The worst advice I ever got was from this fortuneteller in the Place de Concorde in Paris. She was from Romania and wore an undersized tutu, and when I paid her 50 francs to tell my fortune she told me that the most important thing for me to do in my life was to walk as quickly as possible.
"Wherever you go," she said, holding my palm tightly in her fingers, "Go as fast as you possibly can. Don't hesitate for any reason, or you will surely die."
     Now I've always been a bit of a loafer. I like to lounge in cafes and drink espresso. When I walk down the street I take slow, deliberate strides, trying to notice the details in the world around me. I like to smell the flowers, if you know what I mean. So I found this advice pretty unsettling.
     I left the parc at a slight jog, and wound my way up the Champs Élysées, thinking about her advice. Did this mean I could never slow down? What if I wasn't going anywhere at all? Or what if I were on a bus and there was some kind of accident and we were stuck in traffic? The idea that imminent death was awaiting my ever-slow footfall seemed almost too ridiculous to believe.
     Nonetheless, as the day wore on, I found myself moving faster. I stopped to see a film, but couldn't bear to stay in my seat through the entire thing, so I left just as Sandra Bullock revealed that she was actually in cahoots with the Mafia. I never found out what happened.
     I had an appointment at Place de la Republique, to go over some accounts with an alcoholic associate of mine, so I wound my way up through the streets. I stopped at a sporting goods store, and, on a whim, bought a Razor scooter. Surely I would be faster on that. But a shiver of panic swept through me. What would happen if I stopped? How would I die?
     Now I've often wondered how I would die. Some things, like being hit by a car or falling from a building, I can wrap my head around; I mean, with those it's the breaking of bones, the crushing pain, the numb-beyond-anything shock of the moment, and then, the slow sapping of life. Right? But what would it feel like to have a heart attack, or to lose consciousness and to fall into a sleepy sort of death? What about burning or freezing or inhaling lethal agents? I don't know. When I thought about what the fortuneteller told me, what I pictured in my mind was the movie "Speed" (which, coincidentally, also starred Sandra Bullock), and I thought of myself dying of lack of gas, exhaustion, grinding to a stop; a big explosion, pyrotechnics. But in this vision, I'm never actually dead. In the end, I escape and am kissing Sandra Bullock. And she's not even a favorite actress of mine. Too butch. If anything, I'd like to end up in the arms of someone like Catherine Keener. But I digress.
     I coasted through the streets, up into Montmartre, near the Jules Joffrin Metro stop, and then quickly down the hill into the dead middle streets, Place de la Republique, Bastille, and then the Left Bank. Faster and faster. It was growing dark and all of my muscles were aching. I decided I would hail a taxicab. This way, I could keep moving without growing any more tired. So, I left my scooter somewhere in the 5th arrondissement and jumped into the back of a taxi.
     "Allez!" I screamed, nearly feverish, sweat trickling from my brow, "Allons rapidement! Trés rapidement!" But the cab driver was some punk kid from 5th suburbs and he was going extra slow, just to piss me off. I could feel it. The bastard! Just because my accent wasn't perfect, he was imperiling my life.
     "Allez, connard!" I yelled, and he turned and slapped me on the back of the head. That was it! I would not let this man risk my life with his slowness. We had stopped at an intersection near the Place de Concorde, and I escaped out the back door. The driver protested, and moments later he was at my heels. I scraped though several bushes and past the Ferris wheel and again I came upon the fortuneteller, who was sitting just where she had been sitting the last time I saw her, with a wicked grin on her face. I made a beeline to her, stopped, and pointed at the cab driver, who I now noticed was holding a gun as he raced towards me. She looked at up me and repeated her advice. Never, ever stop (which seemed particularly good advice at this particular moment). So I ran. Through the park I went as shots rang out. It was dusk and his aim was off, but I was tired and he was gaining on me.
     I finally emerged from the trees and darted to the street where I ran into a statue of Napoleon and impaled myself on his sheathed sword. As the taxicab psychopath caught up to me, I felt warm blood beginning to drain from my body.
     Today, when I look back on the four years that I spent in the hospital and all of the psychotherapy that I have gone through since that trip to Paris, I tend to blame the advice of the fortuneteller. I think that I will never pay as much as 50 francs for anyone’s advice again. Unless she looks like Catherine Keener and the offer includes sexual favors. In which case, I’d gladly pay double.

 

DAVID HIRSCHMAN is a freelance writer living in Brooklyn. He lives a very unhealthy lifestyle and blames all of his problems on an upbringing that was not nearly repressive enough. Eager to sell out, he will write just about anything if you give him $100,000.