306. GYPSIES
I used to know
one of those
fortune-teller
gypsy lady types.
She had a small
booth in the very
front of the building
in which she also
lived - a curtained,
front-street area,
with glass, curtains,
one of those, in
white, fortune-tellers
balls, a deck of
tarot cards always
displayed, some
incense and candles;
the whole shooting
match. 'Fortunes
Told, $5.' Back
then anyway. That
was start-up money,
but they never
told you, these
fortune-telling people.
They would do
what they called
a 'preliminary read'
of your aura or
zodiac, they'd say,
and then bait you
for more. Whatever
you'd fall for; they'd
sense it. Then
they'd load that
up with all sorts
of enticing material
but tell you really
nothing, unless
you kept forking
over further money.
The more you paid,
the supposed more
they'd give. It was
as bogus as a
shine on a tennis
ball, but the entire
thing was a game
of sorts, and those
doing it knew that
those seeking it
needed something,
and they'd supply
it. The really good
ones, sensing their
'need' would get
that person involved
in return visits,
follow-ups, further
information 'as it
came through.' It
was like being
hooked; they'd
get you. Addicted
to nothing but
the addiction
for something.
All immeasurable.
These gypsy people,
the women, they
had it down pat -
their outfits, the
cigarettes, the
dark faces and
the smirks,
all-knowing
enticements
and smiles.
By the time of
their late forties,
in age, these
women were
mostly chubby,
wide and swarthy,
covered in loose
dress or billowy
capes and things.
You couldn't really
see anything. But
you just knew
they were done
for in that
department -
so, once again,
enticement. They
always had a
'daughter' or two,
maybe 18-25 in
age. Now that
was something
to come back for.
Played just right,
you'd leave there,
tongue-lagging.
The lady I knew,
at least the daughter
was really her
daughter. I was
told anyway.
She had like 4
other kids upstairs.
Other fortune-ladies
faked the daughter
part, and just kept
some person they
knew or a niece
or some connection
around. It was most
always a two-part
operation - for the
gullible. I won't say
'scam' but that's
just because I'm
lazy. It was always
incredible that
these places
actually had
customers, but
they did.
They met expenses.
They got people
to fork over
good money,
big bucks. It
was a solid,
fake industry
of its own. The
one I knew was
named 'Mariana,'
as in 'Mariana
Sees All'. Her
little hole in
the wall was
next to some
Spanish hole
in the wall,
except that
hole served
up tacos and
quick Spanish
foods to take
away, or sit
on some cramped
little chairs they'd
throw around.
In Summer it
was better,
and for the
fortune-lady
too, because the
chairs were outside,
a table or two,
doors open, some
semblance of
cooler air and
ventilation. In
the Winter it
was all just a
closed-up,
cramped mess.
I'd stop there -
in the Spanish place
next door - enough
next door - enough
so that the Mariana
person finally asked
my if I wanted a
reading. I demurred,
kept saying no
each time, and
finally, to placate
myself in her eyes
at least, I brought
someone else in,
a girl, for a
one-time read,
and that was it.
The girl said it
was surprisingly
informative, and
the fortune-telling
session actually
told her things
that were startlingly
close to real-life for
her, matching
situations and
people. Who
knows. She said
Mariana mentioned
really wanting to
do my reading,
because she
'sensed to feel
something deeply
lively' in my
presence; things
that needed
investigating
and airing, on
my part. Yeah,
well. Good a
line as any. I
laughed it all
off, and also I
figured, if I got
really lucky,
I'd someday find
my way to get
Mariana's door-keeper
daughter to tell
me, ahem, all I
ever wanted
to know.
-
Later on, during
those years I was
at St. George Press,
I got hooked up
with this bunch
of Gypsies who
were in the junk
business - metal
recycling. There
was an entire
family, about 6
males that I dealt
with. Fathers, sons,
different ages. I
never saw any
women, except
in the vehicle
they never got
out of. These
guys would come
in, asking only for
me. Mostly, I was
the only one there
anyway. They
the only one there
anyway. They
were another
result, as I
mentioned, of
the crud customers
who'd been turned
over to me, and
also were a
result of my
being the guy
who had to
institute the
Saturday hours,
when, as I mentioned,
a real dose of
printing riff-raff
always seemed to
turn up. These were
all big, sloppy guys;
dirty, shiny, white
shirts, half tucked
in half not, a sort
of partially formal
dress-wear gone
to seed. They
just looked different,
and they had the
false last-name
of Leo. Leo
Brothers, to be
exact. They talked,
between themselves
in another tongue,
Romanian or
something, and
called each
other by names
I sometimes
could pick out.
But I just always
ended up saying
Mr. Leo, to the
old guys anyway.
They always
wanted contract-forms
printed for some
inane junk-removal,
stipulations abut
transport and
metal purity,
spaces for weights
and signatures.
A real complicated
mess, all the time.
And they never
wanted receipts,
only paid in cash,
peeled off from a
rubber-banded
wad. It was nuts,
sometimes three
or four hundred
dollars, just like
that. Other times
- and this was
the most annoying,
although they'd
throw me like
ten bucks for
my trouble -
they knew what
they wanted to
say but were
unable to say
it, or phrase it
correctly in
writing. So
they'd dictate
their intentions
to me, and I'd
write the paragraphs
which eventually
came to say what
they were meaning.
And then it all
had to be read
back, aloud, If
they started reading,
it was as if a
sixth-grader
was reading it,
hesitant and
stumbling. The
metals, it stipulated,
could not contain
this or that chemical,
was not coated
with this or that..
and it went on.
It always took lots
of time, and was
sometimes annoying.
The younger guys,
they'd just stand
around. Never
spoke. Sometimes
12 years old,
sometimes 20.
Just sidekicks along
for the ride. They'd
go back and forth,
outside, to the
car with the
lady or two in
it, and come back,
while the older guys,
there were always
two, fathers, I
guessed, would
huddle over the
business at hand.
Then, when we
were done, they
never wanted to
leave - just talk
about this or that.
They'd start fingering
things in the office,
electric pencil
sharpeners, this
or that gadget.
Nothing specific,
spoken about.
They kept everything
close to the vest.
I learned little
about what they
did, and how and
where; certainly
nothing of their
life stories. When
I go to the gypsy
cemeteries now,
I always see Leo
graves, and look
for recent death
dates, wondering
if it's any of these
older guys I knew.
They'd be pretty
old by now, and
are probably deceased.
This was all in the
1980's when they
were already 50
or 60. It's funny,
because, even
though it's fake,
they apparently
get buried as the
Leo name too.
There are real
names involved -
Evanko, or Evanich,
Miller, Vlado, and
others. They seem,
at least, real Slavic
names. I've also
read that many,
many use the
name 'Miller',
as these guys
used Leo. And, in
the graveyards,
yes, there are a
lot of 'Miller' too,
but maybe they're
not authentic either.
but maybe they're
not authentic either.
Anyway, maybe
they're not even
Slavic, maybe
it's something
else; a deeper
Russian strain,
or something
I don't know.
-
It always seems
to be, and I've
tried to break
out of this over
the years, that
people - myself
included - are
often reluctant
to just ask people
about themselves.
It's really a
simple matter,
and as a writer
of this sort of
material, I have
by now accustomed
myself much
better to just
finding ways
of 'asking in'
to strangers or
the merest of
acquaintances,
to find out
more about them
and their past and
background. Most
people are willing
to talk, and some
just gush on as
if they've been
waiting for the
call. It's enjoyable.
But I never got to
that point with
these Leo people
- nor with Mariana,
who for all I know
was a Leo. Or a
Miller. Was that
'past' consisting
of their nationality
and an adherence
to it? All that
strange old-world
stuff? Or was it
just a manner of
'put on' to be crass
enough, like any
other American,
to seek for money
and get the dough?
What was up? How'd
they get started,
where had they
come from; where
were they when
they were twelve?
A hundred questions
now, I again wish
I'd asked.
-
I guess each culture
has its rakish aspects,
its codes and hidden
tales and habits.
There would be
times in NYCity
I'd see perfect
characters - faces
and bodies from
the old Russian
steppes, the plains
of Hungary,
whatever. I just
knew it, one glance
would bring me to
the exotic. Some times
you knew about it,
and other times you
knew nothing at all.
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