A low-budget feng shui consultant detained me on lower 5th Avenue the other night. An analyst for the people.
She’d been halfheartedly handing out information about the slew of additional services she offered (herb color therapy, holistic healing, meditation, tarot cards, crystals, palmistry), most of which fascinates me. Can’t get enough of psychics, and mystics, and “witches” (it’s better to be a witch than a snitch). The other pedestrians ignored her, and she wasn’t feeling any of them. But as soon as I entered her radar, she pounced.
She stopped soliciting prospective clients to loudly and passionately follow me, insisting that we had to talk. I was treated to a pop preliminary reading. She said that most of the personal hardships I’ve suffered have stemmed from the interference of others, not from any fault of my own.
I liked her already. I could really sit down and listen to a thread like this for 20 minutes, or all day, especially if it wasn’t going to cost me much. She encouraged me to come upstairs with her to continue, and if I hadn’t been running late for something else I might have accepted the invitation - it was too cold outside and I had left my hat and gloves at home. I bet she would have served me a steaming cup of herbal tea up there (although I would have had to carefully supervise every step of its preparation, to keep out any funny business).
As we spoke, and the wind chill felt like it was plummeting by the second, she maternally grabbed the zipper of my fleece and pulled it up a couple of inches higher. She said her name was Lily, even though it says “Fatima” on her leaflet.
Looking back on it now, that 4-minute street consultation was the highlight of the evening.
Farewell to an Era
1 day ago