Predictions

Leaving the apartment to meet Ericka for brunch. Put on my helmet, and head to the garage to get my bike. As I round the corner, the man on my driveway slurs, "You're the theology guy, aren't you?" Yes. Yes, that's me. He speaks incoherently for awhile until I'm able to interject. He's distraught. Concerned with the pride of most religious fanatics who think they've got all of the answers. We talk about humility, and about its necessity in the face of the ineffable, in the knowledge of God. We discuss philosophy, we discuss the brokenness of this city. The hurt and pain that so many don't even realise they carry. And then, out of nowhere, he reaches for my face, pushes up my lip and looks at my teeth. Looks over his shoulder at his wife, some thirty years younger than he, and says "Look at this. He's got great teeth." Odd. I can't remember what exactly my teeth signify, but it has something to do with quietness and intensity and intellectual rigour. I thought he'd be more concerned with the plaque buildup, and the fact that I really need to visit the dentist. Not the case. He then grabs my hand, and pushes back on my thumb. "You're stubborn," he says. I stare back incredulously. Examines my fingers and tells me I'm to get married soon. Tells me i have the pointer-finger of a philosopher. I still don't know what he's talking about. Queer circumstances, right? Looks at my palm, predicts long life, with a particular patch of trials at a certain point, where he thinks God will lean on me, and test my faith. I don't really know what to do. I have no idea what to say. It's interesting living beneath a fortuneteller. It's even more interesting when on the second time you speak with him, he's feeling you up, in front of his wife. I hope he doesn't send me a bill for his services.