ROCK BOTTOM

Years ago, in a little town called New Orleans, I decided to sample the local cultural flavor and have my tarot cards read. I found myself waiting in line at a quintessential voodoo shop, mindlessly fingering a shrunken head and shaking a jar of what appeared to be a pickled pig fetus. I momentarily questioned my judgment but then resolved to have an open mind—I mean, how bad could my fortune be? When my name was finally called, I walked through a curtain of beads and sat down across from a 90 year-old bald woman with cataracts. The room smelled like burning hair. She had me cut the deck and select eight cards. “No pressure”, she wheezed, “just eight little cards to define your future”. I handed her my selection with a fair amount of confidence, expecting to hear something pleasant like, “You will marry your best friend” or “You’ve selected the card of eternal wisdom” Instead, she swallowed hard, shook her bald head, and regretfully informed me that I had chosen the ROCK BOTTOM card. “I’m sorry..?” She elaborated, “The rock bottom card conjures up images of misery, illness, poverty…” it must have been obvious that I was on the verge of throwing up because she stopped listing off what else “rock bottom” could entail and cheerfully added that I had also selected cards that foretold a future of great wisdom and motherhood and eternal love. It didn’t matter though. It was too late. Nothing matters once you’ve chosen the “rock bottom” card. I paid my $40 (easily the most depressing money I’ve ever spent), and resolved that the words “rock bottom” were never to be spoken aloud, convinced that if I ignored the disturbing reading it would be as if it never happened. I swore off cataracts and tarot cards forever. That is, until last Monday.

I was minding my own business, heading to TJ Maxx on my lunch break like any hard-working American gal would, when I spotted a glossy, purple card wedged under my wiper. The first thing I saw was an anime angel sitting on a rock with a glowing bird in her hand. Upon further inspection, it was not just a card, but rather an invitation; an invitation to a “new spiritual journey for a better tomorrow”. Oh, no, I thought, already anticipating what I would find on the back. I nervously glanced around to see if any other cars had the invitation—no, only mine. Unable to stop myself, I flipped the card over, and there it was: “EXPERIENCE THE MYSTICAL TAROT CARDS, OR THE PERSONAL TOUCH OF PALM READING”. It then listed off some other services; among the more intriguing were Angel Soulmate Readings, Clairvoyant Readings and Past Lives. “Iiiiinteresting,” I thought, feeling myself become seduced, but I quickly caught myself. No. Not again. Not after what happened last time. Throw that cursed card away and get to TJ, you Maxxinista, you! I couldn’t throw it away though. It was too eerie that I was being singled-out and beckoned in this way. Could the universe be speaking to me?? Besides, I still had too many questions: the card only had a phone number-- no name. Who is this tarot card phantom? It boasted they had been “nominated by the National Astrological Association as Denver’s Top Psychic Advisor”, but did they win?? Did the inclusion of the anime graphics imply Asian involvement? Overwhelmed, I threw the card in my bag and went to clear my mind in the bedding section of TJ Maxx.

Wednesday 10:25:00—two days later and I am still staring at the card. It stares back, alluring me with its vibrant shades of violet and infinite mystical possibilities. I weigh my options. I could call and hear some awful news, just like last time. (The words “rock bottom” resonate in my ears, and I shudder.) Then there’s a chance I got the card for a reason, and if I don’t call, something awful will actually happen. I decide acting is better than react—Oh, who am I kidding? I am drunk with the magical possibilities. I pick up the phone, dial. A woman answers, and I hear a small child throwing a tantrum in the background.

“Who is this?” I ask in a small voice, waiting with baited breath to hear the answer.
“This is Pam”, she answers with an irritated tone. “Who is this?” It sounds like she may be doing dishes.
“Umm, I got a flyer on my car. Where are you?”
“Off of Colfax and Kipling” she says.

And just like that, the magic is gone. The stars are not aligning. I have not been chosen by the universe. This isn’t some mystical Asian tarot phantom summoning me to divulge the details of my destiny; this is just some mundane soccer mom on Colfax doing dishes and preying on spiritually-vulnerable people like me. “Shame on you” I whisper, and I hang up the phone.

Who actually falls for that stuff anyways?