Scam-onomics
I went to see a psychic the other day. I was on Madison Avenue, feeling a little underwhelmed by recent life events, glumly strolling the sidewalk in this city of overwhelming skyscrapers and Fancy Dogs when a large and disheveled man intercepted me. He handed me a flier for tarot cards and psychic readings and asked me if I wanted to see the Madam. I’m a such a sucker for people hocking their wares on the street. Being a sex worker means I’ve got money to spare (and not just money, but CASH motherfuckers) and I like to spread the wealth – so I’m constantly saying yes. Yes to your self-produced hip hop album, yes to your subway mariachi band, yes to your ailing grandmother you may or may not have and the pills she can’t afford. Yes. Absolutely. Take it, please. I’ve never made this much money in my life and I know I work hard for that shit, but something about it makes it feel unreal. Something about the way it was procured, how easy it was compared to working a 40 hours a week at a dead end job, makes me want to roll around in bed with it and then paper my street with it by dropping it out my window.
I viewed this hollering tarot card flouter as some sort of divine intervention. Feeling like my path in life is murky encourages a spiritual flakiness in me; where I take solace in the idea that God, or the Universe, or Obama has a Grand Plan. Of course I was going to get my tarot cards read. If I’m anything (and I’m a lot of things) I’m definitely a confused twenty-something obsessed with the idea of the future
Anyways, I took the bait and climbed up the steps to a pretty swank Madison Avenue apartment. It was replete with chandeliers and fainting couches. I appreciated her style; the imitation of 19th century English bourgeoisie that was going on. I was quickly stuffed into a little room, a converted closet full of dark wood paneling and the heady scent of incense. Tarot card readings were 20 bucks. In light of the fact that I recently dropped 200 hundred dollars on hot pants, 20 bucks felt like couch change. A thirty something woman wearing pastels and making no attempt to costume herself in gypsy attire bustled in the room. She closed the door, and there we were: the two of us, a tiny table, and a crystal ball.
She asked me to shuffle the cards and think of two positive wishes; saying one out loud and keeping the other to myself. The first wish was basically a condensed version of ‘what should I do with my life?’ which I phrased as “What path should I take to help me become a writer?” and the second wish was about my baby girl and life partner, whose love I don’t doubt but whose actions are occasionally rash and hurtful. The cards were big and I shuffled them clumsily before splitting the deck in two and picking the one closest.
She spread the cards out and instantly the question turned to love and relationships; a market she can capitalize on. The first half of her of reading was spot on, but spot on about events in the past, not the present. She asked me what the second question was and I told her it was about my lover. Of course. She became animated now. Talking about negative patterns and blockage. When I asked her about my first question, about whether or not I should move to Europe and what path I should be on, she dismissed it, saying she saw ‘ a lot of adventure around it.’ Now, she didn’t really finish the reading. There was no wrap up, there was just a lead in. She needed to meditate on the situation, she needed to do some research and focus. Without naming a price, she asked me if I was willing to let her focus energy on this situation. She wasn’t talking fast, but she was posing questions quick. Did I want this situation resolved? Was I ready to know? I’m going to tell you if you belong with this person, are you ready for that? Are you sure?
Yes, yes absolutely. I was ready. I wanted to know. I felt like I couldn’t say anything else. She named her price, 75$ for each meditation. Ummm. I was hesitant but not ready to say no. I’d planned to go shopping that day so I had a hundred in my wallet. Maybe. I only have this. Ok, for you, I don’t usually do this, but I want to help you with this situation so I’ll take it. I placed the money in her hand and it disappeared quickly. No take backs. Even as I fumbled with my wallet I knew I was being scammed, but for some reason I was okay with it in the moment. She hadn’t been wrong, she just hadn’t been quite right and maybe the psychic reading would reveal something reassuring. I left the room in a daze, a little confused about what exactly I had been talked in to, beating myself up a little bit, but not too much.
See, I knew I’d been scammed. When I went back for the reading, she told me that there were negative blockages that needed to be cleared and spiritual energy that needed to be reconfused. In order to do this, I’d have to purchase two crystals – one for me, one for her – at 250 dollars each. I told her I would think about it and left, utterly unsurprised and not terribly disappointed. I appreciate the art of the scam and I felt a deep economic kinship with her as I handed her the wad of 20s in my wallet, her talking the money out of me in less than twenty minutes. If I could be this good of a hustler, I’d make crazy money as a ho. If only money and finnenangling it out of other people didn’t make me feel guilty, if only I demanded tips in the way you’re supposed to at a massage parlor. Touch my tits? Sure, 100 bucks. Set my prices high and have a secret bargaining chip, played the game, waggle my ass in their faces until they begged to give me extra for a simple caress. Instead, I draw strict lines. This much touching is allowed, no I only do fetish and domination extras, no you cannot push my boundaries with your money, you disgusting dick. Still, I sell a scam. I pretend to be a straight (or bi-curious) fun loving gal. I pretend I’m a long luscious brunettee when it’s actually a wig. I pretend I’m a giggling girl who just loves jacking guys off and appreciates the art of a big hard cock getting bigger and harder. I pretend to get turned on – and then I go home and count my money.
