by Lee Nichols
“Well, she has been trying to set me up with one of the women from our church.”
These people are church-goers? And he was going to tup his brother’s wife on the side? “Well, that sounds very…lovely. Someone who shares the same values.”
I do another tarot spread—more like 52-pickup—and sure enough, the cards recommend a date with the church lady.
“Thanks for your help, Elle.”
It’s the first time I remember hearing those words attached to my name.
“You’re very welcome. Give me a call if you have any other dilemmas you need help with.”
A nice touch, I think—asking for the repeat call. I’m a natural.
We say goodbye and I swing around in my seat to check if Darwin and Earth Mama have witnessed my first success.
“Do you have any idea how to use those?” Earth Mama asks.
“The tarot cards? Of course I do,” I say.
“How?”
I finger the cards as I settle back in seat. “I divine inspiration from the pictures.”
“There are serious consequences,” Earth Mama says, “to using the cards improperly. If you don’t know what you’re doing, I recommend you look into another line of work.” She gestures toward the Naughty Schoolgirls sign across the corridor.
I look at the picture on the card in my hand. It’s a white-haired lady. “For example,” I say, as if she hadn’t spoken, “from this card I divine that an old crone will become an obstacle in my life.”
“If you are going to work as a counselor,” she says sharply, “I suggest you educate yourself. Real people call with real problems, and the last thing they need is an ignorant girl offering bad advice. The cards are temperamental and subtle, and—”
“Give her a break, Adele,” Darwin cuts in. “It’s her first call.”
“I just don’t understand how they’re hiring people these days. She makes a mockery of the whole profession.”
“We’re phone psychics, Adele.” Darwin looks at her with sympathy. “I think she did really well, considering she has no training…I mean, other than her innate Gift.”
This quiets Adele down. “No training? Well, as long as she’s not just in it for the money.”
“Me?” I scoff. “If I were in it for the money, I think I could find something that pays a lot better than this.”
My phone rings, and instead of nerves I feel excitement. “Thank you for calling the Psychic Connexion.”
I field nine calls—not including a bunch of hang-ups and try-outs—and my mean time logged is twenty-four minutes, which is above average. Most beginners get a lot of tens and elevens. Darwin tells me it was a good first day—he says C. Burke will look over the numbers at home, and be impressed. I decide to like C. Burke, not only because he is a responsible father on paternity leave, but because I will be his new star psychic.
It was mostly easy, too. A lot of love questions: Is this man right for me? When am I going to meet Mr. Right? Is my boyfriend cheating? That sort of thing. I did get one lady who wanted to know if her dishwasher was broken. I asked what it was doing, and she described the noises and shudders. We talked about appliances and warrantees and stuff, then the cards told her to call Sears and ask them. The cards are wise.
Adele was at me all day, trying to teach me about tarot. She’s annoying, but nice. She’s like my mother, except she believes in all the New Age stuff instead of talk shows. And I’m fairly sure she could recognize my voice on the phone. But the more she talked about the cards, the less I understood; I tried it on a caller, but stumbled over the word “Hierophant,” and decided I was doing better my own way. Darwin suggested I try numerology—getting all the dates and numbers apparently increases your log-in time.
On the way home, I stop at Shika to tell Maya about my beautiful career. She’s not there. Instead, a guy in his early twenties, with unevenly shorn hair and a ring through his eyebrow is pouring beer for the four customers at the booth. The argument group—I sort of coincidentally knew it was their day. Neil, the teddy bear, is there. Merrick is not.
“—never said blind people don’t deserve access,” Neil is grumbling. “But Braille keypads on drive-up ATMs is ridiculous. It’s like convertibles. You know how they make convertibles? They build the whole car, then chop off the top.”
“Bullshit, Neil,” one of the other men says.
“Chop off the top,” Neil repeats. “What I want to know is, what the hell do they do with the extra tops? Probably sell ’em to the military-industrial complex for ninety grand a pop—like those toilet seats, your tax money at work. The whole two-party system is a joke.”
“Going at it again, huh?” I say to the eyebrow-ring bartender.
“It’s an argument group. They come in once a week to vent.”
“Yeah. I had no idea today’s their day,” I lie. “And that’s, um, the whole group?”
“More or less.”
He’s probably in his cave. Not that I care. “Maya around?”
Eyebrow-ring shakes his head.
“Oh, well, I’m her friend Elle….”
“With the blender, right? She mentioned you. I’m Kid.”
“Kid?”
“As in ‘Billy the.’ My mom had a thing for westerns.”
“Ah.” This is the guy Maya hired instead of me? “So why didn’t she name you Billy?”
He looks at me. “Can I get you anything?”
“Well…” No fun to sit here without Maya. “I don’t—”
“I’m buying,” Monty says, sliding onto his stool.
“Hi, Monty.” I give him the once-over. “Looking sharp as ever.”
Kid flips his head in greeting. “Gin and tonic?”
Monty nods. “And you, Elle?”
“Same.”
Kid fiddles with bottles and I ask Monty how he’s doing.
“Sold a property today. Made a tidy little sum.”
“Is that why you’re buying?” I grab a handful of pretzels. Stern lecture of Maya on stale Fritos has resulted in plethora of fresh bar snacks.
“Well, the three dollars hurts even less today. How’s Spenser for Hire?”
“Spenser? Turns out Spenser is for ‘fire.’” I tell him the story as we sip our G&Ts.
“So you didn’t get fired for not arresting the shoplifter, you got fired for arresting the non-shoplifter?”
This strikes us as funnier than it is—but we’re lubricated by gin and our mutual amusement at the nickname “Spenser.” On a roll, I tell him I’m now working as a phone psychic, and loving every minute of it. He congratulates me with another G&T, and says, “Maya tells me you’re living in a trolley? I didn’t think that was legal. I should invest in a bunch of used trolleys, start a trolley-park in Goleta.”
“I’ll be your first tenant. My landlord kicked me out.”
He asks why, of course, and I tell him the water-balloon story. He puts his glass on the bar and his skinny shoulders shake with laughter. “Pegged him until he fell down? I ought to set you on Fess Parker. So where are you moving?”
“Back with Maya, I guess.”
“I’ve got a place, if you’re interested—it’s only a studio.”
“Monty, I’ve been living in a trolley. A studio can only be viewed as a step up. How much?”
“Six hundred.”
My heart stops. “A week?”
“A month. You interested?”
“How bad is it? Brown carpeting and a microwave instead of a stove?”
Monty looks offended. “It’s a nice apartment.”
“Then I want it.”
“Then it’s yours.”
I beam. He beams. I know I should ask about first, last and security. Instead, I say, “Can I have dog?”
“Anything but a cat.” He takes another sip of his drink. “Can’t stand cats.”
“And, um…you’ll want $1800 to move in?”
He gives me a look that makes me wonder exactly how much Maya told him. “Place
is empty anyway. You move in when you want, and keep your job, and give me the six hundred on the first of next month.”
The first is like two weeks away. Ten dollars an hour times eight hours a day, times ten days…$800! Minus taxes and stuff, and ignoring Carlos and every shopping instinct I have…and I can do this. I will do this. A regular job, a real apartment…the New Elle has finally arrived.
“So,” Monty asks. “How are things in the man department?”
Get home from drinks with Monty and check voice mail. Zero messages. I take a hot shower, spend thirty minutes conditioning my hair, and when I step out, hallelujah, the dial tone is buzzing.
Four messages. Please, God, let them be Joshua, Joshua, Joshua and Joshua. They are:
1) Strange voice, asking for Angie. Very important.
2) Louis: Blah blah blah. Stamp collection. Blah blah. The ASPCA. Blah blah blah.
3) Merrick: Called to say hello. Hello. Hope all is well.
4) Strange voice, telling Angie to forget it. No longer important.
No Joshua. I replay every minute of last date, and still think I did okay. No obvious gaffes. No terrible debacles. Maybe he doesn’t like salad-eaters. Maybe he’s with Jenna. Maybe I’m not exciting/attractive/wild enough for him. If I were him, would I date me? No. I’d date Halle Berry.
At least Merrick called, and Carlos didn’t. But neither did Maya. Suspect she is truly sick of me. So I’ve been sulking and not calling her, either. See how she likes it. Although I guess she probably does like it. Anyway, I should be the adult, and call with both bits of good news: have a job, and a place to stay.
Perfect Brad answers with an anxious “Hello?”
“Brad, it’s Elle.”
“Oh. I thought you were Maya.”
“Wish I was. Where is she? She’s not at the bar.”
“Still at the doctor.”
“The doctor? What for?”
“She miscarried.”
Oh, no. “I didn’t even know she was pregnant.”
“Neither did we. She’s getting checked up right now.”
“When did it happen?”
“Day before yesterday.”
No wonder I hadn’t heard from her. And good friend that I am, I’ve been sulking. I ask what happened, and if she’s all right, and he tells me the whole story.
“It wasn’t like we wanted a baby,” he says. “But it’s still somehow sad.”
“Can I come see her?” I ask. “What can I do? I’ll bring ice cream.”
He sort of chuckles. “Come tomorrow. And just…bring yourself. You always make her laugh.”
Chapter 24
Stayed up late, mentally designing gift basket for Maya. Am resolved not to spend money, even when presented with this valid and convincing opportunity. Will have to make my own raffia, chocolate éclairs, violet bath oil and handwoven basket—which is slightly daunting.
Surprisingly, I’m happy to be back at work. It’s just talking on the phone, isn’t it? People call me, asking for help. I’m much better giving advice than taking it. And although I didn’t have time last night to check into numerology, this morning I caught sight of the cover of Marie Claire. A special horoscope issue. Talk about fate.
I read it while waiting for my next call. It’s a relief to know that if someone asks for their horoscope I’ll be prepared. Of course, I’ve had three calls already, and no one’s asked. Most people who want a horoscope call the horoscope line.
I’m at a different desk today, in the corner next to Straight Sex. Which is odd, because the majority of the phone-workers are men. Wouldn’t have thought women called for this sort of thing.
I glance up from my magazine as a guy plants himself at the next desk. He’s young, wearing an orange velvet shirt that clashes mercilessly with his blue hair.
“Good morning,” I say.
“Phone sex?” he asks.
“No thanks.”
He laughs. “I meant are you working phone sex?”
I smile and shake my head. “Psychic Connexion.”
“I did Psychic for a while. This pays better—and it’s more straightforward. Nobody wants to talk, just moan.” His phone rings, and he picks up and says, “Hi, this is Gina,” in a soft, husky voice. He listens a moment. “A red lace teddy, with black thigh-high stockings attached to my garters and black heels and my bottom is just aching to be spanked….”
Must be cross-dressing. I check the sign. Still says Straight Sex. It dawns on me that all the men are pretending to be women.
“I’m so wet,” Blue Hair says. “How many fingers? There’s one…oooh…there’s two…and there’s three…oh, baby…” Blue Hair notices me watching and winks. “There’s another girl here with me, her name is Jasmine. You want to talk to her?”
I wave my hands in a horrified rebuff, and he winks again. “Oh—Jasmine can’t talk, both her hands are busy at the moment. What does she look like? Angelina Jolie, with bigger tits—she’s got a high, bubble-ass and her long, long legs are spread and can you guess what she’s doing to herself?”
My phone rings, thank God. I launch into my spiel, desperately blocking out Blue Hair’s sex talk, but the woman doesn’t want to get the free newsletter, which is a bummer because I get a buck for every mailing address. I take her name, anyway. It’s Janet Taluga—takes me three tries to get the spelling right.
“I want to know what to do about my husband,” she says. She has a soft, pretty accent.
“What’s wrong with your husband?” I ask.
“I thought you’d tell me.” Oh—she’s one of those. There are two types of Psychic Connexion callers. Those who don’t care about metaphysics, as long as you give good advice, and those determined to prove you can’t foresee your way out of a paper bag.
“I can tell you, of course…but why waste the Gift on information you already know?” She doesn’t respond, so I say, “Ah! Wait, I’m getting something…” and flip through the pages of Marie Claire. “You sure you don’t want your horoscope?”
“If I wanted my horoscope, I’d have called the horoscope line.”
Her accent is definitely Southern. “He’s from the South, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” she admits. “But with my accent, that’s not so big a stretch.”
“Mmm.” She isn’t going to give me anything. What can I tell her? My eyes land on the headline Don’t Get Sucked into His Sucky Mood. “I’m getting that his temper isn’t always even. He’s a little moody.”
“Oh, no. He’s not moody at all.”
She lies just like I do—utterly unconvincingly. “Janet. The cards don’t lie. I’m pretty sure he’s moody.”
“Only sometimes.”
“And is that what makes you wonder what to do about him?”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Is he mean, Janet?”
“No,” she says softly.
“He has a temper.”
“I—I…” Sounds like she’s crying.
“He yells at you,” I say.
“Sometimes.”
“You know, Janet, sometimes we end up staying with a man far longer than we should. I know what that’s like.”
“You do?”
“Six years.”
“Did yours hit the bottle hard?”
“Your husband drinks?”
“Most nights.”
“And that’s when he loses his temper?”
“Sometimes. Usually. Yes.”
“And you’re wondering if you should leave him?”
“Is that what you see me doing?” There’s both hope and fear in her voice.
“Well…” I hesitate. What if they had just had a spat? On the other hand, what if he’s beating her? I search my desk for the sheet with the crisis intervention hotlines on it. “Have you tried counseling?”
“He would never—oh my God, I gotta go. He’ll kill me when he gets the bill.”
“No, Janet, wait! Just let me—”
The line goes dea
d. I’m left holding the hot-sheet, a sick feeling in my stomach. I should have been quicker. But how much responsibility do I have? She’s calling a psychic hotline—what does she expect? This makes me feel no better. I should have been quicker.
Blue Hair is talking about where he wants to put his tongue, and I can’t get over the stomachache. Maybe Janet only called in a fit of pique, and I’ve overreacted by imagining she’s abused. Maybe I’ll go mad from listening to eight hours of phone sex. This is a twisted job. It’s like being a pretend therapist, for people who don’t have money or are afraid of therapy. It’s great when it’s entertainment—chatting about men and love—but this serious stuff scares me. I’m not sure I’m gonna make it.
My phone rings before I’m ready. It’s James again—my first repeat caller! He met the woman from his church for donuts this morning, and now he wants to know what their chances are.
“But first,” he says, “I want my horoscope.”
I feel abruptly better. “Now that I can do.”
Maya’s gift basket contains: A thermos full of Cosmopolitans (Kid helped); a beach rock in the shape of a heart, if you squint your eyes; two dozen gorgeous roses; a dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice that Maya lent me seven years ago; a lavishly hand-illustrated card, signed E.M. and a butter-ring from Anderson’s.
“And it cost nothing!” I tell Maya triumphantly.
“The roses? Sixty dollars at Honeysuckle.”
I grin. “Free, at the rose garden.” The city garden, across the street from the Mission.
“Elle—you stole these from the rose garden?”
“Six o’clock in the morning, in my bathrobe, with a pair of cuticle scissors. Now that is love, Maya.”
She laughs. “And the butter-ring? You broke into the bakery? Mrs. Anderson will not be happy.”
“I sold my BCBGs.”
“Your broken BCBGs?”
“I super-glued them.”
She laughs again, and Brad shoots me a look of such gratitude I feel quite like Mother Theresa, washing lepers’ feet. Only younger and taller, and with better skin.
“And the card?”
“Hand-drawn,” I say proudly.