The world is full of scams, full of shifty people seeking to strip the vulnerable of their money, to make them believe in something that raises their hopes and have them believe that their future is easily predicted—merely by studying the hand.
It’s easy money. Forget Tarot Cards, Crystal Balls and all the malarkey that goes with them. Reading a person’s hand is simple and clear cut. It is black and white and without variables—well, almost. Props aren’t necessary and it’s mobile; a person can set up shop just about anywhere and move on as needed. All that is necessary is a card table and a couple of folding chairs. And of course, making certain to choose the right location—which isn’t different in principal from other successful enterprises…location, location, location as they say in the realty business.
They call it Palmistry and it takes little or no training—just study a manual or two to get the basics down and it’s especially easy for someone who has had training in human anatomy, who knows the twenty-two bones of the hand and wrist by name, by feel…for example, any ex mortician. And it’s important for a person to make certain that he emits a proper persona, that he wears the appropriate clothing, nothing too far out but just different enough to set him apart, to make him appear that he’s someone special, someone possessing a special gift. And that means not wearing a turban or displaying excessive body paraphernalia. Of course, a couple of silver rings in the meaty part of the earlobe is not only acceptable but desirable…and an Adolph Menjue mustache (circa 1930’s) can add that combination of flair and maturity, and have a calming effect on a client, making them feel that the person holding their hand is competent, even compassionate.
But let no one forget that there is a special personality that is necessary for success and not just anyone has it—that’s what makes me special. It’s not
a standard genetic trait, something to be passed from generation to generation, but a mutation of sorts. However if my DNA were to be studied by a learned person, he or she couldn’t differentiate it from the norm—my genome would be quite unremarkable with my chromosomes aligned in the usual biological sequence.
But nonetheless, the gift is there.
Even from early on, it was evident. Some people just know they have a special talent: able to run faster than most or realize their fingers are able to dance across piano keys as if it were second nature, like skipping effortlessly across black and white pebbles on a beach…or are able to make people believe the future is predictable.
The sign is self-explanatory: Palm Reading, twenty dollars. Satisfaction guaranteed. Palmistry is really a misnomer. Although it’s straight forward, it’s not that simple—the entire hand is analyzed with great care: its overall shape, the soft tissue of the back of the hand as well as the palm, even the attitude of the fingers, noting if they’re pencil-straight or display a slight curvature. And one must pay particular attention to the flair of the thumb, even the fingernails…and even test the scent of the skin when the hand is brought close. Believe it or not, it’s as much a science as an art form.
By Saturday midmorning, the courtyard at Tiaquepaque Arts and Crafts Village in Sedona is busy, not only with the usual regulars but with tourists from as far away as New York and not infrequently from the great cities of Europe and the Far East. Vehicles turn off Highway 179 at Oak Creek Bridge, their tires screeching as they grip a cobblestone pavement that glistens moist from the higher elevation dew, coating it like a tight skin. They veer abruptly with little regard to safety into the parking lot hoping to find a parking space before it is filled to capacity.
Near the edge of the courtyard, within shouting distance of the El Prado and Spiritwind Galleries, a card table with two chairs is placed beneath a small desert tree. The tree’s bark is shiny and it has green slivers for leaves that cast dancing shadows as they catch the breeze. A nearby water fountain sings a tune. It is a soothing site, an ideal site, costing fifty dollars for an
entire day. But with any luck at all, I will take in about two hundred dollars by the end of the day…net profit, tax-free if you know what I mean.
The first client is a middle-aged woman. Although a ploy in semantics, the term client rather than customer is preferred, in that I consider myself a practitioner of dreams. She is nicely dressed, wearing an elegant pair of beige Stuart Weitzman shoes and hugging a patent leather Channel purse close to her side as if something in it is important. Her makeup is caked thick and her cologne has a Listerine intenseness…obviously she drinks too much. And her head has that typical little nod as if it was beating in concert to her heart and there is a slight tremor of her hands to match.
She is an easy read. She seats herself. Even from a distance I can see that the skin of her hand is cellophane thin and fragile, her veins large and blue-purple with scabby blotches of skin nearby, and that the bones, those that comprise the substance of her hand, are profiled into a slight concavity—like warped oars dipping into the waters of a tumultuous life.
I introduce myself. My features are darkish with eyes to match. I have a large bent nose and my coal-black hair is brushed back and captured in a small bun by a plain rubber band at the nape of my neck. My smile is broad and comforting…and very automatic.
She offers her hand, turning it palm-up before I can even instruct her. I take it within mine, holding it like a wounded bird…every so gently. Her skin is too warm, feverish.
She looks inquisitively into my eyes searching for that certain something, as if by chance the four metaphysical energy vortexes of Sedona intersect near this very site—a pervasive feeling common to many who visit this area, for it was near here in 1987 that thousands gathered at $75 a head to witness the departure Bell Rock up to the galaxy of Andromedia, which of course, never occurred.
A few nonsensical words are interchanged to break the ice, routine but probing words—like boxers testing their opponents before they begin their match in earnest. She imparts a sense of desperateness with the dullness of her eyes, the subtle crackle in her voice…it all reflects of despair.
Most people seek Palmistry merely as a diversion, not to be taken too seriously…like going to a matinee movie. It is something to break the monotony. But there are those few—thankfully far between—that believe, who actually think that their future lies in the whim of little crevices that strike a pathway across the palm of their hand like a harrow crossing unplowed virgin soil, digging up buried treasures. They think that their destiny is preordained and can be seen in the curvature of a line, in its subtle branching, in the depth of its penetration…in its length.
My eyes fall upon the frailty of her hand. They study its architecture much as a builder examines a detailed blueprint. Her skin is dry with scattered dots of redness that stand out like a rash, as if tears of despair have fallen like searing drops of acid to leave their mark. Her rapid pulse races through her hand to her fingertips. She lifts her vision, eager for me to begin.
I hesitate.
Despite better judgment, I study the whole person.
She is a troubled person who seeks a remedy—an elixir of hope—a word or two from my lips that might alter what she already knows. She is dying. I can see death in her drawn face, smell it as it exudes from the pores of her skin like a stale fragrance. I can feel it as it surfaces—revealed in the deep, short crevice of her Life Line.
She squeezes my hand, hard—a grip surprisingly strong, as if her entire being is summoned to that last bit of strength before her last breath.
“Can you be certain? Do the lines of the palm ever error?”
“Not usually,” I state it with firmness—as if I actually believe what I have said.
I cup her hand within mine; our fingers intertwine like eager vines arising from a common root.
A block or two away, an eighteen-wheeler turns sharply off the main road, swerving, its brakes weakened by the steep descent from the higher elevation. Its exhaust plumes a dark, restless smoke and the chrome front bumper reflects the midmorning sun like a mirror. The wheels squeal as ribbons of rubber strip away from the tires like the hide of an alligator pealing. The brakes lock and groan and the back end sways to each side as if responding to the beat of an erotic dance; it can no longer control its path across the cobblestone pavement.
I release her hand. A tear flows from my eye.
My hand turns to a fist and then it releases, palm up. I wish I didn’t have this gift, this curse, I whisper.
Her eyes mist and she smiles as if she understands.
I look at my palm; my Life Line is nearly as short as hers—a deep crevice that ends abruptly—like a mountain stream no longer receiving the waters of life from above. But it doesn’t matter…for Palmistry is not an exact science.
The mirrored sunlight from the chrome bumper shines down upon us and grows brighter with a divine intensity. As it looms closer, our hands once again come together with our Life Lines—short and deep—meeting at an angle, making the sign of the Cross.
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