by Mark Edward
I was fast becoming immersed in time-honored mediumistic talents such as reading tarot cards, palms, and runestones, and performing handwriting analysis. I was learning the oldest form of magic, originally spelled with a k: Magick. More and more often I was offering quick but dramatic psychic readings for attractive single women, instead of vanishing a coin and then producing it from some kid’s dirty little ear.
That weekend I was having a dram before performing my first of the two séances in the Houdini Séance Room. I was minding my own business when one of the Castle’s founding fathers and the builder of the Séance Room, Milt Larson, sat down next to me and offered to buy me another round. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when it involved one of the owners of the club, I took him up on his offer.
Milt had already imbibed quite a few drams himself that night and he chummed up to me in an unusual show of attention. Something was up.
He slid onto a barstool and started in with a friendly, “Hi, Mark. So you’re séancing tonight, eh?” This was his usual intro.
“Yep. I’ve got two tonight, actually,” I replied proudly. Each séance brought in about nine hundred dollars for the Castle.
“I need to ask you to do me a favor.” He stared straight ahead.
What could I do? This was an icon of one of Hollywood’s most famous private clubs. Taking a thoughtful sip from my drink, I ventured, “Sure, Milt. Anything. What’s up?”
“Well,” he said, “I’d like you to start wearing a turban.”
I was not sure I had heard him correctly. “A turban?”
He looked at me very closely as he said, “Yes. You know, a turban like mediums used to wear.”
I thought for a moment, wondering if he was having a joke at my expense, but his unwavering glare was dead serious. Hoping to make the best out of this situation, I asked, “You mean, like a stylish, modern sort of over-the-shoulder thing like Orson Welles wore in Cagliostro?”2
“No, I mean the big headdress style, like Johnny Carson wore when he was doing his Karnak thing with all the jewels and baubles dangling off of it.”
Early mentalist days, Hollywood, CA, 1975.
“I see. Well, I don’t know. Isn’t that a bit dated or comical for these days?” I was secretly trying to assuage my fears by convincing myself that Uncle Milty was just in his cups and not really serious. But he was serious.
“That’s the whole point, Mark. I mean, look at you. You just don’t look like a medium. Your hair is too short. The way you dress is off. We need you to look more like a real medium.”
This verged on insulting, even if the drinks were on the house. There had never been any question of my style or concern about any image problems during the previous fourteen years I had performed at the Castle, and I always prided myself on the fact that I was one of the best-dressed entertainers appearing in Milt’s magical playhouse. My hair and grooming were upscale. The shade or two darker that I had chosen to take manifested itself in a slightly more sinister persona, with more Goth-like dress as well as more attention paid to authentic antiquarian props than to magic-shop items. I wondered what in the world had come over Milt.
“Well, we want you to start wearing a turban from now on.” He was scanning my reaction through the bottom of his wineglass.
I couldn’t imagine the effect this would have on patrons of the club, not to mention my already shaky standing with the rest of my peer group of magicians since I had started doing psychic readings. In very short order, if I did what he was asking, I would be the laughingstock of the Castle.
I was incredulous. “Really. And who’s picking up the tab for this little item?”
“Oh, well . . . you can go out to any of the costume shops around town and pick one up for fairly cheap. Just make sure it has some sort of jewel or something on the front of it. Maybe a feather too.” As an afterthought, he added, “Maybe you don’t have to wear it outside of the Séance Room, but definitely while you’re in there. We’ll see how it goes.”
“Eh . . . yeah . . . hmm. I see. I’ll have to give it some thought, Milt.” I pushed myself away from the bar and away from a friendship that I had honored many times over with favors and concessions. This was it. I couldn’t play a parody act like a buffoon for what they were paying me, and he knew it. Plus, I couldn’t be put into such a ludicrous Hollywood stereotype and remain true to myself. I had spent way too much time developing a believable character to throw it all away on such silly joke-shop theatrics. I wanted people to believe that I might be real, and what Milt was asking of me would only detract from that goal.
It was time for me to leave the hallowed halls of the Academy of Magical Arts and venture forth to where I was free to expand upon what I had learned. I didn’t know then that one day I would return to the Magic Castle to perform more standardized mentalism, but my goal at that time had been to absorb all I could from magic and magicians and take those methods as far I could in the world of the “professional psychic.”
1 Marc Scott Zicree, The Twilight Zone Companion (New York: Bantam Books, 1982).
2 A 1949 film (more widely known by the title Black Magic) adapted from an Alexandre Dumas novel.
CHAPTER II
THE 900 YEARS
Lift up the receiver, I’ll make you a believer.
—Depeche Mode, “Personal Jesus” (1989)
In the early hours of a Saturday morning in December, somewhere in the outskirts of Longs Peak, Colorado, a harsh winter wind whipped through the treetops, knocking snow onto the hood of a battered pickup truck as it climbed a remote mountain road. Its lone pair of headlights traced a bleak line over the fields.
Arriving with a crunch of tires on gravel, the car’s door flew open and a weary Ginger Triggs stumbled out onto the slush-covered walkway in front of her tiny trailer. The whisky she had been swilling at the local roadhouse exerted its foggy power over her. I feel terrible, Ginger thought. When will I finally stop drinking?
Throwing back the screen door with a whack, she managed to get inside and switch on the single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Will I ever get out of this dump?
As she tossed her coat and purse on the mattress that filled one corner of her trailer, she glanced at her ring finger. Up until an hour ago it had held a gold wedding band. What? It’s gone! She slumped down sorrowfully into a 1960s-style beanbag chair and tried to clear her mind, mumbling, “Where did I put that damn ring?”
Another unpleasant thought surfaced: I wonder if that bum of an ex-husband of mine is going to come around again in the middle of the night to harass me. She decided she had better lock the door.
Ginger moved unsteadily toward the door to double-bolt it then glanced outside at the falling snow. She shivered. Tears welled up in her eyes. She wondered how she would pay for the electricity to keep her cheap little heater going the rest of the winter, and whether she would get that waitressing job.
Through a whisky-induced haze, she reached for a box of tissues then stopped to stare at several family photos propped on her dusty nightstand. Her thoughts tangled. Her heart ached as she pondered another big question: Will I ever get my four children back from Child Protective Services? Her present economic conditions prohibited any reconciliation or legal changes. She knew she needed to seriously get her act together.
Can I make it on my own? Will I ever meet the right man? Her feeling of hopelessness expanded just as the walls seemed to close in.
A few hours later, unable to sleep, she decided that a cup of hot chocolate might make her feel better, but the cramped kitchenette reminded her of how little food she had. She reflected on the unpaid bills piled on her tiny desk as she sipped her cocoa gratefully. She knew it was fattening, but it tasted so good and made her feel so much better. Will I ever get a handle on my weight problem?
Back in bed, after more tossing and turning, she rolled over and grabbed the TV’s remote control. As she channel-surfed, a lively-looking audience-participation show caught her atten
tion. Oh God, not one of those phony 900 psychic infomercials! What a joke!
She felt sorry for all the people who listened to this garbage. They had to be crazy or worse to throw away their hard-earned money on this hogwash. And what about the people who worked as so-called psychics? They must be the lowest scum on the earth. Ginger settled deeper into her pillows, thinking. These people are such suckers, but maybe I’ll watch for a few minutes until I doze off.
Soon, all the glossy testimonials started to scroll across the screen. One after another—fantastic tales of love, success, and money—were told by seemingly average people being interviewed off the street. Each story was spun into an individual strand, the collection of strands forming an attractive web of idealized hopes and dreams that had apparently all come true.
The people were happy and they gushed their feelings, showing in no uncertain terms that they were both convinced and relieved after having called the Psychic Friends Network. Ginger marveled at this extraordinary tease. Gee, they don’t look like actors. They seem pretty darn real to me. How could they fake that sort of thing?
Ginger was now wide awake, even though it was past three in the morning. Her swollen eyes moved sleepily to her telephone, sitting inches away on the floor. She still had that, at least, her lifeline to the outside world.
The cherubic 900 psychics on screen were offering a free, five-minute psychic reading. What have I got to lose? Her problems might at long last find answers, or she might get one solid psychic vision to guide her through New Year’s. That would be enough.
Ginger tossed the last remnants of her skepticism aside, reached for the phone, and dialed the numbers that were flashing across the screen. She was curious and excited, a bit apprehensive, but strangely hopeful.
Rinng! Rinnnnnnnnng! Riiiinnnnnnnnnnnngggg! Riiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnggg!
Oh. What? Yeah . . . uh . . . oh, yes. The phone was ringing.
I fumbled for the receiver. It was either late at night or very early in the morning. The Psychic Friends Network always ran their infomercials starting at around one a.m. and ending at sunrise. This was unfortunately the high-volume time, when most of the calls came through. Consequently, it was the time when most of the money was there for the taking. To encourage all-night workers, the Friends paid an extra few cents a minute for overnight shifts. I dreaded those shifts, but if you wanted to make any money, you had to do at least three or four of these awful sessions each week. The technology was pre-Internet phone scamming, with the industry’s boom years occurring between 1992 and 1995.
“Hello. Welcome to the Psychic Friends Network. This is extension 7408. My name is Mark. How can I help you?” My neck was stiff. I turned to my clipboard and wrote down the time. Wiping the sleep from my eyes while adjusting my body to an upright position, I prepared for the onslaught. Was this going to be another drug addict or an astronaut searching for a missing tie pin?
Welcome to the world of the 900 psychic. Not just people living in trailers and poor folks call 900 lines. I have talked to millionaires, supermodels, and lawyers too. Thousands of people reach out for a much-needed person to talk to. At least this job was more interesting than doing card tricks for children’s birthday parties. And I could work anytime I wanted, night or day. Though often it was more like night and day.
“Hello,” I repeated, wondering if I’d lost the call already. “This is Mark, extension 7408. How can I help you?”
Silence still reigned on the other end.
“Hello?”
Finally, I heard a tiny, almost nonexistent, far-off voice. “Hello. This is Ginger.”
“I’m sorry, but I can barely hear you. What was your name again?” I was almost certain the call would quickly end in a hang-up. I half wished it would.
“This is Ginger.”
There was another long silence. She was obviously a quiet, timid sort. Her reluctant response also meant the call probably wouldn’t be easy.
“Hello, Ginger. How can I help you?”
“Weeell . . . uh . . . I seen the commercial on the teelyvsioshunn.”
Oh, great. Another drunk badly slurring her speech. “I’m glad you called. Do you have any specific questions, or shall I just tell you what I’m picking up?”
“I’m kinda curious ta’ hear what y’all have ta’ say. And the TV said I get five free minutes, right?”
Ah, a “free reading.” Those free five minutes had a nasty little catch that the Friends conveniently left out of their pitch. The on-air psychic claimed that the caller would be given a free five-minute reading, and they would indeed be given their five minutes, but this included a lengthy taped introduction to the Network and a complicated “user-friendly” menu offering astrology, tarot, ghost hunting, and several other choices. “If you would like to talk to an astrologer, press three. If you would like to talk with a tarot reader, please press four,” and on and on. By the time an actual psychic was chosen out of the hundreds on shift that night, and the caller was connected, most of that five minutes had already counted down. And the caller was charged $3.99 a minute directly after that. Most of us on the receiving end of these calls had no idea about this whole scam until the legendary Miss Cleo (who claimed to be of Jamaican ancestry but was actually from Detroit) went down in a blaze of class-action lawsuits.
“Well, Ginger, the first thing I sense is restlessness. You are in a situation that makes you feel trapped and alone. You feel the walls closing in around you, particularly at night.”
“You got that right.” I could hear a snuffling sound deep in her throat that told me she’d likely been crying. It was a rough, raspy tone that I’d been trained to listen for.
My mind relaxed into its well-worn groove. This was going to be nothing more than a rote reading. I could coast through this call without getting too involved and give what had come to be known as a “standard cold reading.”
“I sense that you have relationship issues,” I began, “which sometimes leave you fearful of the outcome. There are many people around you who are takers, while in most cases you tend to be more of a giver. This has caused you much unhappiness. I’m not suggesting that you change that special part of your being. It’s a big part of your people-person ability. However, there is an opportunity to regroup and find something that has been lost in the last few months. People need you much more than you need them.”
A fumbling rustle, as if she’d almost dropped the phone, made me wonder how long I could manage to keep her on the line. That was followed by a sniffle, a small choked cough, and then finally, “Yeah, you nailed me there, mister.”
I pressed onward. “I see people around you who are waiting for you to take action and change your own future. They are going to appreciate you taking the bull by the horns and—”
Suddenly she blurted out, “That’s really weird ‘cause my ex is a Taurus—the bull, ya’ know. He’s stubborn and I really want to get him off my back and out of my life.”
A big clue had now been dropped. I could choose to focus on it endlessly or merely comment on it, depending on the next verbal fork in the road.
“Yes, and I also see that your dependence on this person has been over emotionally for a long time now. You are stronger than many people around you. And I see you doing something with this people side of your nature, if you can just get out there and smile. You have a beautiful smile that wins over many people without you having to say a word.”
I was pumping up her timid side, complimenting her however I could in order to ease her fear, gain her trust, and keep her focused. Flattery always gets you somewhere in the 900 world.
“Do you think I will get the restaurant job?” she asked.
I made a leap. “I actually see you doing something involving health care. Have you ever considered a career in nursing?”
“Wow, yes! But I had to quit all that when I got pregnant with my first kid.”
Clue number two had arrived right on time. She was one of the millions of people caught by marri
age too soon, and pregnancy had put all her original goals and plans on hold.
I was making connections almost unconsciously as I warmed to the task. “Well, I see you having several jobs before you discover which one is truly you, but it’s going to be involved in helping people feel better about themselves, because that’s the gift you have. You have been wasting your gifts on the wrong people. I see that you have psychic patterns that are hard to break. You need to get away from any addictive behaviors that push you deeper down inside yourself. Addictive people too. They are draining you.”
“Yeah. Jeez, you can see all that?”
“Yes, I can, Ginger. That’s the job I do. It’s perfectly okay for you to move forward now. You are more powerful than you give yourself credit for. You brought children into the world. Do you think just anyone can do that? That’s amazing! There is a very bright future for you. Love yourself and the people around you who are interested in your well-being will stand by you while the losers and users will fall away. That’s how it works.”
Hope is what I sell, folks. And it must be delivered without hesitation and with utter confidence.
“Don’t misunderstand me here,” I continued. “You are not being arrogant or selfish. It’s called balance. You are just getting your balance back. You were meant for better things. I sense that something that has been lost will soon be found again.”
“Ya’ mean my weddun’ ring?”
I stopped for a beat, thinking on my feet, and corrected my course. It was time to be “psychic” now. “I do see a ring or some piece of jewelry in a hidden corner of some brickwork, perhaps behind a mantel or under a stovepipe. It’s near an area where there is some heat around it all of the time. Look in those areas.”
“Wow. That is interesting. There’s a fireplace over at my girlfriend’s house. I’ll check that out tomorrow.” She sounded happier. The slurring of her words had stopped. She was now attentive and recharged. My work was nearly done.