When I was 24, I was living in Savannah Georgia, and I was a waitress at Kevin Barry’s Irish Pub. I busked caricatures on River Street every Thursday Friday and Saturday night. On the river, I would meet various characters who were traveling through and I would make friends with them because I was literally out there on the river all day and sometimes it got lonely and fringe people are always naturally attracted to me. I was speaking with this one gentleman, a fortune teller traveling through and we got to talking and he told me that he needed a place to stay for the night. So I invited him to stay at my house. I told him I only had one bed but it was big enough for two people but he would have to agree to stay on his side, and he said he understood and was excited to take a hot shower.
Well in those days I was really naïve; thankfully he was mostly a gentleman and I don’t remember his name but he told me that he was a Romani fortuneteller and he told me as he was crunching through a neon green bag of Funyuns. He was talking and munching as we were walking back to my place, and I was pushing my bike and remember thinking it looked like his fingers were coated in yellow fiberglass dust. He literally was talking of the side of his mouth waggling his tongue from side to side trying to reach the crumbs stuck in his stubble and he tells me with confidence that he was from some very special original sect of people whose legacy it was to tell the most accurate fortunes. He said he was a traveling gypsy and has traveled all over because of his accurate predictions and that he was world famous. I learned more recently that it is a derogatory term to use the word “gypsy.” The correct term is “Romani.”
Well after he got cleaned up and was in relaxation mode, I ordered a pizza for us and I asked him if he would read my cards for me and he said sure! To my surprise, he pulled out a deck of well-loved but totally regular Bicycle brand playing cards which I was surprised to see—he shuffled and asked me what I wanted to know and I told him I wanted to know what my true love would be like. At the time, I was healing a heartbreak. I fell in love with a painter who was at the time one of my best friends and he lived in the downstairs apartment from me. We had a terribly abrupt and painful breakup; he actually set me up to catch him in the act of seducing someone else and I realized all at once that our “fun” relationship was splattered with cheating, physical abuse, and obsession. While I lived there I had to observe him move on to be with the girl he picked over me, and she was constantly at his apartment sleeping over right under my nose. It was mentally torturous for me; broke my spirit and still, I loved him. Not exactly the dinner party I wanted to be at. So my broken but hopeful heart just wanted to know about love—I wanted to feel better. I asked the Romani traveler and he shuffles and reiterates, “You wanna know what your husband‘s gonna be like?” I said, “Yeah that’s what I want to know I want to know what my husband is going to be like.” He looked at me over his glasses with an eyebrow raised and rolled his eyes a little bit and snarled saying, “You don’t want to know about the secrets of the universe or your life’s mission or anything like that?” I said “No, I’m most interested in the love relationship aspects of my life. I’m pretty sure everything else will fall into place because it always has, but this is just the area of my life in which I’ve had the roughest tumble.” He said, “OK fair enough,” and he pulls out a bunch of cards he looks at him and he goes “Oh, he’s all right, he’s not terrible. He looks a little boring, to be honest.” Not terrible? He said, “Yeah he’s okay, he looks like a good dude.” “What else, any details about it?”
I can’t remember what he said, to be honest, but I just remember that he told me he was just basically like this boring, average dude. He didn’t tell me he was sparkly like I am. I kind of expected it to be someone with a specialized skill, someone who was incredibly funny or bright, or someone who is highly likable, these would’ve been things I would’ve wanted to hear. An animal lover, somebody who has kids already…these would’ve been helpful clues as to who he is so I can keep an eye out for him. But no, he didn’t say any of those things he just told me that he was an okay dude and nothing really was special about him. Just keep my eyes peeled for a boring dude and that’s probably him.” I got kind of pissed off and started defending my future man immediately I said, “Well if he is my man, he certainly is special there is certainly something special about him, and ALSO he is NOT just average he has a wonderful heart and he’s probably tall and handsome and he’s probably got it going on, and he probably loves art and music, and he probably is funny as shit and he probably is as patient as a saint.” The Romani guy just shrugged his shoulders and said he didn’t get all of that but that he was kind of tired. So I said, “okay” and we laid down and I was definitely feeling kind of pissed off.
I was thinking in my head, “World famous bullshitter…I really don’t like this guy anymore….this is annoying and I’m feeling so burnt to a crisp right now.” And then guess what poked me like an evil salmon while we were laying there?! (Ace of wands reversed) I guess he wasn’t intending on just sleeping, the terms we agreed to. He gave me a shitty reading and then he wants to make it with me…LOL. I wasn’t having it! EW DAVID, THANKS BUT NO. (Four of cups energy with a flick of Santorum). So I kind of kicked him out of bed the second time he tried something and I made him sleep on the floor. He was gone at sun up like a vapor and my studio apartment smelled like an onion ring fart. Mild consequences and barely escaping unscathed in countless instances prove to me the realness of guardian angels.