I was bored, that’s my excuse. And it seemed so harmless: "Palm Readings — $10." I was in my early 20s, finishing another week at a dead-end job and spending Friday night alone — there’s a lot worse I could have spent 10 bucks on. Besides, while I don’t claim to understand the economics of the psychic world, 10 bucks sounded like a pretty good deal for getting someone to plug into the nether regions and download my future. If I could see the future, I’d charge at least 50 bucks a pop. Or, more likely, I’d go down to the track and read horse hooves.

But it wasn’t really the deal itself that struck me, since I don’t particularly believe in psychics. Or, to be more accurate, I believe that if it is possible to lock into an alternate universe, the people who have mastered this skill aren’t whoring it out of a storefront next to a fruit stand at 11 o’clock on a Friday night. No, what attracted me was the chance to buy some reassurance. Some good, old-fashioned, unfounded, baseless reassurance that everything would be okay. Ten bucks seemed a small price to pay to hear a little, "Wow, the way your ‘head line’ curves here tells me you will find great success pursuing your dreams." Or, "Where your ‘heart line’ intersects your ‘life line,’ the groove runs deep. This means you will marry your soul mate. You are lucky."

I did not want to hear that I was cursed.

When I arrived, the psychic was busy with another client — no doubt someone who would live to a happy and healthy age 90 — but she had a relative on hand who could do my reading for half-price. She assured me this woman was blessed with the same family gift for seeing the future. Why not? I inherited my aunt’s flair for decorating. She had me sign in and disappeared behind an intricate wall of draperies, the kind of standard-issue curtains everyone in the psychic business uses to convert one-room storefronts into mysterious labyrinths of divination. I think they buy them at Costco.

The reason for the 50 percent discount soon became clear: my psychic was a 12-year-old girl — not normally the go-to demographic for reassurance. The last time a 12-year-old gave me psychic advice, it was an unpleasant experience involving one of those origami devices. "What’s your favorite color? B — L — U — E. Oh, you’re a booger head."

My current adviser was a cute girl wearing standard-issue Gap Kids: jeans, sneakers, and a white T-shirt. This did not help her street cred. She did have a certain worldly expression, but it was more like the kind you see on kids who spend summers working in their parents’ liquor store, ringing up six-packs and cartons of Marlboros.

She sat down and took my hand. After a few minutes of unusually intense concentration for a 12-year old, she spoke. "Do you have any enemies?"

What the hell? That didn’t sound like the preamble to "You’re going to get a raise." I explained that I was an e-commerce project manager. I don’t have enemies, I have people who think I’m a dork.

"Well, someone has put a curse on you. Do you have any idea who would want to put a curse on you?"

I assured her I didn’t travel in those kinds of circles. Mostly, my friends just write on me when I’m passed out.

"You are single, yes?"

Now there’s the kind of psychic deduction I like to see: I’m alone, having my palm read on a Friday night, and she can tell I’m single.

"Until the curse is lifted," she continued, "you will not find love."

I never thought I would miss those little origami things.

"And how might I get this curse removed?"

"I have to burn a candle for you. For this," she actually said with a straight face, "there is only a $50 charge."

Under extreme protest from the 12-year-old and a lot of talk about how curses don’t care whether or not you believe in them, I thanked my mini-mystic, paid her the five bucks, and headed home. Friday-night TV may suck, but it never tells me I’m cursed.

A few days later, I flew to New York for a completely undeserved week of debauchery with some college friends. When I returned home I was greeted, as usual, by an empty apartment and a full answering machine. The messages were the usual fare, a lot of: "Dude, I know you’re home ... wake up," with noon timestamps. Then: "Alan, it’s very important that you come down to see me as soon as possible. It’s about the curse."

Two things struck me as, for the second time, I entered the psychic shop: one, I need an unlisted phone number; and two, I apparently do believe in psychics.

My little friend met me at the door, looking even more dour than the first time. "Thank God you’re here. I was so worried. The curse was much worse than I thought. I’ve been trying to reach you for five days. You were on a trip?" Again that uncanny psychic ability. "I couldn’t sit by and let this happen. Your plane was going to crash. I stayed up all last night burning a candle for you."

"And I suppose you now want your $50?"

"I’ve been up for 24 hours burning the candle."

"And if I tell you I’m not going to pay?"

"Well, the curse will come back."

Believe it or not, this is where the story gets embarrassing. I gave her the 50 bucks. Why? Well, there are a few theories on this. One is that I’m an idiot. This theory is popular among my friends. But the theory I prefer is this: I may not understand the mechanics of curses and soothsaying, but I also have no earthly idea how a plane stays in the air. In my world-view, both processes are equally suspect. What I don’t need is to step onto a plane and, with every bump, every weird engine noise, every delayed takeoff, hear a little voice screaming, "Oh shit, the curse." So, sure, I may have been hornswoggled out of 50 bucks by a 12-year-old girl. But come on, who hasn’t been? At least I can rest easy, knowing if I’m on a plane that’s going down, it sure as hell isn’t my fault. And that’s just the kind of baseless reassurance I need.

If you’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn to sell, Alan Olifson can be reached at alan@olifson.com