The Whistling Fire

AT THE ANTIQUE MALL and GENERATIONS

whistlingfire — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 08:32:28 +0000

AT THE ANTIQUE MALL

At the antique mall, a reclaimed schoolhouse

Abandoned not all that long ago:

In the restroom graffiti remain intact,

Unkind words and pictures about someone’s daughter,

Like a fresco in the villa of the Vettii,

Released from Pompeian ash

By archeology’s delicate hammer,

For the perusal of unintended viewers.

At the antique mall, a sense of trespass amid the clutter:

Someone’s forebears in daguerreotype,

Private notes on postcards, monogrammed gravy ladles.

Dealers in jogging suits move wares from shelf to shelf:

Which of them has dealt with a niece

Whose grief was less than she had planned,

Which of them a receiver of stolen goods?

On the closed circuit monitor

Graying floorwalkers lurk with genial suspicion

Scanning long tables of memories accepted on consignment.

© 2010 Robert Demaree
Originally appeared in Wild Violet Spring

GENERATIONS: SEA ISLAND, GEORGIA, MAY 1999

A seaside wedding in Georgia,

The last of a generation:

Soft, gauzy May light; tulips, impatiens.

At Ocean Pines Plantation

Young men park cars, as their fathers had done,

Serve canapés to the bridesmaids, all over 30,

And their stepfathers, temples and canes tinged with silver.

Five cousins of the bride, now family elders,

Think to have a picture taken. Who knows?

Young men, ten years out of college,

Earnest, handsome like their fathers,

Discuss the market in black tie.

The band plays “Brown-Eyed Girl.”

© 2010 Robert Demaree
Originally appeared in Mobius.

Swan Song For Wild Rick

whistlingfire — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 15:43:14 +0000

I’d heard rumors about “Wild Rick” Mizell for years. He was the hottest guitarist in the region, and considered one of the local musicians most likely to make it big. He’d been playing in jammed nightclubs for years, and when he opened for Johnny Winter at the university, Winter asked him to come up and jam with him at the end of his set. My friends and I were too young to get into the clubs where he played, but we heard stories from older brothers and sisters. So when my friend Mark caught me between classes in eleventh grade to tell me that Rick wanted to audition us for his new band, I was flabbergasted that he knew I existed.

The next day, after school let out, I saw a guy in his early twenties with long dark hair and a fat handlebar mustache sitting in a Ford Falcon behind the school busses. “That’s him,” said Mark, who ran up beside me. “Right on time, too.”

I climbed into the back seat and Rick glanced at me in the rear view mirror. His eyes were dark and glittering. “Hey man, thanks for coming.” His voice was high and he spoke in spurts. “So we’ll see what happens, okay? I’ve got some gigs lined up. I want to stop doing cover songs and make my own mark on the world, but I need a band. I hear you guys don’t mind a little hard work.”

I didn’t know who was spreading such stories, but didn’t argue.

“I’ve got drums, a bass, everything you need already. And there’s a six-pack of Cokes in the trunk for you, too.”

I could tell from his voice that Wild Rick was shy and a little nervous. He drove us a few miles to a brick colonial with a dirt yard next to a highway. We followed him into what looked like a typical hippie group house—bare wood floors, a few mismatched and worn sofas, anti-war posters on the walls. As we entered the kitchen, I saw where the garlic and tomato smell came from. A young woman in overalls with a thick, dark braid down her back was cooking up a big pot of sauce while a toddler played at her feet.

“Hey guys, this is Amy, a friend of mine,” Rick said as Amy turned and smiled at us. “Here, come on down.”

Rick led us into a spacious basement with only a few cardboard boxes and stacks of amplifiers and speaker cabinets. A double tom-tom set of Ludwigs was set up and ready to go. Mark picked up a red Gibson EBO bass that was plugged in to an Ampeg amp almost as tall as he was. “Is this for me to use?”

“Yeah, I know you usually play guitar, so it’s pretty easy to play.”

While I sat at the drums and adjusted them, I wondered what the catch might be. Rick bent down and pulled a gold Les Paul out of his case and strapped it on. The black leather strap was emblazoned with gold lettering.

“What does that strap say?” I only saw part of it as Rick plugged in. “Wild Rice?”

Rick popped a short, loud laugh. “No, man. Wild Rick, not Wild Rice.” He pulled the strap down for me to see. “You’re crazy, man. But hey, let’s call our band Wild Rice.” He laughed again, turning away as if embarrassed. “Wild Rice. I like that.”

Once he put the guitar on, I saw him in all his glory. Along with the long, gleaming dark hair sweeping across his back and that big mustache, he wore a scarlet silk shirt, black trousers, and alligator skin cowboy boots. Rings flashed from most of his fingers, and colorful tassels dangled from his guitar and strap. Most striking was that he was only about five-foot-three. After some tuning, he cranked up the volume on his stack of Marshal amps and let loose a high-speed barrage of guitar flash that was so loud and so virtuosic that I reeled for a moment. This guy was the real thing—a guitar God.

Mark tuned up, then looked behind the top of his amp for a moment. “This is seven-hundred watts? Seven hundred? I didn’t know they went up that high!”

“Yeah man, it’s plenty powerful,” said Rick. “So look, here’s the first song. You might want to turn up some.”

Once we were playing, Rick lost his nervousness and led us through the first group of songs, carefully teaching us each change, each segment, so that it would be just right. It was immediately apparent why he liked the idea that we were hard working, because we went over and over and over the songs until they were pounded into our minds forever. I had to beat those drums harder than ever before because Rick liked to play loud–very loud. I was too young and awestruck to suggest that he might turn down, and that first rehearsal was the beginning of serious high-end hearing loss, but I still remember the songs and those tricky changes so well I could still play them today if the need arose.

After a couple of hours Rick drove us both home. We rehearsed with him three times a week for six weeks, and built up a set of solid material, most of it Rick’s originals. His songs were built around catchy blues-rock riffs with extended guitar solos that showed off his talents. He didn’t bother much with lyrics, which were generally a couple of lines per song repeated over and over. One was You’ve got my soul, babe—You’ve got my soul. Another was You got my money—And you know that. The day he showed up with an acoustic 12-string he made up a song on the spot. The music was hard edged, but the lyrics consisted of variations on I don’t know—Where I’m going today. There may have been more lyrics to his songs, but I never heard them.

Those little fingers of his were a blur on the fretboard, but speed wasn’t all there was to it—he employed complex phrasing built on a succession of inventive melodic twists that developed into a crescendo of such emotional power that I could hardly believe he could pull it off. In spite of his gifts, he was ill-at-ease around us. It was easy to understand—he didn’t really know us, and to him we were kids. Many people get involved in music because they don’t know how else to relate to other people. Mark and I never really got to know Rick, though we chattered happily away to him about ourselves. Mark and I often talked about our friend Dave, and one day when Rick came to my house to pick me up, he looked at my dog with a puzzled expression. “Hey man, is this Dave?”

Rick didn’t provide many details about our first gig, and on the Sunday evening he drove us there, I found out why. It was at a nursing home. How or why a nursing home hired a loud blues-rock band was a mystery, but Rick treated it with the same businesslike demeanor he might treat any gig. As we set up, I could see his hands trembling.

Once we got started, Wild Rick flew into action. He strutted like a rooster around the stage area in his alligator boots and a black satin shirt, his stubby fingers racing around the neck of his guitar, his head thrown back until his hair thrashed at the small of his back. He tore through his repertoire of blazing fast leads, low note moans and high note shrieks. I expected our elderly audience to retreat, but their eyes never left him. After the set, a line of old ladies waited to meet him, most of them in wheelchairs. I broke down equipment and looked over occasionally. Every one of the ladies took his little hands in theirs, their eyes glowing up at him, and thanked him for coming to make their day so much brighter. Rick, still flushed and perspiring, thanked them for coming the same way he might thank an old friend.

Our next gig was at a coffeehouse for teens called The Garish Grape. I knew the place well, and had many friends who hung out there. It was appropriately gloomy, with dripping candles, black lights, and black walls punctuated by psychedelic posters. Most bands that played there were inept at best, fumbling through Cream and Hendrix covers. I could hardly wait to do a gig in front of my peers, and Wild Rick didn’t disappoint. He was electrifying, and we left the crowd in slack-jawed amazement. I felt like a rock star.

Our next gig was the one we were building up to, and that had us all on edge. It was at The Emergency, a big-time venue, featuring local stars like Grin–lead by Nils Lofgrin, who later joined Bruce Springsteen’s E Street Band–and touring national acts. Rick was more wound up than usual, and could barely get out more than three words at a time while we set up. I knew the gig meant a lot to him. He was sweating when he picked us up.

Minutes before our set, he pulled us into the men’s room and held out two plastic cards. “I got you fake ID’s, just in case. But I don’t want anything to happen, man. This is the night we start to make our mark on the world. Whatever you do, don’t try getting a beer or anything like that. Don’t even go near the bar—I’ll get you cokes. And stay in the background, you know? Don’t attract attention. Stay under the radar. We could all get in a lot of trouble.”

The place was jammed, and Rick turned his amp up all the way. On the first note I swore I could see sound waves ripple out from the stage on a fusillade of high volume. The bass made my lungs shake and the floor pulsate, I pounded the drums so hard that my hands hurt, and Rick’s guitar demolished everything in sight, screaming on high notes before descending in a lightning flurry of growling riffs to crushing power chords. We were so loud that my inner ear twirled with vertigo, and several times I almost keeled over. That relentlessly visceral intensity was painful and intoxicating.

During one of Rick’s solos I heard a crash and commotion through his Les Paul’s cries for mercy. Five policemen ambled in and signaled for us to stop. The agitated owner ran out and spoke to the policemen. People started to leave, and Rick hopped offstage to see what was happening. After about a minute he climbed back up and hurried over to me. “The cops are closing the place down, man. We’re done. Let’s get our stuff and get out.” He gave a short laugh. “We blew the windows out, man, can you believe it? We blew the friggin’ windows out!”

Rick was more silent than usual on the ride home. He pulled over in front of my house and let the engine rumble. When he turned to me, I saw tears in his eyes. “Hey man, I just want to thank you guys for everything. For everything. You were great, and I’m really proud of you. I can’t thank you guys enough.”

“It’s cool,” I said, feeling a nudge of alarm. “Sorry we got kicked out, but it was fun anyway.”

“Yeah, man.” He turned around and wiped one sleeve across his eyes. “Okay, I’ll call you guys, okay? Take it easy.”

Mark and I didn’t hear from Rick for a couple of weeks and he didn’t return our calls. We wondered if he was discouraged by getting the boot from The Emergency, or if he decided we weren’t all that good. I knew we still had a couple of gigs coming up, and didn’t know what to think.

At last I got a call from Rick, and he asked if Mark and I could meet him at Gino’s, a burger joint not far from where we all lived. We waited for him and nibbled at Gino Giants, wondering why he wanted to meet us there, of all places. Maybe he wanted to formally kick us out of the band. Or maybe he wanted to discuss future plans. Maybe, Mark suggested, he was just hungry.

When Rick showed up, he was wearing a white polo shirt and jeans; it was the first time I’d seen him out of his Wild Rick persona. He walked in with red eyes and a somber expression that gave me a twinge of concern. He shook our hands, which cranked that twinge into a jolt. “Hey guys, thanks for coming. I won’t keep you long.”

Oh man, I said to myself, here it comes. We’re fired.

“Hey man, I just wanted to thank you again for all you’ve done. You guys were more than I could have hoped for. You work hard, and you’re really talented. You’re going to go a long way, man. I know that.”

Mark looked at me and then at Rick. “So what’s happening, Rick? What’s this all about? What’s going on?”

“I’m sick, man.” Rick took a shaky breath and lowered his eyes. “I’ve got cancer, man. I’ve got to go in for treatments. They say I don’t really have much of a chance–maybe a couple of months left. I guess this is the end of the band. I’m really sorry, guys.”

I sat staring at him, feeling as if I’d been smacked in forehead with that Les Paul of his. Mark sat up and leaned toward him. “You’ll get better, Rick. I know you will. We’ll come visit you in the hospital or wherever. You’ll be all right.”

“Yeah, don’t listen to those stupid doctors,” I said. “You’re a rock star. You’ve got something special that can beat this.”

“I don’t know.” Rick’s voice lost that nervous staccato. “I’m going back home, to New York State. To be near my parents and all. It’s too far for you guys. And, I don’t know, I just don’t think you should come. I don’t want you to see me, you know, after all they’re going to do.”

“We’ll get up there, Rick,” I said, fighting to emerge from shock. “We can borrow my mom’s car.”

“No, man, I don’t want you to. Don’t come up. Please. I can’t explain it.” Tears filled his eyes until they glittered like diamonds. “I just want you know how much it’s meant to me to play with you guys. You helped me maybe, you know, leave something of myself behind. You guys, all this, meant a lot to me.”

He got up and left. We stood at the big windows watching him drive away in his blue Falcon just as a mom came in with seven kids screaming and scrambling all over the place.

Decades later, when I run into graying musicians who have been playing around the area for awhile, I’ll ask if they ever heard of Wild Rick Mizell. Every time, their faces come alive. “Ricky? Wild Rick? Of course I knew him.” They stop and chuckle to themselves. “Poor little Ricky.” Another pause, this time without a chuckle. “Man, there will never be another Wild Rick again. Never ever again.”

On a whim I recently Googled him, using all the variations of his name, wondering if his music ever did outlive him in some way. I didn’t get a single hit.

Hugh Everett and a Lap Dance

whistlingfire — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 19:14:59 +0000

Did Everett ever figure on the many people

of his many worlds trading places?

Briefly, discreetly, the self conscious self

finds himself in the world of the rogue who shares

his face – the world of a red headed stripper

whose skin smells like weed and whose gaze peers

outside of her own existence into that of another

version of herself. And the cocksure rogue finds himself

seated at the foot of the bed of a ten-year-old girl

who calls him daddy, asks for a bedtime story, a kiss goodnight.

He can think of no story that does not involve drinking

or women, and the self conscious self does not know

how to act during a lap dance, whether or not to tip

extra. Did Everett ever figure he could blame his shortcomings

on physics? Or did he say he was sure

he was a better man in a different world?

Diary of a Mad Croupier

whistlingfire — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 17:47:22 +0000

The sun burns today. I wear my cap again, to protect me. The customers look right through me as they slide their shiny, hulking cars into the endless rows in front of Target. One young girl says to the other that I must be wearing a tinfoil hat to keep people from reading my mind. They laugh and I laugh along with them as they rush away. I don’t believe anyone wants to read my mind, but I do have good reason to be afraid.

2
I get some change today, from tourists who are of the easy mark variety. I know they will toss something into my cup just to make me go away. It’s easy enough to make what I need to survive. I take just a few bites of food a day, and when I do, I dread the sensation of chewing because it leads to swallowing which means I will be adding weight to my body. And I don’t want to pack on superfluous mass. If these people ever catch hold of me I don’t want them to sink their teeth into succulent, tender meat. I want them to end up gnawing on gristle and bones. After they eat me they will end up hungry an hour later. Chinese food never fills you up.

3
The weight on my body starts to build up and I know it’s from just shuffling around the same parking lot every day, never venturing farther than Koval to poach a few tourists. I never get any proper exercise. I can feel that I must be over one hundred pounds, so I have to do something about it. Tomorrow I will begin my journey through the desert back to my old house in Mountain’s Edge.

4
Used to take a half hour to drive home from work at the casino along the 215. Walking along side streets it takes much, much longer. And I’m not making very good time because I have to stop for long stretches during the day to avoid the sun. It will take days, more days than I can keep track of in this heat.

5
When I was still a landlord, one night when I was out celebrating, after closing on my third property, I passed by a young couple walking hand and hand out of a bar to the taxi stand.
“Do you have two dollars?” The girl asked.
They were well-groomed and wearing nice clothes and must have burned through all their money on the pricey drinks inside and now it was like a game for them, fun to play at panhandling.
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.” The girl said. She turned to her companion and they laughed, all shiny faces and beaming smiles.
“You’re right,” I said. “I do. But I’m not giving anything to you.”
My voice was still calm and matter of fact. The couple walked away but I heard the girl say to her boyfriend, “That guy’s an asshole.”
That’s when I lost it.
“I’m an asshole?” I shouted. “Because I won’t give you any money? Guess what you are. You’re a beggar.”
The girl flipped her hair, stopped walking, looked back at me, her lips wrinkling.
“You’re a beggar,” I shouted. “Why not go hang out in a parking lot and start wearing a tinfoil hat? At least do it the right way.”
The girl’s boyfriend started to walk toward me but the girl held him back. I kept walking up to the door of the bar, the bouncer pulled the velvet rope aside when he saw me coming.
“Stupid bitch.” I muttered.
And I should have known then that I might be cursing myself. That I might be damning myself with the very damnation I had launched at that girl that night.

6
The bank took back my houses. One by one. Everything I had worked for and invested into them, gone, no longer mine. The hours and days and weeks and months and years of work spent just to afford granite countertops and hardwood floors and new blinds. Now the countertops and the floors were locked in someone else’s house and the blinds were just piles of garbage in a dumpster when the new landlord upgraded to something newer. Someone always buying something new here. Nothing is ever good enough.

7
At night there are coyotes who walk through the streets of Mountain’s Edge. From a distance they look like stray dogs. From a distance I might look like a stray dog too.
Skinny as a hungry coyote, still as a rock lizard, cold as a snake…

8
The gate code has long since changed at my old community. I know how to get in easily, through a sluice flow in the wall that was never sealed off. I just have to walk through a dry arroyo to get there. I scale the gate to get into the pool and soak in its cool, refreshing waters and pretend I’m in an exclusive spa. I am skinny enough now that I might be able to slip through the bars of the gate, if I weren’t afraid of getting stuck and having someone sneak up and take a bite out of me.

9
Out here the stars are bigger and brighter in the night sky. Mountain’s Edge is still in the city but at its very outskirts, in the suburbs of the desert that never had a chance to attract what they were supposed to. It is so quiet out here I can’t even hear the whispers of people walking by, telling each other that I might make a tasty snack as they keep their eyes locked on me.

10
Tonight the moon is big and bright. On a forlorn pile of dirt, the size of a house, where the construction came to an abrupt halt, there is a coyote, alone and scraggly, separated from the pack. He will get so skinny he will disappear, break down into tendon, muscle, carcass, bone.

Had a Body like a Coke Bottle

whistlingfire — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 17:14:33 +0000

Everyone wants her, she is always for sale
Perfect as plastic, bubbly as the air that comes out of her mouth
She’s always in the grasp of my hands, I take her wherever I go
I shake her hips as they rock back and forth
Her curves are flawless, complete, manufactured
I’m thirsty for her love
She does more than touch my heart, she fills up my stomach
like carbonation
Consuming me
She is used to everyone staring at her
They desire her
like the temptation of the ice-cream truck on a hot summer’s day
This makes tears glisten down her cheeks
like condensation

Envelope in the Pigeonhole

whistlingfire — Thu, 24 Jun 2010 16:36:01 +0000

This evening
when I return to the hotel
I see in my pigeonhole
Angela’s writing
on a yellow envelope.

What excuse
will she have for not writing?
Too busy, perhaps,
stirring cauldrons of soup
while the cats dash about
licking her calves.

Or don’t the cats know enough
to lick at her calves?
Would that I were the cats
and the cats were taller.

first appeared in
The South Carolina Review
December, 1971 Vol. 4, No.1

Love and Slaughter

whistlingfire — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 22:32:19 +0000

Sheep are by a goat while
cattle are like swine, prodded, yet
cattle go by hammer while
swine are by the hind leg hung
then swung about to spigot.
Quicker, infinitely cleaner, is
the hacksaw of sweet Susan’s laughter.

first appeared in
The Miscellany: A Davidson Review
Vol. 7 No. 1 Winter 1972

two people go into a coffee shop to talk about death

whistlingfire — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 15:21:41 +0000

Two people go into a coffee shop every day. They’re young, done with college, or almost done with it. Doesn’t matter. They both have jobs, and, it doesn’t matter either, how much money they make. The girl orders a tea latte. Guy orders a cappuccino. He likes it dry, to savor the espresso. They sit at a different seat, every day. Sometimes at the couch, sometimes by the window. Other times, at the back. They know all the employees, but their favorite quit a year ago. They still see that person anyway, for drinks and stuff. Shooting pool. Okay. Today, it’s sunny. Very California. The two get to the coffee shop, order, take a seat—and talk about what they talk about, every day: Death. They discuss death. I mean, neither one’s really dying. He’s not in forensics. She’s not in med school. They definitely don’t work in a funeral home, or a cemetery, but they always discuss death. Why? I don’t know. They just do it. Okay, so: a man gets asked what he wants to be reincarnated as—if he could go back as an animal. Know what he says? Dolphin. He says a dolphin. And? She sips her lovely tea latte. And the guy dies and gets reincarnated as a porpoise—but ends up as one of those porpoises at an aquarium. Fucking kids screaming, crying, banging their hands all up against the glass. That sucks. I know! The porpoise gets pet once in awhile, when they let him out, fed some good fish, that’s okay, but whatever, it’s pretty shitty. He wanted to be a free dolphin, out in the ocean somewhere, bahamas or something, pfffttt, but no give. You know some crazy woman threw her lighter at him one time. Nah-uh. Yeah. Then he lost his will to live. Aww. Then what happened? The guy finishes up his cappuccino. So the porpoise loses his will to live… but he doesn’t die, and that’s the crazy thing. And guess what? What? The aquarium closes. The aquarium closes, but they can’t get rid of him. Why? Don’t ask why. Forget it: that’s not important. What’s important is what’s next. This is the sad part. Don’t cry on me now. I don’t cry. Okay. Good. So the aquarium’s closing. I thought you said it was closed. Oh yeah, it’s closed. So, the aquarium’s closed… but the porpoise is still there. Still there? Yeah! Still there. He’s all alone and emo and shit—at the bottom of a waterless tank. It’s all drained. Nothing. And you know what? What? Next door—I mean like right next door to it, they set up a water park. Slides and everything. People, kids, pets, swimming, splashing, diving, you name it. They even have this awesome barbecue thing. Seriously? Seriously. And then what? Oh yeah, yeah. I’m getting to that. So—the porpoise is all emo and by itself, in the waterless tank—and on the high wall, right next door at the water park, a little boy leans over the side of the wall, soaking wet, and sees the emo porpoise, just fucking doing nothing, so he points at it with his finger and yells, “You’re bootsy you stupid fish!”

PORTRAIT OF THE MUSE: BIRTHING

whistlingfire — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 14:41:21 +0000

You don’t know her.

She doesn’t know you.

Maybe she will never know you.

Your forehead scrapes
the underside of her spine.

You spread her

hips, squint into a light

you have no nerves for.

Through dust
on the window a fly crawls,

etches the state of Texas on the glass,
buzzes to the wall above her

shoulder, where she sits

as stiff as a wire monkey.

You cling

to her. You dream
she pulls away
from your fingers.

Fortunes, For What They’re Worth

whistlingfire — Thu, 03 Jun 2010 15:50:04 +0000

I’m tired of the faulty predictions I’ve been getting lately from Fortune Cookies. Quite simply, they’re wrong—I’m not the woman they perceive me to be. In the last two months I’ve had these wise words bestowed upon me:

Cookie #1: You are not bitter, petty, or dishonest.

Cookie #2: You will soon witness a miracle.

Cookie #3: Your enormous talents will pay off this week.

If I were still a teenager, I might add the words “in bed” to the end of each of these statements, perhaps making them more true than they are on their own. I don’t think I’ve ever been bitter or petty in bed, although being dishonest has gotten me, and gotten me out of, sex. I could speculate for days over the miracles I might see in bed. As for my enormous talents in the boudoir, well.

These so-called fortunes might work for other people who mindlessly eat Kung Pao chicken and sautéed mushrooms, then chomp the cookie thinking, “Oh, how cute,” when they read the litmus-test sized paper. But I don’t mindlessly toss them aside, allowing whatever hostess or busboy who might clean my table to share in my moment of foreshadowing.

No.

I take these slips home and put them in prominent places where I can revisit them again and again—my sock drawer, my wallet, the underside of a can of green beans. I give them the due attention I might a palm reader or mystic psychic. After all, each meal on average costs me about fifteen dollars, a fraction of what I might pay Lady Amiee who reads palms on Main Street.

I ride home from the Hong Kong Buffet staring at the small strip, wracking my brain for what in my life could fit the mold prophesied in the palm of my hand.

I once paid an obese bearded man ten dollars to read my palm. I was on vacation in New Orleans with my boyfriend, and after cruising the booths in front of St. Louis Cathedral I chose this man because his sign read “Fortunes: You Pay what They’re Worth.”

After looking at my left palm the man said, “In a past life you were an agrarian. You worked outdoors.”

Who didn’t?

He asked, “Would you like to know about your love life?”

Sure.

“You will marry your first great love,” he said. “You’ll have two children.”

Hum.

I thanked the fat fortune teller, handed him a ten, and told myself, “You get what you pay for.”

At the time of this reading I was under the impression from two doctors that I could never have children. Also, the boyfriend I was with was my second great love, the first having died several years earlier. So unless this psychic was predicting my death and subsequent supernatural marriage and motherhood, he was off his crystal ball.

I find it ironic that while a Fortune Cookie proclaims my honesty, the tradition of these stone-like desserts comes from a dishonest act. Some fourteenth century Chinese patriots put secret messages inside Moon Cakes to fool Mongol invaders, and eventually, because of these deceptions, formed the Ming Dynasty.

I also find it ironic that while my cookie says I’m not bitter, the actual cookie was first made by an extremely bitter group of people—Chinese 49ers. Near starving, working for slave wages laying track in the Southern Nevadas, they couldn’t make Moon Cakes to celebrate during their annual Moon Festival so they resorted to stuffing pieces of paper into hard biscuits. I’d be pretty bitter if I’d left China in search of a better life, only to find myself nearly heat-stroking with nothing to comfort me but a day-old biscuit.

I’ve been told that after eating a meal in a Chinese restaurant, the diner should not take the Fortune Cookie blindly from the tray on which it’s presented. Supposedly, the Fortune Cookie will choose you by pointing its folded end toward you. Perhaps the reason I’ve been getting these misguided predictions is because the people I’ve been dining with don’t observe this rule.

Worse, they sometimes say, “You want your fortune cookie?”

What are they thinking? That I’d give away my future to them just because we shared Cashew Chicken?

It makes my skin crawl when I enter a Chinese restaurant and the cookies are piled in a glass fish bowl near the exit. Kids pull handfuls as they leave, parents won’t even take one. I refuse to eat in these rip-off joints; I want a meek, short, soft-spoken Asian woman to smile and say, “Here your fortune,” not a buffet of cookies where I can willy-nilly choose my fate.

And I’ve had enough of the copycat cookies in restaurants that aren’t Chinese. At an upscale steakhouse in Los Angeles the waiters don’t bring pillow mints, they bring chocolate-dipped Fortune Cookies. How this gels with prime rib and baked potato I don’t know.

Or the super un-Asian couples who order Fortune Cookies in colors that match the bridesmaid’s gowns at their weddings. Inside there’s no fortune, just a slip of paper that reads, “Brett and Heather 4-10-03.” How is this supposed to shape my future? I write my own predictions on these to make me feel better: “Brett and Heather: Divorced 5-19-07.”

Most of all, I’ve had it with people who expect Fortune Cookies at Japanese restaurants. The only time nearly-tasteless harbingers of my future are appropriate is after I’ve filled my arteries with enough MSG to preserve me well into the next decade.

A friend of mine, Lorraine, would be very good at writing fortunes that would keep people from simply tossing them aside after their Pepper Beef. She fantasizes about scripting evil phrases that might make someone second-guess their entire life. “Your husband is lying to you” is her personal favorite. She also likes, “That rash you have is actually serious” and “You will die soon.” Her three fortunes are believable from any point of view: If you’re a man and you get her first fortune you thank god that your wife is eating the wrong cookie. And really, who doesn’t have a rash? And shouldn’t we all be made aware of our mortality from time to time?

I’m not as creative as Lorraine. The best I can do is, “Your shoes are tacky” and “That thong isn’t doing your butt justice.”

When I showed my husband the “You will soon witness a miracle” cookie I was looking for a second opinion about the notion of miracles.

“Can you believe this?” I said, accusingly.

“What does it say there?” he said, “You will soon witness a murder”? I had no idea my finger was covering the “iracle” in miracle.

“That would be way too interesting,” I said.

I often wonder who writes fortunes for these semi-tasteless cookies. I imagine small, elderly Chinese men and women, sitting cross-legged at low, long metal tables within communist warehouses, coming up with pleasant slogans they think democratic Americans might enjoy. They punch out small letters on tiny typewriters onto paper they hand stamp with Lucky Numbers. I see these same small people meticulously tweezing the strips into the hardened cookies.

I refuse to believe that a metropolitan advertising company in Canada is responsible for telling me that I’m not a liar. Or for accusing me of being capable of witnessing a miracle. How dare a Canadian assume I believe in the miraculous? When it’s a no-God commie, okay. But a Canadian? Come on.

I’m not a religious person, but, alas, I do believe in miracles. They might not be the ones that a small communist fortune-maker might think of—walking on water, stigmata, mother Mary’s face on a potato chip—but I do think there are things in this world that are unexplained. The spine-tingling presence of someone long-dead, unconditional love, giving birth to a healthy child.

Life.

Perhaps it is overly hokey or optimistic, just what my small Chinese fortune workers might want me to admit, but life as I see it is a miracle. Or mystic. Or majestic. Since my palm was read in New Orleans I have married a man who, when he’s dancing to the music in his own head, reminds me of my first great love. We’ve had a child even after doctors told me for years never to expect it to happen. And while my life might not be completely absent of talent outside of the bedroom or pettiness over the fact that I always seem to be given the smallest orders of Orange Chicken at the Hong Kong Buffet, once in a while, when the light hits my life just right, I see what the cookie is talking about. I have witnessed miracles. And if that’s true, fortune, future, it’s simply a matter of perspective.