After the grim Burmese reading , I had to go in for a second opinion.
So today I tried this Chiang Rai palm-reader. He must be good. He read palms with one glass eye.
“You are 36?” He didn’t speak much English. Instead, he asked half his questions through his friend, who paused between sips at a mug of whiskey to translate.
The one-eyed sooth punched at an old Casio calculator, mechanating with my birthday. “Ah. When you turn 39, you will meet the right girl. It will be very good. You will marry.”
39 is a long way away, I complained. He offered, “This year is good for you for traveling. Born on a Monday, it is easy for you to find girl. But you’re a little bit picky.” Both men chuckled at this, and at me.
“Ummm… do I have to wait until I’m 39? That seems so long.”
He took my hand, and, studying it carefully through a magnifying glass, gave a little. “This year you might meet someone. It’s possibly leading to marry. Around your birthday. When you marry, first child is a boy.” He kept on looking at my hand, barely looking up. “Mmmmmm, very high educate. Very bright. Smart. Do you plan to own your own business?”
“No,” I decided on the spot.
He studied me with his one eye. “Good.” I wasn’t sure how to take this, but agreed. “Verbal speech is good. Good to be a lecturer. Or in PR.”
“Would I make a good car salesman?”
“Yes! Very good! You have verbal and negotiation skills! Now, do you have any questions?”
“Can I leave home after dark? Am I safe?”
“Are you safe?” He didn’t understand me. Nor did the translator. But clearly nothing too terrible was leaping off my palm.
“If it’s dark, and I leave home alone, is that okay?”
“Yes, yes. You are fine at night. There is no negative in your hand. Because you born on Monday. Monday get along with anybody. And this year birth is very good!”
I liked this guy.
He then pulled out a well-worn mold of a couple having sex, and told me — to really secure the marriage — I should pay him more money. He’d burn me with hot wax and do something with the shaggy couple. I didn’t like where it was going. I apologized, and moved on.
Update: my mom read this and emailed me, “Actually, Andy, you were born on a Sunday.” Hrm.