I find fortune telling machines fascinating from a marketing history standpoint. A load-bearing feature of penny arcades and boardwalks, fortune-telling machines evoke strange commentary on the perception of mysticism. All sorts of versions exist – from Zoltar to Zoltan to Madame Zita to racist depictions of indigenous medicine men to a machine just called Cleveland Grandma, all manufactured between 1904 and 1970.
So when the QVC hellhole that is Tiktok catches me with a mini Zoltar (“He Speaks!”) available for purchase, I add it to the cart. Immediately after checking out, Tiktok informs me they have cut the price as a means to try to sell me another one. Everything is a huckster in this story, even Tiktok.
A young man consults a Zoltar fortune telling machine [Wikimedia Commons, Stacycd001, CC 4.0]
A major part of my personal divination practice is collecting junk. Like a lot of young people, my initial pursuit of divination tools was wrapped up in legitimacy, truth, fate, and purity. Christian context does that to a person. A dogged chase of empirical truth that is unachievable. But kitsch has been my magical evolution, and once I embraced fakery and pretend, I became a better Witch and, frankly, more entertained.
Zoltar and Zoltan both feature “Hungarian” accents and evoke an Eastern European racism that explains why one is just called Cleveland Grandma. Hungarians immigrated to the U.S. in high numbers in two different waves, first in the mid-1850’s as a result of the Austro-Hungarian empire, and then again after World War II, which is when Zoltar would have started showing up on boardwalks. Many of the Hungarian immigrants in the 1900s would have been Hungarian Jews. The highest concentration of Hungarian Americans is still in Northeast Ohio, and the neighborhoods they built still thrive as much as rust belt steel towns can.
Fortune telling as an industry, especially post 1900, runs on a certain degree of “ancient mystic” aesthetic with little refinement, pulling in folk sayings and the woo-ification of sage advice. Fortune tellers operated in immigrant spaces not just to peddle wares to the legacy American populations for entertainment, but to provide immigrants with comfort and cultural catering as they adjusted to living in tenements.
As a person with Slavic and Hungarian ancestry – this is a certified Honky speaking – who lived near the Slavic neighborhoods of Cleveland, I have never met a real-life Zoltar. From the accent to the adornment, I couldn’t actually tell you where Zoltar is from nor place the accent. But what I like about these mechanical machines is they peddle more than the Magic 8-ball. They don’t deal in yes or no answers, but rather elaborate, wordy recommendations that probably won’t help at all. But isn’t that mostly the fun?
The existing, full size Zoltar machines are hand built by Characters Unlimited outside of Las Vegas, and they offer financing in the event you want to get into the penny arcade game. They even have a Trump fortune telling machine, further proving that in the game of fortune telling, the asker always loses.
There’s a bit of an eeriness to being taught your own culture from the seedy Americana of the penny arcade. Zoltar is supposed to be me, to some degree, and as a result I find him a little embarrassing. Orientalism allows charlatans and schemers to dress in the imaginary furs and cultural icons of The Foreigner. Everything becomes sleight of hand, and its racism inside racism inside racism for the cheap thrill of being issued a fortune.
The Mini Zoltar hits my doorstep in a 13-inch box, and I am thrilled. I had cleared a whole chunk of space on my desk, ready to push the talkie button for every little thing. However, when the package said “mini” it really meant it.
Mini Zoltar is, in fact, quite small [L. Parker]
Also for some reason there were two of the fortune-tellers in the box.
The Mini Zoltar, according to the packaging, has seven distinct vocal fortunes and comes with 16 fortune cards. The fortune cards would normally be dropped into a little dish by the larger machines, and I thought it was a nice touch to include some in the box. Overall the packaging and kit are nice, with little sticker wood panels for the sides of the Zoltar machine and enough of the fancier elements to make it visually appealing.
Zoltar’s history is unique because most of the real world machines are actually Zoltan, with an N. The only Zoltar, with an R, I’ve seen was featured in the Tom Hanks movie Big. I cannot prove that this was a way to skirt copyright, but it would fit with the theme of a charlatan and its contagion. I can say that the company that builds Zoltar claims to have been doing so for 30 years, and Big came out in 1988.
As cute as it is, after many presses of the button, I only hear four fortunes, and they all play in order – the sequence always starts by telling me about how laziness and relaxation is something I deserve. I don’t really disagree with that fortune, but it’s a little lackluster. The cards are actually much more interesting, with direct and florid fortunes. As a poet, I was a little impressed.
On the full moon, while wallowing in a bad idea crush, I pull a Zoltar card.
Zoltar fortune [L. Parker]
The dopamine and then crash of doubt is a feature, not a bug. Whereas a tarot reader could work out something with me, here I’m expected to take a fortune as truth, and the mortification of the ask sets in. This is for fun, after all. Is believing too ridiculous even for a Witch with a marketing background?
Unlike most kinds of divination that I practice, Zoltar works best with no question. The fortune is not governed by the asker, nor is the deliverer concerned about telling important truths. It’s the flourish and distraction of any magician, and it will be five cents please (or $13.95 plus shipping to Running Press Book Publishers).
I put Mini Zoltar back in his lovely packaging, and fill back in the spot on my desk that I had cleared for him. He immediately vanishes behind a cup of pencils and a stack of papers, too small to push through the noise of the day to day. I wait a week before I open him up and fish out his AAA batteries to put in my fridge light. If Zoltar speaks now, it’ll be a miracle.
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