' to consist of, but, well, Life loves to throw you curves…
So I sat there, watching the porcine thighs of women in polyester shorts and ill-fitting tank tops – their husbands wearing those ridiculous sandals that I'd always felt no man should be caught dead in, milling up and down the mall. Pausing here and there to look at the amateurish crafts and overpriced hand painted cuckoo clocks…and yes, the ceramic busts of Saint Elvis.
I was suffering greatly from the heat. The long vibrant purple cloak I wore – adorned with silver glittery stars I'd cut from old fabric and had sewn on – and heavy velvet gown were sweltering in the perspiration-scented summer day mall. I played the part well, but god knew I paid for it in pain and heatstroke.
As I was adjusting my 'wares' upon the velvet covered table – a display of crystal necklaces and earrings I'd made in between festivals – I was polishing my oversized crystal ball and shuffling a deck of Tarot cards when I heard a deep voice speaking in front of me.
"And what you do you see of your own future in that crystal ball and those magic cards of yours?"
I looked up to find a tall, thin man younger than I yet older than his handsome face and physique let on. He looked down at me with a bemused smile. His voice hinted at some distant accent, but it was his smile that was most engaging. That and his large, interesting nose. I'd always been a 'nose woman' – turned on by a man's nose. Go figure.
I had seen him across the mall at his own table apparently selling audio tapes of some unknown content, and we had exchanged a few polite nods when our eyes had met between the throngs of people surveying the wares of the dealers there.
"This is my future," I laughed with unmasked disdain as I waved my hand over the table of my paltry wares and gauche get-up. Why pretend I was anything other than what I really was. He knew I was a fraud.
He chuckled, his long, thin face adorned with a thick greying moustache wrinkling up a bit.
He folded his arms across his chest.
"Well…Madam Zira," he addressed me as he read the small handmade placard at the front of my table; "Can you tell me my future?"
I knew he was coming on to me.
"For $20 I will tell you whatever you want to hear," I grinned knowingly. He knew I was a charlatan, just as I knew he was a travelling cad with a case full of bullshit tapes to pawn off on the masses for an exorbitant price. We did have one thing in common though – we were both gypsies on the road trying to survive.
He sat down in the plastic lawn chair on the other side of the table across from me, his dark brown eyes piercing as he reached out his hand for me to take.
"I am not a palm reader," I told him, giving him a defiant and defensive glare from my own teal-colored eyes. He just wanted to hold my hand and no doubt begin his come-on act. Exactly why, I wasn't quite sure. I was probably old enough to be his mother, though I had to admit I was a very nice looking 60-year-old woman.
"No," he shook his head slightly, and nodded down to his hand. I now saw the neatly folded $20 bill resting between his thumb and forefinger.
I looked up at him and with a musing smile took the money and put it in the cashbox I kept hidden under the table.
"What would you like to know of your future?" I asked him with a serious tone, yet I could not help but smile at him. We both knew the score. I knew what he really wanted, and frankly, after quick consideration, I was beginning to want it too. It was very lonely on the road. And I had mourned Harry's passing long enough.
He was not a bad looking man. Thick dark hair carefully coifed, almost a pompadour, framing a long, gaunt face tanned by too many outdoor festivals. That or a weekly visit to the tanning booth. His thick peppery moustache would have appeared unseemly had it not been for the genuine and even sweet smile he delivered me. His hands were likewise darkly tanned; fingers long, thin and almost delicate but the obvious wear and tear, calluses and unkempt fingernails unmasked a man who had known hard labor.
"I'd like to know if I will sell at least one of my tapes today," he said with some seriousness. He was now staring at the crimson satin bandana I wore around my head.
I set down the Tarot cards, gazed down into my crystal ball and ran my hands over it with melodramatic gestures…all the while fighting the smile I knew he also fought to expose upon his own lips. We both knew this was just a game.
