I don't really believe in regrets. That said, I do have one, sort of. I've always regretted not having the opportunity to go to college. It doesn't bother me that I didn't finish high school. I didn't really enjoy that time in my life all that much, all those bullies and asshole teachers. But, I've always wished I had attended college. With my current wealth and freedom, I guess I could go back to school now. Lots of colleges in New York City offer continuing education programs for adults, but it seems that the time of going for a degree has passed. My drive lessens in that direction every day. I do look to my travels across the United states and through the Far East, Europe, and South America as an education. I’ve seen how others live. I’ve collected artifacts and treasures of my own. And, as I look over the results that my office shelves hold, my regrets, however slight, ease.
Two full walls of the room are floor to ceiling bookcases. The shelves not only house my collection of first edition books on the occult, but also odd favorites and souvenirs from my world travels.
A love of rocks and fossils has always been part of my life. I have this thing about trilobite fossils. I’m sure it’s related to some past lives millions of years ago. I simply love these ancient sea creatures. That was the initial impetus to my travels. I’ve mined specimens, large and small, from Madagascar to Utah, and the UK to Germany. And, the best of these fossil finds reside on my shelves.
While I traveled as a rock hound, I became enthralled with other rocks and crystals. They all hold energetic and vibrational properties and I’ve discovered that being around them, holding them and focusing on them, strengthen my connection to my team and the myriad of dead folks that I converse with. So, as I traveled the world searching out marine fossils, I also began to collect rocks and unique crystal formations. At times like this, when I’m waiting for client calls, or in between my sessions, I enjoy looking over my collection. It does clear my energy, but it’s also simply nice to remember this hike, or that motorbike ride that got me to the remote location where the earth yielded up her bounty from beneath the ground.
The phone finally rang. I looked at the clock, twenty minutes late.
"Duke Donovan," I said officiously. I listened to a very rich woman tell me her desires. I waited. My team connected with her team and her dead relatives. I translated for them for thirty minutes. We rang off.
Wednesdays are devoted to my regular clients. Each call is scheduled for an hour, but only takes thirty to forty minutes. I call them at their appointed time. We talk; schedule their next appointment a half a year into the future. They move on. I clear my head and wait for the next call.
That's one of the reasons why I've got all the art and trinkets in the room. They allow me to focus. They give me something to do while my team is talking to the clients through me. They also provide a connection to my memories and those connections spark new associations to the present and the future. Life really is a continuum.
My team buzzed in my head as the next call came. "Duke Donovan." The caller was a man about my age, Victor. He's been a client since the readings for tricks days. With my information he's become a successful importer/exporter. He's always got the trendiest things in his shop. My team filled him in again on what would be perfect to be selling in a few months. Victor's calls were always rather quick. We rang off.
That's how Wednesdays went from one in the afternoon until nine at night. Call after call. Malcolm brought in food, snacks, and beverages. Sam was out of the house for his matinee and didn't return until after his evening show. The day worked perfectly.
It was Malcolm who offered the idea of a full day of readings. I was bitching about how they were all scattered throughout the week, how I never felt I could go anywhere or do anything because there was always some call to make or wait for.
A full day of readings was difficult at first. I would be exhausted at the end of the day and lose most of the following day recovering. Although, two days lost was better than seven. And, over time, like all things, as we grow used to them they get easier. Now, many years later, Wednesdays were more boring than anything else. My team was comfortable working through me; I would basically shut down my conscious self and allow them to do their thing through me. I rarely was left with even a trace memory of the readings I did.
My cell phone rang. That rarely happened on Wednesdays. All my friends knew this was a working day for me. Most of my big clients, who called in on this line, also knew that Wednesdays were for my others. It's always interesting to me how the most powerful people in the world, people who have other people killed at will. People who direct the finances and wars of the world, accepted my rules without question. They had respect for me. I've always had a self-esteem issue. Mine has always been a little too low for my own good. But, these world leaders respected me. They paid me very well for my services. And, they took my rules as law.
I did occasionally have one who questioned why I would continue to work these low paying readings when I had such other, high paying clients. The truth? I love a lot of my regulars. They've been with me from the beginning. I wouldn't have the kings and despots calling me if I hadn't honed my skills with them. I feel I owe them something. But, it's more than that. I also enjoyed the company.
The men in my life come and go. My romantic relationships tend to be rather short. Even the kings and despots use me for what they need in the moment and most move on. There are a few exceptions to that, but mostly they move on. Some of my regulars have been with me for nearly twenty years now.
I didn't recognize the number that came up on the caller ID. "Duke Donovan." I listened. Silence at first. I almost hung up.
"Duke? It's Lola. I'm sorry to call you on a Wednesday, but—"
"What is it? Is my father—"
"Actually, he's doing better. I wanted you to know that they've moved him out of intensive care and…"
My other line rang.
"Hold on, Lola." I picked up the other line while looking at the list on my desk. "Tim?" I asked. "Man, I'm going to have to reschedule. I'm so sorry." I listened to his disappointed approval, made a note on the list, hung up. I returned my attention to my father’s girlfriend. "Sorry Lola, tell me what’s going on. How’s my dad?"
"They've moved him from intensive care. He's looking good. His color is back. He'll be in the hospital at least a few more days and then he'll be home."
"That's excellent news," I said. I actually felt mixed about the old man's survival.
"Listen, there's something else…the reason I called…" she trailed off. I didn't offer any verbal encouragement. "He's going to need someone to care for him a bit when he gets out of the hospital." I waited for her to continue, to ask for what she wanted. "I want…I want to move in with him, to take care of him. He said to ask you."
It made no sense. I posed the question to my team. They had nothing to offer. I always find it interesting when my team is absolutely silent about my life.
"It's his life, Lola, he can do whatever he wants."
We were both silent. I didn't understand why he pushed this off to me.
"He said he thought he would come stay with you. That's when I offered to move in with him." She sounded very tired.
"Lola, he's got a few more days in the hospital?"
"At least three or four," she said.
"I'll come by tomorrow morning during visiting hours to talk to him. Will you let him know I'll be there?"
"I will Duke. Thanks."
We rang off.
I hadn't been to see my father in the hospital. The way we shout and argue most of the time I didn't think it would be good for his health if I were there in person. I'd be paying the bill and figured that would be enough connection for both of us.
Again, I asked my team for guidance. They continued their silence. I was going to have to go through this one blind, without help from beyond, which meant this was going to be a life lesson for me, something connected to my experience and personal growth. Translation: emotional and painful.
“How does it feel?”
I looked up from the amethyst crystal I’d been looking at to find the dark figure sitting in one of the comfy chairs across the room from me.
“What do you want, ghost?” I asked. I wasn’t upset or even uncomfortable by his presence. I suddenly felt exhaustion instead.
He didn’t say anything.
I watched the fumes and gas of him shift and move, yet the shape of him stayed the same at the core of the ether.
Neither of us spoke for a long time. Yet, I couldn’t do anything but stare at the ghost. I’d grown mesmerized by the presence.
“I’ve got you in my spell, now,” it said.
I shook my head. “No. I can leave you. You have no power over me at all. But, I’m curious what you want. Why you keep showing up in my life.”
“I’m not ready to speak of that, not yet.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Malcolm entered the room with a silver tray laden with cans of diet coke and a bowl of peanuts. I focused on the living man to see if he would take notice of the apparition across the room.
The butler didn’t speak. He placed the tray on my desk, turned, paused for a moment with his head cocked toward the other side of the room, and then he left without comment.
“He can’t see me,” said the ghost. “Only you can see me. Even your dog there holds no interest in me.”
“Well, make a move or don’t. Say something or don’t. I’m not in the mood for your games today.” I reached for the brass Tibetan bell on my desk, and after giving the guy a moment to speak, with a solid hand, I hit the striker against the bowl’s side. As the bell sounded, the ghost dissipated. “I hold all the power in my life,” I said to it as it went. A chill ran through my body. I shuddered and the phone rang for my next appointment.
Chapter Seventeen
One afternoon, one of those perfect fall days in New York when open windows allow in fresh, crisp air and the heat of summer is truly gone from the pavement, I was finishing a reading for a young man. He'd already started to take his clothes off to pay me for my services with services of his own, when a very clear message came to me that if I slept with this boy in my usual fashion—fucking each other until our dicks hurt—that I'd be dead within a year. I didn't know where the message had come from. The knowing was different than how I usually received information. It was as if someone had whispered the facts right into my head, bypassing my ears all together.
The poor boy, he was rock hard, the head of his dick already turning from red to purple, oozing slick drops of pre-come, ready to go. I thought of just having him jack off. He'd be satisfied putting on a show as so many young men are. The words in my head said "not even that."
"Sorry chap, can't take the time today," I said.
The expression on the guy’s face, as he looked from me to his cock, me to his cock, was pitiful. I tossed him his jeans. He had trouble zipping them up. I wanted him bad, my own dick triggered to alert by the site of him pushing and shoving his own into captivity.
I never saw that boy again. A lot of my regulars disappeared after that time. Some after I heard the "no sex" mantra in my head, others just never showed up again. The plague had begun, along with a greater trust in my guides.
Then, Newsweek changed my life. One of my clients, a top heart surgeon, Dr. Sandy, mentioned me by name during an interview. He was one of my early clients, one of the boys I traded guidance for sex with. He was a med student back then. My team shared with him what he had the potential to do, how he might change the world with his own gifts and talents. First he was in shock. Over the decade of school, fellowships, and internships, he began realizing their advice, thriving on his possible future.
He was rather flip in the interview, but mentioned me by name as a psychic who changed his life. The new clients that came from that interview filled my Wednesdays for nearly a year. Many of them are still on the roster. That's been nearly a decade. Maybe a little more. Time just isn't the same for me as it is for a lot of calendar watchers. That article also brought me to the attention of several unscrupulous diplomats and heads of state.
The cool morning air was a nice break from summer’s heat and offered a hint that fall was coming. Sometimes, in the early morning, my driver is chatty. But, on this morning, he was silent. Maybe his silence was caused by the destination. Maybe he was a little hung over from the night before. Whatever the reason, the town car interior was quiet. I lit a cigarette and looked out the window.
My drivers were three brothers with their own small car service company located just a few doors down the street from my brownstone. When they first launched their business they put flyers on all of their neighbor's doors. When I pulled the junk mail from the stoop, a little annoyed at having to clean it all up, my team buzzed: "These are the ones," came through loud and clear. I keep them on retainer. One of their cars is always available to me, day or night.
We drove by early morning vendors selling bagels and coffee to lines of bankers and brokers, nurses and students. I thought about taking something up to my father and Lola, but decided not to. I wanted to get in and out of this situation as easily as possible.
I'm not a fan of hospitals. It's not that I don't respect what goes on in them. There are always people being sick and it's good that there are doctors and nurses who enjoy trying to make them well. I don't like hospitals because of the lingering spirits. There are an overwhelming number of entities from beyond who spend time in and around them.
First, there are those who die during their hospital time. The longer a place is open for business, the more of these there are. Some spirits, even with help and guidance, just aren't ready or willing to make their transition away from our physical realm. Then there are the spirits who come into the place to help their loved ones over. With all this other-worldly activity, there are still more spirits who see it as a visiting place. Since so many energy fields are focused on this one location, it becomes rather like a public park. It's a meeting place for lots of other guides, angels, and spirits because their friends are focused there.
In addition, anyone facing fearful situations tends to ask for help and call on their guides and gods to get them through the pain and fear. All that calling attracts out-of-this-world beings, too.
For someone like me, with a strong connection to the other side, I pick up a lot of noise, activity, and even static from all these spirits and other-world beings. When they know you can feel, hear, and see them, they try to connect. Everyone is on a mission and any help they can get toward that end they take advantage of. All such facilities would do well to spend a little time smudging with sage or hiring someone to perform regular energy grounding and clearing rituals.
I set my intention before I left the house. I made a point in the car of resetting it, of reinforcing why I was going in an attempt to lessen the noise of walking through those overcrowded halls.
I checked in as required before I headed up to my father's room. The door to his private room was open when I arrived. Lola sat in a stiff chair near his bed, her attention focused on a television talk show.
"Hi," I said. They looked away from the TV to me.
"So glad you could find your way down here," said my father. He sounded angry, but weaker than I’d ever heard him before.
I looked at the old man in the bed. He was pale and a string of tubes and cords tethered him to monitors that beeped and IV poles that dripped. "You know I don't like these places," I said moving just inside the door. I suddenly flashed back on that day so many years ago when he’d slapped me so hard I crumpled to the floor. His words seethed through clenched teeth, “Get out of my house, faggot. And, don’t ever come back.” I shuddered, refocused my attention in the present and said: "Hi, Lola."
"Hi Duke," she said, touching a tissue to the corner of her eye. Lola looked like hell. No makeup, unflattering clothes, no hint of her cleavage. This was the real Lola.
�
�How’s the patient?”
“He’s recovering. The surgery saved his life. He had one of the best surgeons.”
I silently asked my team in my head. Yep, Dr. Sandy from the Newsweek article had taken my Dad’s case. No one knew why he was so interested in my old man. I kept my knowledge to myself. "So, what's the plan?" I asked to no one in particular.
"Mr. Donovan be ready to go home," said the Jamaican nurse with her wonderful sing-song accent. She'd entered the room quietly, her large hips swinging gently as she walked. Her movements were comfortable, but deliberate. She took my father's statistics, entering his heart rate and temperature on a chart while Lola turned her focus back to the television. "We need the bed for someone who is actually sick." She smiled at my dad, who surprisingly smiled back.
After she'd left the room my father said, "I like her. She's no bullshit." The bullshit factor was my father's way of judging the world.
"Your father's going to need some help, Duke," said Lola.
"What kind of help do you need, Dad?" What a long road we’d taken from that fight in our New Jersey home. He and mom were still together then, but not for much longer. Him throwing me out was about the last straw for the two of them. I was told she died of a broken heart. I’d always wondered if he’d killed her.
He was silent.
"The doctor said he shouldn't do anything strenuous for the next three or four months. He's got a whole new set of meds to keep track of. Plus, physical therapy. Then there’s the shopping. Cleaning. Everything."
"Dad, what do you want?" I tried to look him in the eye. He avoided me. "Lola, would you mind getting me a cup of coffee? I'd like a few minutes alone with my father."
"Ah, sure, Duke," she said, not moving.
"Go," my father instructed while he kept his focus on the television.
She harrumphed on her way out of the room. I closed the door behind her and returned to my father's bedside.
The Middle Man [A Broadway Romance] Page 12