Psychic Blues

by Mark Edward

  Danielle flashed a wad of cash in my face and I demurely waved it away. “We will get to that later.” I smiled, trying to seem slightly indignant.

  I gave her my usual two-minute spiel about the cards and we dove into a three-card tarot reading. When the Lovers card came up in the future position, I was well on my way. The cards could have gone in many directions, but it was all about love, as it inevitably is so often.

  “I see trouble in love,” I said gravely. If you are paying for a private reading with a total stranger, why wouldn’t there be some kind of trouble in love?

  “You’re right. That’s amazing! My boyfriend, Carl, is very untrustworthy. He lives on a boat in the harbor, and he’s never around when I need him.” She looked wistful and heartbroken.

  Danielle’s card for the present position was the Wheel of Fortune. “There seem to be connections to money as well. Someone is taking some risks.” Love and money are like that, aren’t they? Danielle was involved with a risky person.

  Her past card was the Moon, representing the powers of nature that we cannot control. When it is in the past position, it can mean the sitter has had to learn hard lessons about patience and what they can and cannot control.

  Danielle agreed with my reading about her having little or no control over her situation, that meaning Carl. “Yes, he doesn’t have a job and is always borrowing money from me. He never pays it back.”

  I felt like I had enough to tell her everything she needed to hear. “I see you have a passionate and loving side, and it is very difficult for you to control your gift of giving to others. This is both a good thing and a bad thing. You have a hard time saying no at times when you should, and Carl knows this. He likes you the way you are. But change is indicated by the Wheel of Fortune.”

  “You’re hitting it on the head, Mark. Carl just takes and takes, and then I don’t see him for weeks at a time. He just sails away. When he comes back, he’s all lovey-dovey with me and seems to have plenty of cash around on his boat. Then he spends it all on booze and I don’t know what.”

  I thought I had a pretty good idea where the money was coming from and where it was going.

  “Were you ever in the nursing profession?”

  “Yes! How on Earth did you know that?”

  This was a simple and not especially lucky guess. Givers who cannot control their giving side are very often in the medical field. They are healers and nurturers. Parasites frequently latch onto them.

  “When we are givers, it tends to attract takers. You may be putting yourself in danger. Where does your friend Carl go when he sails away, if I may ask?”

  I was sure by now that Danielle was in my pocket and would answer me about almost anything I might ask.

  “He won’t tell me most of the time, but I know he goes down to Mexico two or three times a month.”

  Let’s put the pieces together, without recourse to any particularly psychic information, shall we? We will call Carl a “suspect” at this point, because that’s what he probably was:

  SUSPECT BORROWS EXTRA CASH FROM A LONELY SINGLE WOMAN.

  SUSPECT LEAVES TOWN FOR MEXICO.

  SUSPECT RETURNS TO STATESIDE HARBOR WITH LOTS OF CASH.

  SUSPECT ENJOYS BOOZE, THE COMPANIONSHIP OF A WOMAN (OR WOMEN),

  AND SOON RUNS OUT OF MONEY, REPEATING STEPS 1, 2, AND 3.

  Does it take a degree in psychology or criminology to find the pattern here? I still find it hard to believe that people cannot connect these dots themselves.

  Probably, in most cases, the truth is that most people already know what they should be doing differently but are in denial (or love) and want a clairvoyant, a “crazy psychic,” that they can blame if their future turns out badly. And if that future goes well, they return to tell us how right we were. Either way, those who are in love with a persuasive con artist or master criminal don’t stand much of a chance, unless they listen to what they may truly not want to hear.

  “I see you breaking away from this person and finding a new love in the next six months,” I insisted as strongly as possible. I wanted to get this woman as far away from Carl as I could.

  “But I love him.”

  “Love is blind. You have asked me what I see, and I see danger and more trouble with this person, unless you break away.”

  “But you saw love in the future!” She was begging me to adjust the reading to her expectations now. I knew this affair could only end badly, and I stuck to my guns. Telling her what she wanted to hear would cause more trouble—for both of us.

  “I know what I said about love, but it’s not going to be with Carl. He is draining your love.”

  She turned away from me and looked at a spot on the floor. Near tears, she stuttered, “You’re right. I will do what you say and stop punishing myself.”

  “Good. There’s a much better relationship with an honorable man in your future, but you have to be strong enough to get away from Carl.”

  “I’ll try.” She sobbed. She knew I was right, but I could tell she had not been expecting the cold, hard truth.

  “The cards say you will not try, you will do this. My job is not a guessing game; it’s a knowing of what will be.” I was driving home a hard bargain, but I knew we would both be happier if I kept hammering at her exactly what the cards had said. It was that simple.

  I gathered up my cards and sat back. Our half-hour was over. Danielle reached into her bag and peeled off thirty well-worn bucks from a fat roll and handed them to me. I wondered which notorious drug kingpin’s hand this cash had passed through.

  So why was Danielle the Woman Who Never Listened? Because, though we parted with a glow of new friendship that day, this same reading was repeated at least once every month at her expense for four or five months running, until I finally had to tell her I couldn’t help her if she didn’t do what I suggested. It didn’t matter what tarot cards were turned up, it always became the drama of Danielle and Carl’s love and money problems.

  To Danielle’s credit, she had total faith in my ability. Unfortunately, I couldn’t continue to take from her, like Carl was doing and probably many other men had done in her life. I never had the chance to find out about any of her past loves because she was always so focused on Carl. Keeping an eye out for undercover cops and DEA officers was definitely not something I welcomed as my future, and I tried hard to make her aware of that very real possibility looming large in her life, though I stopped short of actual accusation of unlawful activities.

  There is a turning point that is never achieved with many professional psychics. It can evolve into a manipulative and highly destructive pattern. After five or six readings, warnings, or admonishments, it’s up to a higher power to convince people like Danielle to clean up her act. If she eventually got busted for being on a boat loaded with cocaine (or whatever Carl was hauling), I didn’t want to be in the line of fire or even have my name in her address book. A psychiatrist might have kept reeling someone like Danielle in, repeating, “We will take up where we left off next week,” but doing something like that wasn’t in me.

  The people who never listen take up a lot of energy, both physically and mentally. Repeat sitters are hard enough to deal with—keeping track of their friends and problems, remembering the tiniest detail that they will sometimes hold on to for months or even years, and exhaustedly telling them the same story over and over. It’s a draining experience I never looked forward to repeating. When I had three or four of these thickheaded clients at a time, I needed to take notes to keep up with each individual saga. Plus, I was expected to be a memory expert as well as a psychic. Sitters such as Tami and Danielle pushed me further and further away from doing one-on-one readings. Now, if anyone asks whether I give private readings, I assess that person very carefully before I hand them my business card or take the referral.

  The major players in today’s upscale psychic market, those who can demand five or seven hundred dollars for a twenty-minute private reading, can afford to hire minions t
o perform extensive computer background checks (providing a wealth of “psychic” information) as well as a hefty bodyguard or two, just in case. Doing a private psychic reading is like doing private detective work—it can be very dangerous, there is no hazard pay, and it can turn into a private hell I certainly don’t wish to ever return to.

  14 Tony Fletcher, Dear Boy: The Life of Keith Moon (London: Omnibus Press, 2005).

  CHAPTER VIII

  MY DEAR AGENTS

  “Hello,” he lied.

  —Don Carpenter (quoting a Hollywood agent)

  The Devil tells a Hollywood agent, “Look, I can make you richer, more famous, and more successful than any other agent alive. In fact, I can make you the greatest agent that ever lived.”

  “Well,” says the agent, “what do I have to do in return?”

  The Devil smiles. “Well, of course you have to give me your soul,” he says, “but you also have to give me the souls of your children, the souls of your children’s children and, as a matter of fact, you have to give me the souls of all your descendants throughout eternity.”

  “Wait a minute,” the agent says cautiously, “what’s the catch?”

  That’s just a joke—I actually do like my agents. Without them, I would have to deal with too many idiotic requests and haggle with too many unreasonable clients. It’s worth paying ten percent (or whatever they are getting—I never know or ask) just to not have to deal with all the headaches.

  When I book an appearance myself, without an agent, beyond the performance itself, my hardest work can be dealing with clients, arranging everything to their satisfaction. This tedious process can take hours or even days of hair-pulling and stress.

  “Hello. This is Stephanie. I’m just calling to let you know that my boss wants to make sure that you get to the job site at least two hours early.”

  “Two hours early? Really?”

  “Yes, she’s worried that you might miss the boat.”

  “Stephanie, the contract your boss and I signed clearly states that you are paying me for four hours of tarot readings starting from when the boat leaves the dock at six p.m. If the boat is scheduled to leave then, why do I need to be there at four p.m.?”

  “Well, she’s just a little nervous about the whole event and wants to make sure you get there in plenty of time.”

  “Unless the captain of the boat changes his schedule or your boss wants to pay me for an extra two hours to wait on the dock, the deal stands as it was signed. You can call me on my cell phone if there are any last-minute changes that afternoon.”

  “Well, okay. I’ll tell her what you said. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Caterers, event planners, and other booking personnel sometimes ask for impossibly ridiculous options, but I usually manage to get something out of them in return.

  Once my agent Greg called and asked, “So, Mark, can you put something together with some kind of voodoo theme? You know, some human skulls or maybe flaming torches for this gig? They want it to look like the real thing.”

  “Skulls I got. You’ll have to handle any flaming torches. Is there going to be a fire marshal lurking around?”

  “Gee, I never thought of that. I’ll have to check that out. Hey, what they don’t see can’t hurt them. Anyway, get some black candles, table coverings, voodoo dolls with pins stuck in them—all that kind of crap. It’s gotta look real, though.”

  “I gotcha. Hope we don’t offend anybody.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll tell the caterer to let the hosts know it’s not really real.”

  “What about the goat sacrifice?”

  “What goat sacrifice?”

  “Just kidding, Greg.”

  “Oh, yeah. Right.”

  Several of the agents and event planners I have worked with find it necessary to project a cool Hollywood demeanor that is completely dated and ridiculous. Other agents just goof on these old-school riffs. Still others I’m never sure about, especially if they are new contacts.

  I have worked with Eric for over fifteen years. I dial his number and, despite the fact he works out of his home, he always answers his phone, “Entertainment.”

  “Hi, Eric. I’m just calling to let you know my availability.”

  “Not a problem, babe. It’s a go.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Can you wear some kind of gypsy crap—you know, headband, and make it colorful. The client wants colorful.”

  “Colorful is no problemo. Can you send me the contract and maps today?”

  “Yeah, babe.”

  “Okay. I’ll check back with you after the gig.”

  “Ciao, babe.”

  Ciao, babe? Eric is most likely putting me on, but perpetuating this Hollywood image is preposterous considering Eric works out of a one-room apartment in Sherman Oaks.

  Agents, like the crowds they service, come in all sizes and shapes. Some even work in teams, like the standard good-cop-bad-cop system. Using this allows the two participants to play off each other, which can be a smart alternative.

  “Hello, Mark. This is Bev. I’m calling about the Jonathan Club gig.”

  “Hi, Beverly. How’s it looking?”

  “I just want to make sure that five hundred is good for you to hold the evening.”

  “Five hundred? Your partner Roz said she could get me seven-fifty yesterday when I talked with her.”

  Having had a few years of experience with Bev and Roz, I remained silent and waited to hear one of the elaborate excuses that were always forthcoming in their negotiations.

  “Did she say that? I’ll have to get back to you later today, Mark.”

  Yeah, right, Bev. Whatever. This tactic usually means the two are working up their own ante with the party host, who may only want one psychic instead of three, or has decided to cut back on their budget—or a combination of both. Trying to read an agent’s mind and predict the outcome of these maneuvers drains my psychic energies even more than dealing with a sitter’s problems.

  Prices vary widely by zip code. I have learned to be as flexible as possible, within reason. Unfortunately, the psychic is often the first to get chopped off a planner’s list of attractions. It’s a humiliating fact that, as a psychic, I’m usually on a lower rung of the entertainment ladder—somewhere between the popcorn vendor and the mimes. This is changing, though, as the paranormal seems to be getting more respect recently in the media.

  In the Bev-and-Roz scenario, as I anticipated, our contractual manipulations ended in a compromise. True to form, Bev soon called me back with a six-hundred-dollar figure to appease me.

  I frequently have to sink or rise to whatever level of cool discourse my agent friends are spouting, plus be able to judge their mood and greed from a rapid reading of their voice.

  “Hey, man. This is Dino!”

  “Hey, Dino,” I answer. “Dude, what up?”

  These tones can change from day to day, but I have my years with 900-psychic calls to aid my judgment. Dino may be upbeat and excited today, but bored and claiming pennilessness next week. At the moment, he sounds as if he’s on to something, so I do my best to mirror his energy level.

  “Hey listen, man. Do you do lip blotting? It’s some kind of new psychic thing.”

  “Sure,” I reply with complete confidence, though I’d never heard of such a thing, and I had been in this psychic racket for over ten years at this point.

  “Yeah? Cool. Hey, look. Nordstrom is doing this special promotional night in their cosmetics department and they want a lip blotter or reader or whatever the fuck it is for the gig. The pay is great, so I figured I would give you first crack at it.”

  “Thanks, man. That’s nice of you to think of me.”

  The truth is more likely that Dino had already made dozens of calls around town and couldn’t find a lip blotter to save his sorry life.

  It didn’t make any difference to me whether it was an aura or an angel card—it’s all in the storytelling. Show me a goodly amount
of money and a signed contract, and I’m good to go with whatever the client wants. And maybe this Nordstrom lip deal would develop into a steady gig. They had a pianist and a string-bass player in their stable of promising pedigree performers; why not a regular psychic who reads lip smudges?

  “So Dino, my friend, what magically mystic method are they hyping over there at Nordstrom?” I was fishing a bit now.

  “You tell me, bud,” Dino droned with the unctuous bravado of a used-car salesman.

  We are now actively bullshitting each other. This little dance must be done as carefully as one would disarm a bomb. Letting on at this point that I have absolutely no experience whatsoever in the lip-blotting category would instantly have me kissing this whole deal good-bye.

  I took up the bullshitting slack with some authority. “I can supply the special paper.”

  “Special paper?”

  “Oh yeah, man. You need to have a special absorbent paper with a slight nap to it so that the lip print doesn’t smear. Linen paper or something like a paper towel works best. The more elegant, the better.”

  I’m totally faking it now, of course, hoping I can convince Dino that I know what I’m talking about.

  “Dino, I’ll tell you what I can do. When I book lip work . . .”

  Lip work? Yeah, sure. Why not? It sounds slick enough for Hollywood.

  “ . . . I’ll print up some batches of good paper stock with my name and agent contact information on it. They can take it home and stick it on their refrigerator or wherever and we’ll hopefully end up with more work down the road. I’ll only charge you another thirty bucks. How’s that sound?”

  “Sounds like a plan, Stan.” Dino signed off with a quick “I’ll get back to you later, my man.”

  And he did. Dino quickly locked in a contract with the client and somehow persuaded the cosmetics counter in each Nordstrom location to hand out free lipstick samples to the crowd for their use during this psychic promotion. Everyone was happy, and I booked several gigs at one time, up and down the coast. I had created yet another marketable psychic gift to add to my bag of tricks.