I first met The Psychic in the subway station one weekday night around 9 PM. I was waiting for a train along with my roommate Meylin and her best friend Desiree. Suddenly The Psychic began to speak to Meylin.
I am psychic, he said.
He actually said a lot more than this. He talked to Meylin for several minutes. But his accent was very thick, and all I could really discern from his monologue was that he was from Trinidad, that he used to be a cook, then he started using crack, that he was psychic, and that his whole family was psychic. His eyes were very red. He was very intense.
Your mother is worried about you, he told Meylin. She is at home and she is worried about you. You are very independent and you want to go off on your own, but do not forget your mother.
Meylin seemed very attentive to The Psychic. It was hard not to be. He was leaning forward slightly. His red eyes were open wide. I wasn’t sure what a person looked like when he was reading the future, but this very well could be it.
Your father is a bitch, he told her. Your mother is a good person. But your father is a bitch. Call your mother.
Whoa. This is getting good, I thought. Maybe her dad killed somebody. I tried to read Meylin’s face to see if The Psychic’s words were ringing true. I sure hoped so. If her dad was a good person, than this was just a drunk guy on a bench. But if her dad killed somebody, this could be a real live psychic. Something about the guy did feel genuine. Probably the blood red eyes.
When the psychic was done with Meylin he turned to Desiree. Desiree had been drinking heavily and was clearly intoxicated. Be careful with that one, he said. You must watch over her.
Well damn, I thought. That one didn’t require any magical powers. I was hoping I was next. Meylin, Desiree, then me—it only made sense. There were only three of us, after all. But no fortune was forthcoming. His eyes returned to normal size, and he paid us no more attention. I wondered if I had tits if I would have gotten a reading too.
When we got on the train, I turned to Meylin. Please tell me your dad is an evil bastard.
No, she said, he’s a nice man.
Damn it, I thought.
I saw the Psychic again a few days later. He was outside this time, leaning against the wall of a tattoo parlor. I wanted two things: a photograph and my fortune, so I approached him. Remember me? I asked. I met you the other night in the subway with my friends.
Oh yes, he said. You are from Israel.
No, I said. You told my roommate that her dad was a bitch. Is there any way I can take your photograph?
Yes, that is no problem, he said. One moment. He then pulled down his pants and began to piss on the wall of the tattoo parlor. It was broad daylight. The sidewalk was crowded. People were actually stepping over The Psychic’s piss as it ran down the sidewalk and into the street. If there was a real psychic on the streets of New York, it had to be this guy. God was not going to hide a psychic where everyone could find him.
When the piss was finished, The Psychic posed for a couple of photographs. He talked a little more about his psychic powers. He had an aunt who told him that he was never to charge money for his readings. There was an NYPD police officer that came to him weekly for a reading. And then came the big moment – my fortune.
You are married, yes?