Psychic Junkie

by Sarah Lassez

  On the fourth day my fake e-mail account had a reply from Miss Simons. I admit, I was shocked at her response. I thought for sure she’d be angry or suspicious or even just dismissive, but instead she was grateful. She was touched that I had gone out of my way for a total stranger, and went on to say she doubted she would’ve seen him again anyway, but hoped one day she could return the favor. In fact, she added, she was a great listener and would be there for me if I wanted to talk about “that loser.”

  I wanted to cry.

  Miss Simons was really, really nice. I liked her and knew, with a sinking feeling, that what I’d done was very wrong…but as a matter of fact yes, yes I did want to talk about that loser.

  I hit reply.

  Thank you so much for your kindness. It’s just hard, because he’d promised marriage, you know? Perhaps I shouldn’t have bought his promises hook, line, and sinker, but I did, and I really thought we’d be together forever…

  I wrote and wrote and wrote, my hands flying across the keyboard as my brain struggled to keep up. When finally done, I grabbed the mouse and moved the cursor to the send button, the little hand now hovering over its target. What was I doing? It was amazing I’d thus far escaped unscathed from my cyber-acrobatics. What was I thinking, taking such a risk by calling myself Bridgette (hey, if everyone else got sexy names, I wanted one too) and pouring out my heart to a woman Wilhelm was trying to date? What was I doing trying to strike up a friendship based on lies, just so I could vent? Though I may not have been completely sound yet, it was as if I’d finally grabbed the edge of sanity, my fingers scraping to get a grip, nails digging, and I knew this opus I’d just created was counterproductive. Sending this would render my grip even more tenuous, like a steel-toed stomp on my unprotected hand.

  I clicked the X in the corner of the e-mail, and agreed that yes, I did want to discard the changes. There. Done. Miss Simons had been spared.

  To mark my first major step toward sanity, I decided to put an end to the Internet shenanigans. Truthfully, I was beginning to tire of the drama between Greta the Adulteress and Wilhelm the Immoral. The two just went at it nonstop, and they didn’t seem to be making any progress in addressing and working out their issues. This, I decided, wasn’t healthy for either of them, nor, I had a suspicion, was it healthy for me. Knowing what I had to do, I created yet another phony e-mail account and popped off a quick anonymous note to Greta, informing her that if she didn’t end things with Wilhelm pronto, her husband would be informed. There, I thought with pride, I just saved a marriage.

  Of course just because I was no longer playing Anti-Cupid didn’t mean I stopped checking his e-mail. In fact, I checked it even more, now that I knew he was capable of dating, and it hurt. I lived in fear of what I’d find, torturing myself by reading his words, keeping the wound fresh and open. I had to stop, but I needed help to do it.

  When I finally mustered up the nerve to ask for assistance, I dialed Gina’s cell phone, completely forgetting she’d be at work. I guess not everyone was at home on a Tuesday afternoon, in their sweatpants and checking their ex’s e-mail. Still, this was important, so I told her she needed to take five minutes to help me.

  “Okay, but no more than five, ’cause we’ve got a staff meeting in the other room right now. Not that I was invited, but you know, if they run out of bagels, they’re gonna need me.”

  “I want you to perform Operation HugBoss.”

  I heard her adjust the phone. “Sarah, what have I told you about TV marathons? They’re dangerous and they mess with your reality.”

  “No! This isn’t marathon-related. This is serious. Operation HugBoss, aka change Wilhelm’s e-mail password so I can’t get into his account. ‘HugBoss’ is the current password.”

  “Ah. I see. And I must say, I approve.” There was a pause. “But wait, then he won’t know the new password either. He won’t be able to get into his own e-mail.”

  “Yeah, well, certain sacrifices must be made.”

  I recapped the past week’s shady dealings. Whereas most people would have scolded me for such underhanded sneaky business, Gina was thrilled. “That is brilliant,” she whispered. “I love it. I mean, it was bad, but I love it. I swear your talents are being wasted as an actress. You should seriously be working for the CIA.”

  I admit it, I was proud. I had in fact sabotaged his affairs from the comfort of my own home, essentially short-circuiting two of his budding relationships via remote control. I’d been like an evil wizard, pressing buttons and pulling levers and—No, Sarah, this is not something to be proud of. “So you’ll do it? And remember, pick something I’ll never figure out. Because I’ll try. You know I will. And I’m good.”

  She promised, and I waited nervously for ten minutes before attempting to log on. I typed “HugBoss,” held my breath, and hit enter. “You have entered in an invalid password. Please try again.”

  I sat back in my chair, slightly nervous and slightly sick, as for the first time in years Wilhelm was going to exist without me. I’d be free, but I’d be in no way a part of his life. The man I’d loved, the man I’d thought I’d marry and be with forever, that man who’d meant so much, was going to continue on, trudging down a path of his own, becoming more and more distant until one day our world together would be but a fading memory. One day I’d be so used to life without him, that in passing I’d reduce him to nothing more than a few select words.

  11

  I See Dumb People

  WHAT DOES ONE DO WITH ONE’S TIME IF NOT obsessively calling psychics, reading tarot cards, or checking an ex’s e-mail? Daytime, I must say, was much longer than I’d thought it was. When, I wanted to know, would that pesky sun finally set? What does one do when it’s still light out? Had there really always been this many hours in a day? I felt as if for years I’d been standing with crutches in the midst of a stadium and just now someone had yanked them from under my arms. Surrounded by what seemed like miles of nothing, I was wobbling and wondering what the hell to do.

  What I needed was to become friends with that caller who’d left scathing feedback for Erlin. She’d know exactly what I was going through; she’d help me feel not so alone, so crazy. As much as I loved my friends, they didn’t understand my addiction, couldn’t understand my addiction. Though they each had their own issues and their own bouts of insanity, psychic addiction was new territory for us all. Never had anyone encountered such an issue, and though they were supportive, they couldn’t relate.

  But KatyKate922, she would understand, she would relate. One lazy afternoon I gave myself a mission: Study KatyKate922’s feedback for clues and then find her. Already I fancied myself as something of a covert agent, so I deemed this an easy task and began scrolling through hundreds of messages. I searched and searched, yet all I saw was praise and flattery. KatyKate922’s rant was nowhere to be found. Had it…had it been removed?

  Now, I admit I can be naïve. And though it might seem obvious to others that the powers behind Psychicdom most likely weren’t the pillars of morality, I was truly shocked. Feedback was the very essence of what had convinced me to trust the site, the supposed candor and honesty was what had sold me in the first place, and to learn that comments were being manipulated was as horrifying as if I’d just spent a fortune on a diamond, only to be told the authenticity report had been conjured in a drunk Russian’s basement and the stone actually involved the words “cubic” and “zirconia.” It was all a fraudulent, unfair game, and I was appalled.

  I decided to check the feedback on all my favorites, starting with Misty Mystical. The Psychicdom monitors must have taken an ill-timed break, because there, right at the very top, was a brand-new and very irate comment. PrincessPlum had written:

  WARNING! She gave me FALSE HOPE!! I’ve been waiting for TWO YEARS for my man, my “twin flame,” to leave his wife. She told me his wife was VERY SICK and would die soon and he’d be free to be with me. As of today his wife is STILL ALIVE and they’re STILL TOGETHER. I’ve wasted thousa
nds of dollars on Misty and have started a support group online for callers of Psychicdom. COME THERE SOON, as I’m sure Psychicdom will erase this as soon as their SPIES catch it!!

  Wow, did I want to be part of a support group led by a woman who was waiting for someone to die so she could have her man? You bet. I desperately wanted any kind of support I could get, and that I’d actually found a group for people like me, psychic junkies, was like learning I wasn’t the only one on a very lonely planet.

  Unfortunately, I soon learned I’d be alone on that planet for one more night, because apparently it took twenty-four hours—twenty-four grueling, nail-biting, floor-pacing hours—before I would officially be a member and could access the site. It was torture, but finally the hour of my rescue arrived. Though there were only twenty members, there were over three hundred and fifty posts, each story horrifyingly similar to either what I had gone through or what I could go through if I didn’t break the addiction soon. With a cup of coffee, and then another, I read each and every one, story after story, saga after saga, until I saw something that made me stop: Erlin’s name.

  Though the proposal hadn’t happened (and yes, part of me still added “yet” onto that sentence), Erlin had been right about enough that in my mind he’d become the last vestige of my belief. If people said he wasn’t reliable or accurate or right, where would I be? What would that mean for the years I’d spent searching for the path he’d promised?

  But this was what I needed, the shock of cold water, the pinch of reality. I clicked on the post and noticed it had been started by a Psychicdom insider, someone with the scoop on all we’d trusted. I forced myself to keep reading. And I saw it. Erlin, my savior, my debonair gentleman who’d always left the ballroom to ease my mind, the man whose words had gotten me through the day and in whom I’d confided my most precious dreams and deepest fears, this same man was said to express his view of his callers, the source of his incredible wealth, by wearing a T-shirt that said I SEE DUMB PEOPLE.

  Something inside me shifted.

  It was over; everything was over. No longer would I blindly believe in people who had been so wrong, people who saw us, their faithful, their followers, as laughable. No longer would I spend my life reaching for the carrot, my eye on a prize always slightly beyond my grasp, close enough to keep me going but never close enough to be caught. No longer would I live life waiting for a better day. No longer would I wait, always wait.

  After I read the last post, I composed my own. I detailed my experience, said how happy I was to have found this group, how comforting it was to know I was not alone. At the end I decided to list the psychics I’d called the most during the Wilhelm saga, and counted, with sorrow, seventeen. Seventeen psychics. Those weren’t even all the ones I’d called, just the ones I’d called the most.

  From that day on the support group claimed the extra hours I’d not known what to do with. We compared notes, prophecies, and results. We tried to encourage one another not to call, partially by detailing the unreliability of certain lauded readers, pulling the curtain aside and exposing them as nothing more than a waste of money. Eventually a blacklist emerged, one that kept growing as again and again psychics failed to be accurate and were placed on the growing do-not-call list. And though we had the best of intentions, our group did have a rather grim flipside—similar to how I imagine AA could be a great place to meet a drinking buddy. If someone had a great experience, if perhaps they extolled the virtues and wonders of a new psychic they’d found, our site tended to experience something of a mass exodus as everyone abandoned their computers and practically flung themselves on their phones, determined to be first in line for a reading. So yes, in this aspect the “support” backfired, eventually culminating in the outrageous and alarming invention of Psychic of the Month. Let me tell you, whomever that psychic happened to be, they struck gold by tapping into us.

  But then something horrible happened…. As more and more addicts came, so came the psychics. Let me tell you, they were not so happy with us. Before we knew it, our happy home had been infiltrated by the enemy, and the psychics joined in droves. All hell broke loose; accusations were made, addicts cried, psychics screamed, curses were cast, tarot cards went flying, and crystal balls were smashed. It was a complete melee, a clash of angry, upset, and very expressive forces.

  Being irritated with failed predictions was one thing, but being personally attacked by an agitated horde of psychics was another. The site was caught in a downward spiral, and nothing—not even my attempt to restore peace by taking over as moderator—seemed to help. There was just too much drama, and soon even I began to pull away.

  When at last I emerged from my cyberwar of battling psychics and addicts, it struck me that not only had Wilhelm skittered to the outer edges of my mind, but also something wonderful was about to happen: Gina was about to turn thirty. Not that I wished others to experience such trauma, but it’s comforting not to be the only one on a sinking ship, you know? She’d join me on my flailing boat, and together we’d scowl at young twentysomethings on passing ocean liners, attempt to hide from the damaging sun, and compare our burgeoning wrinkles in the shade.

  The one thing that confused me was how on earth we’d both gotten so old. Years were now scattered behind us, and yet what had we done with our lives? My mother and all my friends’ mothers had been married, owned houses, and had children by our age. And here I was, single and living paycheck to paycheck in an apartment with a sloping floor. Sure it was a different era, but damnit, I wanted to live in that era, not this one with its million-dollar shanties and single women forced to keep a frenzied eye on the expiration date of their eggs.

  Gina, strangely, seemed unaffected by her advancing years. I’d say things such as, “This is your last week of being in your twenties,” or “Did you ever really think you’d be thirty?” yet she just wouldn’t crack. She was calm; she barely cared. According to her, this was because she was not an actress and thus was not convinced that turning thirty meant a possible weighted journey to the bottom of Puppy Lake. Still, Mark, being the wonderful and rare boyfriend he was, anticipated something of a breakdown and decided to distract her by throwing a dinner party at a restaurant in our neighborhood.

  That night, I readied for the evening (my rare venture into a social environment), got in my car, and within three minutes was at the restaurant. After another fifteen minutes spent looking for parking, I passed through an old wood gate and into a stunning, glimmering courtyard wrapped in white lights and glowing with candles. The courtyard also, I noticed right away, was chock full of absolutely gorgeous men. We’re talking well groomed, polished, sophisticatedly hunky men who looked as though perhaps they’d decided to get a bite to eat after finishing up with their Banana Republic and J.Crew photo shoots. Unfortunately, we’re also talking men who might as well have been wearing T-shirts with the phrases DO NOT TOUCH! or OFF LIMITS! as Silver Lake was a predominantly gay neighborhood, and thus only window-shopping was allowed. The gorgeous men were, unfortunately, all getting a bite to eat with one another.

  Once at Gina’s table I put my hands on her shoulders and leaned in. “Tell me again why we live in Boystown? It’s torture. Oh, and happy birthday.”

  She smiled and grabbed a chair from the table behind us, sliding it in next to her. “Sit. Well, for starters it’s cleaner, safer, and more artistic, and there’s a cheese shoppe. Shop spelled sh-o-p-p-e.”

  “But where are all the single straight men?”

  “Hermosa Beach. With all the annoying girls who think ‘evening wear’ means a black bikini.”

  “Right.”

  I paused. There was an excitement in her face that I’d come to know meant trouble, and she was grinning like a fool. What the hell? I was about to ask what was going on, when suddenly she lifted her hand and I saw it—a beautiful, sparkling, radiant diamond.

  I practically fell over in my chair. Sure, the ring was impressive, but mostly I was in shock. When had this happened? I was comp
letely thrown. “Oh my God,” I managed to say, then hugged and congratulated her and ferociously guzzled champagne.

  Mark, I realized, was one incredibly smart man, as he hadn’t allowed her even seconds to bitch about her age before providing her with one hell of a sparkling distraction. And though I was truly and absolutely beyond a doubt happy for her, it was just that, well, she’d jumped ship. She’d joined me long enough that her feet had barely touched the listing surface of my deck before she’d immediately been thrown a line, and just like that had been pulled onto a yacht pointing toward the sunset. I was again alone.

  The next morning I pampered myself with a passionflower bath, a bubbly floral attempt at cheering myself up, and had just stuck my foot in the tub when the phone rang. Tracking one watery footprint into my bedroom, I answered, and was immediately sorry I’d done so.

  “I’m in Home Depot right now,” Gina said, “and I swear you would die if you saw the fire in this rock. Who knew Home Depot would have the perfect diamond-viewing lighting?”

  Now I got completely into the water, aware that drowning myself would be one way to end the conversation. “Yeah, that’s crazy.”

  “That was a side note. I’m actually calling because I think you need to start hanging out here. Home Depot is filled with men; everywhere you look there are men, and these guys all know how to build things or tear things down. It’s a jackpot. I’m seriously getting an eyeful. Oh, just be sure to avoid the indoor plant section, ’cause those guys don’t play for our team.”