‘Given the proliferation of palm, tarot, and tea leaf readers along the Wayside, one might suspect that the market for divination has reached a saturation point. That suspicion would be half correct. In his recently published memoirs, ‘Shoulda’ Seen That Coming,’ famed seer Elroy Mikkel bemoans the current state of roadside divination, claiming that camaraderie and professionalism have all but given way to one-upmanship- each practitioner stooping to new levels of degeneracy as they attempt to outdo their peers. This modern vulgarity usually involves the addition of wildly explicit details to otherwise mundane predictions, though, in other cases, it manifests as ritual steps that Mikkel claims are ‘extraneous’ and ‘showy:’ smoke machines, sprays of blood, and holographic spirits.
Amidst this doom and gloom, Mikkel is careful to cite ‘Water Ways’ as an exemplar- a member of the community that has recognized the difficult market and, in adapting to it, has risen above the riff-raff. You see, ‘Water Ways’ has chosen bathwater as their medium of choice and in doing so it has effectively reached an audience outside the normal parameters for this sort of business: the soft skeptics.
Soft skeptics have no real interest in divination but can be tempted by a quirky boutique spa that advertises on social and just so happens to provide a little bespoke advice based on the staining of a customer’s drained tub. If that isn’t enough, ‘Water Ways’ has recently added something like a bath buffet consisting of fresh herbs and colorful scented powders. This allows customers to tailor their bath time detritus for increased relaxation and trendy feet-in-bathtub picture taking.
Be aware: the heart of ‘Water Ways’ remains in the business of divination. More than a few one-star reviews suggest perfectly good soaks have been spoiled by calamitous predictions, foretold by bath bombs and flower petals in the drained basins of aesthetic claw-foot tubs.’
I’m not usually one to complain about a refund but when the man at the front of ‘Water Ways’ hands me my money back at the end of the bath, I realize it’s in my best interest to question the subtext of the exchange.
“We’ve got nothing to tell you,” the man shrugs. “No fortune, no fee.”
“What does that mean, though?” I ask. “Like, me learning about my fate is something I need to do myself without the assistance of psychics? Like I need to go into this journey blind?”
“Nope.”
“Like, whatever you saw in there was so bad you can’t bring yourself to talk about it?”
“Nope. We see bad stuff all the time. Her over there:” he points his chin at a woman in the waiting room and shakes his head. “Fucked up.”
“So, like…”
“Look, man. You just didn’t leave anything to read. Bottom of that tub is squeaky clean.”
I’ve ridden a motorcycle across the country unendingly for years. I sleep in a tent next to a rabbit. I go weeks without a shower and when I do clean myself it’s normally in the stall of some truckstop bathroom. I look down at my clothes- at my skin- and, in doing so, I invite the man to do the same.
“You’re saying I’m too clean?”
“Nope,” he says. “Not by the looks of you. I’m saying whatever fortune you carry is stuck so good that it’s not washing off in the bath.”
-traveler
