by Mark Edward
This call became a terrifyingly vivid paranoid adventure. Or was it? Hey, whatever. I’d buy into that too. I was here to help.
I let myself get into the spirit of the thing, asking conspiratorially, “I know what you are talking about, Hillman. I have taken other calls from your colleagues and never heard from them again. Can you be more specific? And please, Hillman, hurry!”
I was beginning to imagine an H.G. Wells-ian Island of Dr. Moreau or an X-Files compound somewhere outside New York. I’d heard vague rumors of this in the news media, but wait—then it wouldn’t be above top secret, would it?
Hillman went into his tirade like a man possessed. “Gulf War syndrome is pervasive here. It’s out of control and the secret alien technology we are reverse engineering is dangerous to the entire planet. Cloning is being implemented on Level 16, and the genetic mutations I have seen are only getting closer to escaping. If they do, there will be no stopping them. They will destroy all life on the planet. There are devastating nerve gases stored here, and my telepathy is so closely watched I’m afraid someone will record my thoughts and use them to cause something horrible to happen. What can I do to keep sane? My visions of doomsday will happen. I’m convinced that our world will end by the end of this week. What can you tell me?”
What more could I say? “Hillman, I see you seeking the care of a certified psychologist in two weeks.”
The line went dead. I sat back in my chair and wondered about the significance or insignificance of what I had just heard. Wow.
According to the television infomercials, I was supposed to be an absolute expert on everything paranormal. Many times these bizarre monologues that were channeled to me telephonically were, frankly, way beyond my ability to comprehend or deal with.
It was wrong to encourage more paranoia and string people like Hillman along, but it was still entertaining to listen to. The JFK assassination, the Roswell UFO sightings, or the Face on Mars—familiar conspiracy theories were routinely run by me. Other not-so-common UFO yarns, ghost stories, and monster fantasies often gave me pause. What if Hillman had indeed uncovered or unleashed something sinister? Not likely. The mere fact that he was insisting he was in an above-top-secret facility and calling a 900 line was a comical tableau. Why would someone like Hillman choose to spend considerable money telling me these tales? Maybe he had a global government expense account down there on Level 16.
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“Psychic Friends Network. This is Mark, extension 7408. How may I help you?”
“This is Nancy calling in from New Jersey.” Her husky voice sounded dangerous. “Yeah, like, I want to ask about my boyfriend, Muscles.”
“Can you be a little more specific? The more specific your question is, the more specific my psychic vision will be.” I held my breath. What would be next on this morning’s breakfast menu?
“Yeah, right. OK, then. So, when do ya’ see him gettin’ outta da slammer?”
I took a silent sip from my coffee and cleared my throat. “Well, Nancy, I try to stay away from any legal questions.” Some of the other psychics I knew were willing to go out on a limb to diagnose medical conditions or counsel legal issues to keep people on the line, but it wasn’t for me. I could get my ass sued if I went down that road. “So many people may be involved—like lawyers, judges, jurors, and victims—it’s hard to focus clearly. I might be able to get an impression if you can give me an idea of what happened with him or something to focus on. Was this his first offense?”
“Well, all I can tell you is that he didn’t mean for the knife to go in so deep.” Nancy went on to insist that Muscles had stabbed his mother in the back in self-defense.
“My impression is that he will be back with you no sooner than twenty years from today.”
She seemed happy with that and hung up.
Yikes. My job was to give hope. Sometimes that was a nearly impossible task.
Dawn was peeking through the curtains of my library window in a nice pink-and-orange glow. I needed another, much hotter cup of java than the cold dregs in my current cup in order to make it through the remainder of this shift, but I was so comfortable, I couldn’t get up from my chair. Instead, I slid off into a dreamy sleep.
In my dream, I was on a green hillside walking my border collie, Jim. He was talking to me about going to the beach that day. The fact that he was talking went completely unquestioned, as these things go in dreams. We were happy and warm and making our way slowly toward the beckoning waves. Suddenly, Jim was looking up at me with his ears pricked up and . . .
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I sat bolt upright and lunged for the phone, knocking my cold coffee onto all my paperwork. “Hello and welcome to the Psychic Friends Network. This is extension 7408. My name is Mark, extension 7408.” I tried to remain cool and collected verbally as I juggled the receiver, wet paperwork, and a soaked blanket.
Laverne was calling from Georgia. She squeaked out a high-pitched “Hi, this is Laverne” in a voice that sounded like she couldn’t have been any older than ten or eleven.
I tried to avoid the puddles of coffee around me. “Yes, Laverne. You are over eighteen, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes. I’m twenty-five.”
I had to make damn sure of that little detail or I could get my ass sued.
I kicked the wet blanket off my legs and readjusted myself in my chair. Of course the callers never knew what was going on while I talked to them. I could be naked, cleaning the toilet, or taking out the garbage while divining magical lotto numbers, finding lost pets, and giving romantic advice. It added a level of surrealistic hilarity to this job.
I pushed aside the mess I had made and prepared to hold this call for as long as possible.
I had to hold callers for a minimum amount of minutes or my call average would dip too low, and I would lose my treasured place in line among the Psychic Friends cross-country network of psychics. Many of the “pros” in this business averaged thirty- to forty-minute calls. At $3.99 a minute, that’s close to $120.00 for the Suits and Ties at the main office. My personal record was 160 minutes. That had topped out at $638.00. I still wonder whether my Psychic Friends were able to collect on that call. On top of holding on to a call, I was expected to somehow sense whether or not the caller was a high roller and quickly dump any losers. This is probably the closest thing to any real psychic ability engendered in this whole operation.
“What is going to happen to my husband and I?” Laverne chirped, bringing me back into get-serious focus.
This was a common question. “I’m getting a feeling of distance, but I’m not sure whether it is an emotional distance or an actual physical distance.”
See how I gave myself a wide berth? Either way, I could be perceived as right and fly with it.
“Well, I dunno,” she said. “We live in Macon, and I’m calling from the county courthouse. We are on a break right now, and I need to know what’s going to happen.”
I reminded her that I’m not the kind of psychic who tackles legal or medical questions, but I asked her what had happened.
“He bit me.”
“He what?” I asked, just to make sure I had heard right.
“He bit me, and now they are saying that it is a domestic-violence thing.”
Trying to sound concerned, helpful, and also keep the call rolling along, I asked her, “Did he bite you hard?”
“Well, sorta,” she hesitantly admitted.
“Did you report him?”
“Nah, my doctor did. I was kinda afraid to say anything, if you know what I mean.”
“Aren’t you upset that he bit you so hard that you had to see a doctor?”
“No, I smacked him first. And it was just a little argument. That’s all.”
“Hmm, I see. Just a little argument with a big bite?” But my attempt at humor was lost on her.
“Yeah, I guess so. But I did hit him.” Sh
e sighed.
This reading was going nowhere fast. I had to get the whole thing up to a higher metaphysical level soon or I would lose the call. “Okay, has he ever been arrested for battery or domestic violence before?”
“Hey, you’re the fucking psychic. You tell me.” Now I wanted to dump the call. I hate hearing that well-worn line. Plus my Psychic Friends weren’t paying me enough to listen to verbal abuse. Yet, I decided to do a bit more for this confused stranger. If I could just sound a bit more psychic, maybe I could actually help her. Besides, I had admittedly been getting lazy by asking too many questions.
“I see you taking the stand and telling the truth,” I said. “The law will decide in your favor. You are both in this situation for a very important psychic reason. The universe is telling both of you that people aren’t supposed to smack or bite each other.”
I could tell she was thinking now.
“Tell your story,” I continued. “I see that deep down you really don’t want to smack your husband or have him bite you hard enough to need a doctor, do you?”
“Nah, you’re right.”
She had settled down, so I finished with, “My spirit guide tells me that whatever happens is for the best, and if you tell the truth, everything will turn out much better than you anticipate.”
“Oh, okay. That’s good then. Listen, I gotta go now. God bless you, Mark.”
Laverne clicked off. I had done all I could do to save another marriage. This sort of call was repeated on an almost hourly basis.
If you are considering dabbling in the 900 business yourself, don’t kid yourself. No matter how glamorous or romantic the Hollywood version of a well-off psychic may look, like any other service job, it’s hard work. I’ve paced the small rectangle of carpet in my little room for many long hours while on these calls. During the height of the 900 craze, I would sometimes work nine to twelve hours a day, though I learned from necessity to break that into several three-hour shifts. Otherwise, I’m sure I would have gone loony, perhaps muttering incoherently like most of my callers.
Long walks in the hills with my dog probably saved me from taking myself too seriously or believing I was some sort of super-psychic. Some of my contemporaries were not so lucky. Once you received a few testimonials in the mail from people blessing you for your saintly gifts, it was tough not to believe what they were telling you.
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Susie was breathing hard into her phone. “Will my boyfriend come back to me?”
“I need to know why he left.”
“I thought you were the psychic. You tell me.”
“I don’t waste time telling you what you already know. My job is to tell you what I see and what you need to know for your future. Do you understand?”
“Well, okay then. He was very angry at me because I spent fifty dollars on acrylic nails, so he broke them all off and left.”
“He broke them off your fingers?”
“Yes. Now, will he come back or not?”
“Why would you want him back? I see he doesn’t treat you the way you deserve to be treated. You need to have the freedom to take care of your own body the way you want to.”
“But will he come back?”
“Yes, he will come back. But I see a new man coming into your life at the end of next month. This man will be a very kind and gentle soul and have something to do with beauty products.”
“I don’t want no other man. Good-bye.”
I leapt from my chair, clipped another fresh Psychic Friends fact sheet onto my clipboard, and tossed aside the soggy pile of paperwork I had spilled coffee all over. It would have to be rewritten later. I made a mercy dash for the kitchen. The coffeepot was still half full, not half empty.
I could hear the phone ringing in the other room. I considered for a moment letting this one go. I was supposed to answer each call before the third ring.
I rushed back just in time to catch it.
“Hey, man, this is Rex, calling from Fort Lauderdale, Florida.”
“Yes, Rex. How can I help you today?”
“Do you think my marriage is gonna be a happy one? I mean, I wanna be a cop and she don’t think that’s a good idea for me.”
How could I make both him and his wife happy yet stay out of trouble if either of these two lovebirds ever called back in the future?
“Rex, I do see some danger in law enforcement. And I see that your fiancée is a person who is concerned with your overall well-being. This danger element may not be right for you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, pal. I like the danger!”
“Ah, well. I can be wrong once in a while.”
“I got this chick on a string and she keeps coming back for more, and that’s the way I like it.”
“She keeps coming back?”
“Well, yeah. I popped her a few times.”
The more I talked with Rex, the less I liked him. The thought of him as a member of a police force was a frightening prospect. But I was going to have to bend a little in my convictions to keep Rex on the line and provide a satisfactory conclusion to the reading. With an ego as huge as his, it would be futile to take his girlfriend’s side, even if I agreed with her, which I did. I would have to appeal to his macho attitude.
This was a classic moment. My conscience was telling me to let this call go, but my wallet was telling me to resort to cheap appeasement tactics in order to make another dollar. Moments like this, when considered in hindsight, tormented me. How could I determine anything about this woman or possibly cause a breakup that might bring unhappiness to who knew how many innocent people?
I opted to disengage and dug into my imagination. Instead of telling Rex what he needed to know, I caved and told him what he wanted to know.
“Unfortunately, I don’t see this relationship working out. Your girlfriend is holding you back from fulfilling your future potential, and if you can’t totally be yourself, it’s not a positive situation. I see the name Nancy and a big move for you by the end of the year.”
“Hey, that’s weeeeeeird, man. Nancy is my mother’s name! That’s pretty good! Thanks for the reading.”
I had scored one of those unintentional hits that sometimes happen. It could have been Rose or Tracy just as easily. If Rex had said he didn’t recognize the name Nancy, I would have told him to watch for that name in his near future.
“Call back anytime, Rex. I’m here to help.” The line clicked and I wondered for a brief moment if his mother Nancy was the same Nancy I had spoken with a few hours ago. Stranger things had happened.
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Robert, a biker, went on and on about his travels on his Harley and how he wished his life would change. Then suddenly he stopped and moaned, “Will I ever be one with my bike? I want to know if I will ever . . . you know . . . reach that feeling with my bike.”
I didn’t miss a beat. “I see that you will find a special seat. A seat that is fit to your build. This seat will be made especially for your bike and at that moment you will find the right partner to ride with and be one with your bike as well.”
“God bless you, Mark.”
“Thanks, Robert.”
Six in the morning—it was almost the end of this shift. Two more hours and I might be able to get a few hours of sleep.
Almost as soon as I put the phone back in its cradle, it rang again.
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At least my paycheck would be fat that week. After my Psychic Friends took out their huge cut, I netted about sixty cents per minute. I checked today’s fact sheet. I had racked up 238 minutes on this shift so far. Not bad for a day’s work . . . or was it a night’s work?
Joseph was a tailor, calling from New York City. After we talked through some of the usual psychic this-and-that, he interrupted me in mid-generality.
“Okay, now that I know you are on the level with me, you can stop with all the psyc
hic-reading crap and tell me what to do about my main problem.”
“Sure, Joseph. What’s on your mind?”
“The scissors.”
“The scissors?”
“For the past six months I have been experiencing something I can’t understand. Everywhere I look, I have been finding these tiny pairs of scissors. They are not really scissors like cutting shears or even manicure scissors. No, they are tiny, like something you would see on a charm bracelet or as a game piece or something. You know, like those little candlesticks or lead pipes you get in a Clue game?”
“Hmm. And where are you finding them, Joseph?”
“Everywhere. They are always underneath things like newspapers, books, or piles of things, or I find them in my pockets and my shoes, under my pillow, just everywhere. I found one pair on my seat in the subway last week. I have even found them in my food.”
“Are these working scissors?” I asked casually. I had plenty of time and this call sounded like . . . well, one for the books. (This book!)
“Yep, they’re tiny but they open and close and everything, just like a real pair of scissors. They are everywhere. Am I going mad or what?”
“Could someone be playing a practical joke on you, Joseph?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve lived alone for the past eight years and there’s nobody around to play those sorts of tricks on me.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure what it all means, but is there a way you could maybe gather up a few of them in an envelope and send them to me, care of the Psychic Friends Network? I could examine them more closely and perhaps give you a better insight.”
This was a spooky call and contained the kind of extraordinary conversation I had grown to enjoy over the years. Tales of weird interactions with everyday objects that do weird things were sometimes very entertaining, even if they turned out to be hallucinations, and the thought that someone would choose to pay $3.99 a minute to share this quandary with a total stranger was an odd comment on what passes for psychic or paranormal. Calls like this turned the monotony and boredom of a drab night into a visit to The Twilight Zone. Joseph sounded totally sane and competent, though. He then told me he had talked to another psychic who had said he might be suffering from some sort of tailor’s mental breakdown. I was surprised the other psychic’s approach hadn’t been more creative.