Psychic Blues

by Mark Edward

  Joseph went on for quite some time, telling me his nerves were frayed and he was in danger of losing it. I again insisted that he send me something for me to look at.

  He grew quiet for a few seconds, then: “Well, that’s the part of the problem. At one point I had those damn things piled up all over my basement. Last weekend I decided to scoop them all up and put them in one place, so I put what I could find into my desk drawer. I swear they were all there in the drawer on Friday night, but when I went to see if they were still there on Saturday morning, they were all gone.”

  “All gone?”

  “Yes. There was not a one of ’em left anywhere.”

  “You mean you stopped seeing them, I mean . . . eh . . . they stopped appearing around you?”

  “Yes, that’s right! And now I want you to tell me what they were, why they stopped coming around, and where they went?”

  I tried to think fast. “They obviously went back to wherever they came from, Joseph.” I wouldn’t be able to gamble on being too glib with this caller. I continued, remembering my séance work and what I’d learned. “These scissors were likely what mediums call an apport, or an object that manifests itself out of the ether. Spiritualists explain an apport as a process involving dematerialization and subsequent reintegration of especially important objects. You are a tailor, so I suppose they were some sort of tailor’s message. Perhaps you are an unsuspecting medium yourself. This may only be the beginning.”

  I’m not a psychologist and, despite having an overwhelming interest in the supernatural in all its weirdness, I’ve never had any training in dealing with paranoid schizophrenics or any case of such a compelling nature. It would have been pointless to tell Joseph that he likely had a mental illness or that he had imagined all of it. Plus, I wasn’t completely convinced that what had happened to him wasn’t real. To him, there was no doubt. To me, I wasn’t sure of anything, possibly because I had now been on the telephone for almost ten solid hours.

  “Usually when these things happen,” I went on, “there’s a good reason for it to happen or an embedded message surrounding each event. Each time you found one of these pairs of scissors, they may have been pointing you in some direction or acting as a signpost. These signs and portents usually work themselves out in some predetermined way over time. It’s hard to tell without noting a pattern to those events. It’s like stringing beads. Finding one or two beads on the floor doesn’t mean much initially, but when you gather up all the beads, you end up with a necklace. Or perhaps it was poltergeist activity. But since it has stopped, I wouldn’t lose any more sleep over it.”

  “But what if they come back?”

  “Then I want you to take notes and send me some of them so I can test them, look them over, and come to a satisfactory conclusion about them.”

  Suddenly, Joseph yelled into the phone, “BUT WHAT WERE THEY?”

  I tried to remain calm and sympathetic. “Other than what I have already told you, I feel it’s too soon to tell exactly what was happening.”

  “But you are the psychic. You are supposed to know what these things are about and help me here!”

  “I sympathize with how you feel, Joseph, but until I have more information from you, such as a repeat of this phenomenon at a certain time or in conjunction with some other event that gives me a clue, I can only surmise that it was just a message to keep your wits about you, stay vigilant, and be on the lookout for other situations that may arise where you can put your own intuitive skills to work. Possibly you will be called upon to solve a crime or deal with an emergency that involves the use of scissors. Call me back when it happens again and take notes about where, when, and what the exact circumstances were. Then I may be able to help you.”

  “You’ve told me nothing. Good-bye.”

  Joseph and his scissors disappeared from my life and I never heard from him again. Ah, well. Another day, another dollar. I set the phone receiver down and glanced at my desktop. For a brief moment, I thought I caught the gleam of a tiny pair of scissors.

  RRRRRRiiiiiiinnnnnggggggggggggg!

  “Hi, this is April, and before you try to sell me any of your psychic crap, I want to ask you if you realize that you are going against God’s holy word in the Bible and doing the devil’s work?”

  Fortunately, I was well prepared for all the Aprils in the world. It was her dime, so I whipped out a printed sheet I kept tucked away in my paperwork and spun my web.

  “Oh, really? April, have you ever read Thessalonians, verses nineteen through twenty?”

  April was silent. Then she answered in a thick Southern accent, “Uh, I’m not sure. I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Then listen carefully and bless you for calling. ‘Quench not the spirit. Despise not prophesying. Prove all things. Hold fast that which is good.’ Or how about Corinthians fourteen, verse three: ‘But he that prophesieth speaketh unto men of edification, and exhortation, and comfort.’ My personal favorite Bible thought is one that I live by, and I hope that you will too after I finish repeating it to you. Listen carefully. It’s from Acts, verse five: ‘And now I say unto you, refrain from those men and let them alone. For if it is counsel or this be the work of men, it will come to naught. But if it be of God, ye cannot overthrow it, lest it happily be found even to fight against God.’ Does that sound like the devil’s work, April?”

  There was stunned silence then April resignedly gave in. “Well, you twisted it all around, but you sound like a Bible-fearing man, so I’ll let you go. Bye.”

  “Amen, April.”

  Can only the pious among us use the word of God? Or is it rather for all of us to interpret when and how we see fit?

  I wondered how many other nut cases I would have to do battle with before this particular shift was through? Would there be one reasonable human being among the paperwork and memories I would spend hours tossing and turning in furtive sleep over?

  I looked down at the telephone as if it were some monstrous gaping maw of phantasms. Any second, it would ring again. I was beginning to get delirious. Could I will the phone to ring by just staring at it? I thought I would try. I stared at it for three seconds then nearly jumped out of my chair when,

  RRRRRRiiiiiiinnnnnggggggggggg! Riiiiiiiinnnnnnggg! Riiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnngggggg!

  “Psychic Friends. This is Mark,” I blurted out. “What’s up?”

  “Yeah, Mark. This is Jake from Virginia. I kinda got caught with my hand in the cookie jar, if you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t, Jake. It’s been a long night. What cookie jar?”

  “Well, I’m in the middle of a court case ‘cause I took some pictures with some young girls I swear were eighteen.”

  “Jake, court issues are always hard, and I try to stay away from any legal questions, but I do see the mood of the judge changing for some reason. Was this your first offense?”

  “Yes, sir. It was, sir.” Jake sounded guilty but at least somewhat penitent.

  I decided he could use some peace of mind. “I see that there will be a decision in your favor, based on your lawyer’s ability to convince the judge for leniency. I see your lawyer using some sort of defense based on art or art history.”

  Jake replied solemnly, “We sure weren’t makin’ art.”

  “I can only tell you what my psychic intuition tells me. Talk to your lawyer and pray for the best.”

  Click. Jake was gone.

  Less than an hour to go on this shift. Then the mortgage would get paid and my dog would get his usual morning walk. Jim came into the room, knowing the routine. It would soon be time for us both to get out of the house and into the green world of garden paths and a nearby golf course. Jim’s tail wagged in a slow rhythm that told me he knew there was more time to wait. He plopped down on the carpet and watched me, knowing all.

  RRRRRRiiiiiiinnnnnggggggggggggg! Riiinnnnnnnnnngg!

  I snapped up the phone, spat out my intro, and waited for the caller to speak.

  “Hello, this is La
rry calling from Dallas. Are you guys real, like in the commercials?”

  “Yes, Larry. I’m as real as you’re going to find. What can I help you with?”

  Larry lashed out with, “You are all a bunch of phonies, aren’t you?”

  Nice. A skeptic was all I needed to complete my long day. I would have been surprised if at least one of these challenging mind-gamers hadn’t come through today. Sometimes, I actually enjoy sparring with an intelligent skeptic.

  Okay. Let’s get it over with. “Larry, what’s your question? We’ll see how I do.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to know? Ha! Tell me what color socks I’m wearing right now.”

  “This is a waste of both of our time. There are so many more important questions out there, but since you insist, I see white. How’s that, Larry?”

  I expected a quick hang-up, but Larry instead acceded to my comment. “Yeah, . . . well, you got that right. So?”

  It was now clear I was dealing with a real idiot and not a more scholarly skeptic. “Anything else, Larry?” I asked, triumphantly.

  “Can you tell me about how my mother is?”

  Hmm. This could be a trick question, but I’m game.

  “She doesn’t say much, and it seems like she has a very hard time communicating with you, for some reason. You haven’t seen her in a while is what I’m picking up.”

  Larry shot back with a terse, “You’re full of crap, buddy. My mom died ten years ago!” He hung up with a bang.

  This was fine. He’d be charged for his folly and I would still get my part of it. If Larry had been more of a thinking person, he might have actually realized that I had been exceptionally accurate with my reading about his mother. Even on the best days in my psychic world, dead people certainly have a hard time communicating.

  Yawn. My glazed eyes were now glued to the ticking clock. Despite all the caffeine I had imbibed, I was sleepy and ready to sign off. I had just ten more minutes to fulfill my night’s commitment to the Psychic Friends Network. The phone rang like some tortured animal crying to be set free—which must be me.

  I smiled and cheerfully remembered the Network’s smile-and-dial philosophy: No matter how low or drained you might feel, if you actually smile when you pick up the phone, that energy and voice inflection will transfer to the caller and you will start off on the right foot. I think I remembered this from a Dale Carnegie course on telemarketing salesmanship, which I had originally heard about while working in the funeral business. It was a good technique, but at that point in the shift, it felt more like just another set of age lines on my exhausted face.

  RRRRRRiiiiiiinnnnnggggggggggggg!

  Randy, calling from North Carolina, needed to know when his wife would be coming back home. She had left when he had cut his wrists in front of her because he couldn’t stand her treatment of him any longer.

  I told him that I saw her far away from him in another state and that she may come back, but she would not get the right vibrations from him unless he completed his court-mandated psychiatric treatments. Sad stories like this one are particularly draining.

  Riiiiiinnnnnnnngggggggggg! Riiinnnnnngggggggg!

  “Hello. Welcome to the Psychic Friends Network. My name is Mark and my extension is 7408.”

  I was being careful now. It was at about this time in a shift that my so-called Friends at the switchboard usually called to spy for the Suits and Ties, checking to make sure that I was saying all the right things. One false move or negative comment could’ve meant suspension or dismissal. They always waited until the last possible moment in my shifts to call, but I was a dedicated employee who had just brought around two thousand dollars into their corrupt coffers.

  My introduction was greeted with silence. Maybe this had already been a hang-up and I was free! But I heard breathing. I tried again. “Hello. This is Mark. Who is this, please?”

  No answer. Just silence. Then slowly, “This is Jane.”

  “Hello, Jane. This is Mark. How can I help you?”

  “Oh, I dunno. I just seen the TV show and decided to call.”

  “Do you have any specific areas or questions we could focus on together, Jane?”

  “No.”

  Jim was now up on all fours and anxious, ready for his walk. He was looking at me with a cocked head, as if to say, “What’s the deal, Dad?”

  I considered hanging up and bounding out the door with him, but no. Instead, I offered up something glowing: “I see many new exciting things going on with you that have to do with making some much needed decisions in your life, things that you may have been putting off.”

  Silence.

  “Jane, is there some really important decision coming up for you soon?” I was at the point when I had to ask a question just to keep myself awake or keep the call from dumping. My psychic spark was quickly dimming.

  “Nope,” she droned.

  It became a personal challenge to get Jane to work with me. I would not be ignored. And I was going to get a response, or she would have to do the hanging up. I wouldn’t back down. “What do you do for fun, Jane?”

  “Uh, nothing really.”

  “Well, I do see something that has to do with art or music in the next month that will be very powerful for you.” I was reaching now, but why not? Maybe I could hit some gold, if I kept hammering away.

  More silence. I was fighting the urge to sleep. My eyes were starting to close.

  “Jane, have you thought about finding some new people and getting involved with something creative? That’s what I see for you.”

  “Uh, not really.”

  “Watch for input from some powerful sort of teacher or class of some kind. It could be emanating from some higher spiritual source.”

  “Uh-huh. Hmm. OK. Huh?”

  In utter desperation, I begged. “Can I answer anything in particular, Jane?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “I’m sorry, Jane, was that a yes uh-huh or a no uh-uh?”

  Silence again, and then, “Mmm, huh? Oh, huh-uh . . .”

  I was spent. “Well, Jane. I hope I have helped you a little bit today.”

  “Huh? Oh. Mmm, uh-huh.” Jane hung up.

  I used to call these people slugs. They gave me absolutely nothing to work with. I could only try to get these callers interested in some abstract way, but they were the bane of every phone psychic. They have nothing to say and are basically bored people with little or no motivation or intelligence. The only upside was that it developed my improvisation skills and taught me how to think on my feet.

  Still, I never knew whether or not I had been talking with a company monitor, who would generally say as little as possible and wait for me to spring into action like a trained parrot. In one sense, callers to 900 lines were wise to remain silent, say little, and listen. That’s how you can get your money’s worth. Shrewd callers knew better than to give any clues or answer any questions that would make it easier for me to put together a reading.

  I was ready for a long walk, a strong drink, or both. I signed off the line, totaled my minutes, and laced up my hiking boots. I was at last free, until I wanted to work again, which would turn out to be later that night, if I had the strength and nothing better to do.

  Jim and I stepped out onto the front porch and greeted a brilliantly sunny January day, clear and quiet at that early hour, but my head was still ringing from all the chatter, just as it always was. My ear was pinned into an aching, semi-plastered position against the side of my head from the constant pressure of the telephone receiver.

  As if it were coming from my addled mind, the phone rang again inside the house, just as I was locking the front door. It had to be one of my Psychic Friends, probably a supervisor with one complaint or another. I apologized to my faithful, crestfallen hound and beckoned him back across the threshold.

  RRRRRRiiiiiiinnnnnggggggggggggg! Riiiinnnnngggg!

  I offered a weak hello.

  “Is this Mark Edward?”

  “Speaking.”
r />   “This is Valerie from the Psychic Friends Network.”

  “Yes, Valerie, what’s up?” I was little nervous now. Valerie never called unless some breach of Network policy had occurred or she had to lay some new restriction or procedure on me. Valerie was the point person and chief axe-wielder for the Friends at their corporate headquarters, and the only half-human connection between the magic and the money.

  “I need to tell you something very important.” She didn’t sound angry or impatient, but I held my breath. “Do you remember a girl named Ginger Triggs who called you last month around the twentieth?”

  I thought back. There were so many calls by the end of any given day, let alone by the end of a whole month, that they invariably blended together.

  “She called you at three thirty-five in the morning on the twentieth of December. Do you remember her now?”

  “Honestly, Valerie, she’s not ringing any bells. I’m a medium, not a memory expert, you know.” My fatigue was surfacing. “What’s this all about?”

  “Well, we received a letter here today at the Network office from her, and she had quite a story to tell us about you.”

  What the devil had I said or not said to Ginger? I waited to hear the worst. It had been a fun job—mostly—while it had lasted. Though now I wouldn’t have to stress over the worries of a nation full of ultimate truth-seekers.

  I mentally began a new job search as Valerie continued, “When Ginger first called you, she had a loaded gun to her head and was ready to pull the trigger. Once she heard your voice and you talked with her for a few minutes, she decided not to commit suicide and has since turned her whole life around for the better, thanks to you. She says she is now in a recovery program for her alcohol problems, has left her abusive husband, and has gone back to school to become a nurse.”

  I was stunned speechless.

  “She says she would have never done this if it hadn’t been for you and the vision you saw in the future for her. We wanted to let you know that we at the Psychic Friends Network now consider you one of our Master Psychics. My boss Dave wants to send the letter to you for your files. Congratulations, Mark.”