Dreamt I was chilling at a coffeehouse (of course), shuffling the Rider Mini, when a guy saw the cards and started pestering me. He tried to dominate the conversation by negging me so I would have to justify myself to him. “Tarot cards, eh? I suppose if you can’t get work any other way.”
“If you couldn’t afford a professional dominatrix, what makes you think you can afford a professional tarot reading?”
Bystanders tittered into their drinks while he stood there flustered. “What makes you think I want a tarot reading?”
“You saw the cards, you approached me, you went out of your way to come up with something to say and those words were a negging attempt. Did you consult the Pick Up Artist subreddit before coming over here? Are you filling your asshole quota for the day by trying to shame me for having tarot cards? Or are you trying to bluster me into proving the cards are worthwhile by giving you a free tarot reading that you’re going to immediately call bullshit on even as you walk away turning over what I said in your innermost?”
The bystanders were trying to appear disinterested in the conversation. They failed. The guy (in a pale yellow suit and matching trilby) stood awkwardly as he glanced at the bystanders and the cards. He avoided looking me in the face.
“Well, they are bullshit.”
“So are you.” I almost called him a name, but at the thought of it I realized I was dreaming and stopped my speech.
“You can’t possibly believe pieces of paper have any say in how the universe works.”
“I believe a lot of things. None of which I am going to justify to you. Some people believe the tarot is a reflection of the macrocosm. Some people believe the tarot is a way to bring up topics they would not have considered otherwise. Some people have an unhealthy attachment to divination. And some people think baseball cards are far superior for clipping to bicycle tires. What the fuck does it matter what I think. Except for the fact that I think you’re afraid of the tarot, and are trying to bluff your way out of it by being unreasonably aggressive.”
The man was very familiar, but I could not place him. The coffeehouse was a generic setting. The bystanders were part background, part individuals. Nothing here was real. Including the tarot cards I was holding. I played along, however. I was in this setting for a purpose, and I haven’t figured it out just yet.
“I’m not being unreasonably aggressive!” He slapped his hat against his thigh.
“You’re yelling.”
“I’m not.”, he said quietly.
“Then. What the fuck do you want? Say it, or get the fuck out of my face before I have you removed.” At the far end of the patio, a rust pitbull appeared and laid down. My emblem swung freely from the loose collar. Many of the bystanders pulled their legs under the tables and made themselves smaller in their chairs. No one left.
“I want… I want a name. Can your cards give me a name?”
I thought of the appellation I almost spoke. I furrowed my brow as I realized I was being manipulated by unseen forces. “Maybe. Sometimes the cards are specific. Sometimes they give riddles. I guarantee nothing.”
He remained standing opposite the small table. I shuffled the Rider Mini until the deck felt just right in my hand. I put the deck on the table face down with intention of pulling three cards. My hand cooled from a sudden chilling. I heard no voice but I just knew to pull only one card.
I took the top card and looked at it. I noticed many of the nearby bystanders were trying to see the card’s face. I saw enough of the card to know what it was then placed the card face down to the side of the deck with my hand resting on top of it.
“I can not name you. I’m sorry. You’ll have to find other means of obtaining a name.”
He had gripped his hat with both hands and I winced as he tightly curled the brim in his nervousness. “Are you sure? Pull another card! Tarot reveals all, right?”
I shook my head. “I can not help you.”, I intoned solemnly. The appellation burned in my mind again, but I refused to say it. I will not curse without cause, and just being a generic asshole is not cause enough for that intense a response. Whatever forces were pushing for this, will have to find another lever to move his world with.
The pale yellow suited man grew angry. His face turned red and contorted with rage. When he let go of his hat, one hand balled into a fist. I did not react, but the rust pitbull stood to his feet and stared at the man with prejudice. He saw the dog’s reaction, and unballed his fist. He donned his hat, nodded, and stormed off the coffeehouse patio via the unblocked exit.
As the rust pitbull sauntered over to me with his tail whipping in greeting, I flipped over the single drawn card and laid it face up on the table. Nearby bystanders did not hide their nosiness and were quick to see what card had stopped me from speaking.
The Fool.
I remembered the appellation that had been burning my mind while the man was in front of me, was also heavy in my thoughts over yesterday’s waking antics. I petted the loving pitbull with adoration, and wondered what would have happened if I had named the man, “Cabrón“.