The Weird Insights of a Scobberlotcher

Nine Sounds Light Teal

"It's The Tower. Usually indicates conflict, unforeseen catastrophe. In this position it's supposed to indicate the general atmosphere surrounding you. Has something bad disrupted your life recently? I mean, apart from the truck?"

Hadn't been paying much attention. The only thing that sprang to mind was the naked truth. So I said it.

"I think I'm going mad. I've got this red light shining on my ass."

As soon as the words came out of my mouth it just felt like the most natural thing in the world to say. Didn't seem to surprise her at all either. She looked at me impassively. She plucked the cigarette that never seemed to burn down from between her lips and pointed it to where my groin was submerged under the table.

"Is it flashing?"

Perhaps I had underestimated her powers.

"Uh, ya."

"Phew." She mocked wiping her brow.

"Why?"

"If it wasn't it would be too late."

"Too late for what?"

"Too late for you."

"Wa'd'ya mean too late for me?"

"You're failing. When you see that light it means that for some reason you are in danger of failing as a human being. Usually comes with a real nasty depression."

Questions, we have questions, we have lots and lots of questions. But first, a quick veracity check.

"So how do you know about this stuff?"

Instead of answering she motioned towards a plaque on the tent wall behind her that I hadn't noticed. It was a municipal business licence. It was current and under 'Nature of Business' was clearly printed the word 'Fortuneteller.' Well, who was I to argue with city hall.

"So why does it flash the way it does? You know, steady, then irregular, then steady again?"

"It's a code. The irregular flashes are a code. Like morse."

"So, let me see if I have this right. I have a flashing red light on my ass. It's telling me I'm in danger. And it's telling me in some kind of code I can't understand?"

"That's right." My psychic casually flicked an ash off her cigarette into the tray then poked it back in place. "But I can."

"Wait a minute! How come I can see it, you say can see it, but apparently nobody else can?"

"Long story." She waved me off with a side to side motion of her hand. "Technical. Boring. Important thing is you did and I can. So let's have a look."

"Wait! What? You want me to show you my ass. Right here? Right now?"

"Exactly."

"Just drop my pants, turn around and bend over for you? That's a little embarrassing don't ya think?"

"Look, I'm sorry. I'd offer you a hospital gown but we're fresh out. Besides, it isn't anything I haven't already seen."

"You mean you've done this before?"

She fanned the air in front of her face dismissively. "Phhh, you kidding? If I had a nickle."

Maybe it was the relief I felt with the lifting of my mood. Maybe it was something other than tobacco that she was puffing in her endless cigarette. Or maybe it was just the challenge of going bareass in front of an aging gypsy fortuneteller with a history of doing this kind of thing. Whatever, my modesty subsided, I stood up, turned around and dropped my pants to my ankles.

"Uh, can't see much. Bend over and spread 'em."

I did as ordered. I had to push my knees against the seat to counterbalance the weight from leaning against the back of the chair. Made me feel trapped. A bit breezy, too.

"Still can't see it. You'll have to pull your cheeks apart."

This felt like pushing the limits a bit, exposing my bunghole and balls to the four winds with a licenced fortuneteller sitting staring at me from behind. But there was an undeniable element of common sense, even in this bizarre situation, so I did as she asked. One handed. Still needed the other for balance. Then I looked over my shoulder to see what she was doing. She had come up with a notepad and pen from somewhere and was vacillating between peering at my ass and taking notes.

"Excuse me but what are you doing?"

"I have to jot down the code," she said without pausing, "then I can translate."

She kept looking up and down, up and down, scribbling on her pad. It started to feel like I was posing for some sort of perverse portrait flaunting disregard for conventional decency.

"There, done. You can pull up your pants now."

I did as I was told than sat back down facing her. She kept working away studiously, pausing every once in awhile to unload a fat smoker's cough into her fist. Then with a decisive tap of pen on pad she concluded

"O.k., got it."

"Wad'it say?"

"Can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"It's a secret code."

"But it's on MY ass."

I got that same universal maternal expression usually erected to stonewall juvenile stupidity. Interlocking bricks of resignation and forbearance.

"Sorry, those are the rules. Let's get on with it."

"On with what?"

A sharp tone of petulance had leaked into my voice. I regretted it immediately. What a silly thing to ask. On with the inevitable, of course.

"Sorry. Go ahead."

She flicked her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray then fanned the Tarot cards out in front of me.

"Pick one and turn it over under the Tower."

I did. It was The Fool.