Pandora's Box

1. Any Other Friday

It's dark today. A thick cover of clouds hangs over the city, making it feel more like dusk than noon. Without the glare of sunlight, the shadows are softened, giving the entire street a two-dimensional feel - as if I'd stepped into a desaturated, hazy photograph. In the midst of the gray sky, slate buildings, and black road, is a jarring splash of deep red, a crimson drop against the otherwise monotone setting. From afar it looks like the portal to another world, a bright door set into the wall of a narrow building crammed unnaturally between two normal-sized buildings. Up close it looks like a crappy wooden door with layers of mismatched, peeling paint. But the layers of red paint - fiery orange-reds and bloody scarlets - streak together and make it look like it's on fire. A fiery portal to another world. Mystical. Magical.

Or whatever. Maybe it is just a crappy wooden door with crappy peeling paint. But it's my crappy wooden door with crappy peeling paint. And it is a portal to another world.

Okay no, not really. Not for everybody at least. Just me, and the few clients I've managed to attract since moving to the city a few months ago.

I turn the key in the lock and push the door open, crossing the threshold into my world. Thick swatches of fabric drape the walls and hang from the ceiling in great swooping arcs. Some are patterned in red and gold, others shimmering purple and nothing matches, though it's hard to tell in the dark. I flip the switch to turn on the single overhead light in the center of the room, an ugly naked bulb that casts a harsh light on everything and briefly thrusts me back into reality.

This is not another magical world. This tiny ten-by-nothing hole in the wall is a forgotten place, a sliver of a building squeezed into a space that would otherwise have been too small to even call it an alley had it been undeveloped. The fabric on the walls is frayed and fading, gathered from scrap sales at craft stores or scrounged from outrageous costumes at thrift stores, cut into pieces, and hung in a mismatched patchwork that looks like the work of a seamstress gone mad.

Gods I hate that stupid light. I dig around in the corner, pushing bits of satin and tulle aside to reach for the switch that turns on the twinkle lights strung around the room, artfully woven in with the fabric. When I've found it, I flip the twinkle lights on and turn the overhead light off.

The difference is amazing. With the flip of those switches, I've transformed the room into a mystical, magical space. Which is exactly what it is. I scoop a small, hand-painted wooden sign off the floor, open the door and hang it from a small hook on the front. It says 'Open' in gorgeous script and beneath that: Madame Cassandra, Medium, Mystic, Marvel.

Medium, mystic, marvel. I don't know about all of that, but the woman that painted the sign for me swore it sounded enchanting and would bring in more clients. I think she was trying to upsell the work since I traded her the sign for a reading, but I liked it anyway.

I close the door and move to the center of the room. The only furniture is a cheap card table (covered with a black velvet tablecloth to hide the cheapness and add to the aura of mystery), a plush but ratty armchair for my clients, and a high-backed wooden chair spray painted gold for me. In the center of the table is a massive glass orb on a pedestal, as well as a deck of tattered tarot cards. The crystal ball is nothing more than an over-sized paperweight, of course, but it looks way more legit when the fluorescent light is off and I've turned on the ambient lighting. The tarot cards, on the other hand, are one hundred percent real. At least, they are in my hands.

Now that my space is transformed, I stash my bag behind a length of fabric and wait.

And wait.

Business is slow in the mystic arts nowadays. I can't really blame people; with all of the technology available and the sci-fi doomsday culture, old school stuff like tarot readings aren't nearly as exciting as they used to be. I mean, I assume that a hundred years ago, getting your fortune told was pretty entertaining. I wasn't there, but what else was there to do? Of course, I also blame my lack of business on the posers, the fake mediums that blow smoke and whisper nonsense, who use leading questions and simple observation to tell people what they want to know and call it a "reading".