Editor's Note: This is the first edition of “Second Helpings,” or St. Louis experiences enjoyed by our blogger for a second time. Check back each Wednesday for a new installment.
During the mid-to-late 1990s, a bar on the down-at-the-heels Cherokee Street offered one thing that no other tavern could: on-site palmistry. True, the City of St. Louis may have had laws against the art of fortune telling, but Kathy, the owner of this quirky little saloon, never charged for her services. Getting a reading was more a matter of becoming a regular, spending a few dollars, letting the clock roll along, then being ready when the time (well, her time) was right.
Sadly, the place eventually went belly-up. Considering the small rings, it wasn’t a true surprise, but it was still a disappointment to the small crew of regulars. After some years as a Mexican bootery and then a woodworker’s shop, the Fortune Teller’s reputedly reopening this spring. It’s nice to think of that classic, old space returning to its longtime purpose. But, as is so often true in life, the original hook won’t be there. It’ll be a cool bar, in a hip zone. But it won’t offer a chance for your palm to guide you.
These days, a few local psychics can often be found just outside the City limits. Others are scattered throughout the metro region, often in simple homes, only made unordinary by the neon lights in the front window advertising the extra-wordly services. Despite more than a couple rounds of palm reading at the Fortune Teller, I’d only once paid for the experience prior to this week, also back in 1990s, in a home somewhere off of the Rock Road. There, a Latina woman of middle-age sat me on a plastic-encased sofa and read my future for around $25. No recollection today on her accuracy, though I do remember the Catholic iconography all through the house and, barely, the super-small dog that was eventually sequestered in the back of the house.
As it turned out, a few of these memories struck me yesterday as I pulled into the expansive, side parking lot of a southwest county home. Out front, a 10- to 12-foot sign offered a simple ad: "Psychic Reading," it said, atop an outstretched hand. On further inspection, the front windows were also lit up by neon, while an older, wood sign laid along a back wall, a cool piece that’d fit right into the City Museum. This place (on a long, city-into-county street that rhymes with “savoy”) was chosen at random. The sign did all the research necessary. “Physic Reading.” So simple. Yet when you’re looking for just that service, it’s all you need.
Approaching the door, I felt a funny pang, knowing that four lanes of busy traffic were buzzing by only a few feet away. Were any of these folks curious about the service themselves? Did they pass this place on a daily basis? Were they giving a quiet smirk at the person walking up the front steps of this otherwise unremarkable corner building? No matter.
The wooden front door was knocked upon. A few moments of silence followed before the door cracked. A small squad of kids were hustled into the kitchen, leaving behind a game on the TV and a bowl of oatmeal. The dog was taken back there, too, but the mid-sized hound escaped once or twice for a sniff and a bark. I was told to sit on the large, wrap-around sofa, which faced a huge, in-repose Jesus Christ figurine on the coffee table. For a couple minutes I sat there, waiting for the woman at the door to return, but I only saw kids poking their heads around the kitchen doorframe. And, of course, there was the yard-long, bloodied Christ figurine too.
As it turned out, another woman came to do the reading. She didn’t introduce herself, but took my full name, birth date, and profession, the true-but-not-all-the-time “teacher.” She ran through the price list, which included a full tarot reading for $45; a three-questions-only curiosity rate of $10; and three- and seven-year palm readings for $25 and $35, respectively. Figuring that three years would do, I simply set two bills on the table and, with that simple exchange, the reading was underway.
Asked a few questions to start, my right hand was examined quickly, with a few glances at the left for good measure. I was told some things that jibed and some that seemed a bit unusual; for example, I’m really not seeing a lifespan into my late-90s, but perhaps that’s not for me and my creaking bones to decide. At some point, I asked a couple questions, but realized that one had almost no relevance to my life, which was palmist detected. The other question received good feedback, which was welcome
Won’t lie here: Something about this practitioner of palmistry had me off my game. Going way back, I’m one to believe in ghosts, omens, totems, spirit tracers, orbs, haunted houses, Ouijas, spooks, the magic of graveyards at midnight, and all things that go bump in the night. So, I’m predisposed to the curious and strange. And my young palmist, while dressed in a modern style, had an interesting vibe. She might have been from Belize or Romania, so there was that slight mystery of background or ethnicity. (And when it comes to palmists, a little mystery is a great value add.) There was also the cadence and tone of her voice, which took on a certain mechanical, and yet simultaneously, dreamy tone. At one point, I was told that I had some very “low-key” spiritual understanding, but I’d also “turned off my third eye,” a while back; more meditation is needed and less stressing out, which I can dig. She said it such conviction!
Tell you what: You want to make the rest of your day quirky? The next time you drive by a psychic’s house during daylight hours, pull over. Let me know how it goes. Maybe you can tell me when I’m packing for my upcoming, unplanned trip to Spain.
